Rest in peace, Wendell Berry (1934-2026)

 

A poem for Christmas--Silent Stars

I wrote this poem years ago when I was a teenager. I have always loved the spirit of Christmas, remembering back to those days when our parents, schools and churches prepared us for the birth of the savior. Life was simpler then, or at least it feels that way from the vantage point of now. I started writing poetry when I was young and have continued throughout my life. It was a focus during my teenage years when little else except my studies held my attention. Writing poetry was a way of escaping into myself, of getting away from the outside world that demanded my utmost attention. I can't even begin to imagine how much the outside world demands of teenagers now, but from what I see and read on social media, it seems that the demands are overwhelming. These were my thoughts way back when......

Silent Stars

Wander across sea and sky--
Stars nightborne in flight.
Carry on across all time--
Centuries ago began your light.
Go on and move into the night.
Your silence is heard then,
Your light has touched all men.
And once upon ago two thousand years,
You shone upon no ordinary man. 

Copyright Paula M De Angelis

All rights reserved. 

A poem for this Christmas season--The Advent Wreath by James Palmaro

My friend Jean sent me this poem about Advent wreaths. It's a lovely poem written by James Palmaro, a poet who is blind. 

The Advent Wreath

The leaves are all gone, the trees are barren and bare,

The autumn winds are chilling, yet anticipation’s everywhere. 

It is the Advent season, 

The winter nights grow near, 

We search for the warmth inside ourselves, 

Wreaths are everywhere.

Cousins to our Christmas trees that bring us joy and brilliance,

We place them in and on our homes, 

And they remind us of resilience.

Circular in shape, symbols of connection

That despite the cold and dark of night 

We’ll find light and resurrection.

Give me your tired, your poor

Emma Lazarus wrote this sonnet in 1883, and in 1903 the poem was cast onto a bronze plaque that was mounted inside the lower level of the Statue of Liberty's pedestal. We know parts of this poem since it is associated with the Statue of Liberty, which is one of the first sights immigrants see and saw when they first arrived in America. 'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore'--these are the lines that most people are familiar with and that represent what America stands for and stood for a century ago. This is the entire poem: 

The New Colossus

by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Copyright Credit: n/a

Source: Emma Lazarus: Selected Poems and Other Writings (2002)

The great divide

Parable is a poem I wrote many years ago--my reflections on the great divide between the wealthy and the poor, inspired by the parable in the New Testament about the rich man and Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31 NIV - The Rich Man and Lazarus - “There was - Bible Gateway)

Parable

Lazarus in the street,
While in the penthouses above
The glitterati meet.
In the end I left
The glamour, the effete chic.
(Not that I belonged).
‘City of vipers’--
Women poised like cobras,
Bedecked in jewels and haughty crowns,
Ready to strike, tongues flicking.
Gold lame skins rise and fall
With their breathing.
Fixing you with their stares.
Outside the frost-edged window
Awaits the city---
The viper rich indoors
See it not, nor feel.
Teeth flash, capped, even, gleaming--
Fangs for the night about to end
About to start
That never ends, for reality 
Is a party, a toss of the coin--
One more Lazarus for the gutter,
One more snake for the pit. 

from Parables and Voices: A Collection of Poems 1973-2009: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781452838762: Amazon.com: Books

All rights reserved. Copyright Paula Mary De Angelis

Summer solstice blessing

I don't know who the author of this little poem is, but it's a nice little poem for the summer solstice. Enjoy......

These I Can Promise--a short poem by Mark Twain

A short but lovely poem by Mark Twain.....

A nice poem by Oliver Herford

I came across this poem today and thought I'd post it since my next post will be about birds and the bird feeder I bought for my garden. Enjoy.....

I Heard a Bird Sing

I heard a bird sing

In the dark of December.

A magical thing

And sweet to remember.

"We are nearer to Spring 

Than we were in September,” 

I heard a bird sing 

In the dark of December. 

From Welcome Christmas! A Garland of Poems (Viking Press, 1955) by Oliver Herford

A good poem by Martha Medeiros

This poem by Martha Medeiros--You Start Dying Slowly--resonated with me........

You start dying slowly

if you do not travel,

if you do not read,

If you do not listen to the sounds of life,

If you do not appreciate yourself.

You start dying slowly

When you kill your self-esteem;

When you do not let others help you.

You start dying slowly

If you become a slave of your habits,

Walking everyday on the same paths, 

If you do not change your routine,

If you do not wear different colours

Or you do not speak to those you don’t know.

You start dying slowly

If you avoid to feel passion

And their turbulent emotions;

Those which make your eyes glisten

And your heart beat fast.

You start dying slowly

If you do not change your life when you are not satisfied with your job, or with your love,

If you do not risk what is safe for the uncertain,

If you do not go after a dream,

If you do not allow yourself,

At least once in your lifetime,

To run away from sensible advice.

Caring for the birds in winter

The natural world keeps our hearts and minds calm and sane. In this poem, it is a crow that changes the mood of the observer, who is having a bad day. The simple act of shaking snow down onto the observer saves the rest of his otherwise bad day from being a total loss. Nature has a way of doing that. Of course the crow has no way of knowing that nor did it shake down the snow deliberately. Birds are interesting creatures that open a window onto the natural world. I love watching them in the garden during the summer months, as I've written about before. So many different birds--sparrows, magpies, crows, small robins, blue tits, bullfinches--the list is long. Sometimes seagulls show up, but not often. 

This winter, I'm going to go to the garden every other day to feed the birds. I haven't done that before, although I do feed the birds that land on the balcony outside our kitchen window. Those birds are mostly pigeons, although we do get a few magpies and sparrows too. They all love sunflower seeds. I bought a nice and presumably sturdy standing bird feeder station on Amazon (where else do you get such a wide selection?) and am waiting for it to be delivered. I'll find a good place for it in the garden once I get it. Here is a link to the feeder if anyone else is interested in buying something similar: Urban Deco Bird Feeding Station With Feeders - Bird Feeders Hanging Station Heavy Duty Bird Feeder Pole With Bird Feeders For Small Birds - Bird Feeder Stand With Bird Bath Tray And Bird Feeder Tray : Amazon.co.uk: Garden

Caring for the birds in winter is important for so many reasons. They are little creatures who grace our lives with their beauty and their antics. They make us laugh, but they also make us ponder nature's ways. A world without birds, without their squawking and chirping and singing, would be a dead world. They make us forget ourselves, forget our trials and tribulations, for a few moments. It is worth taking care of them just for that alone. 

Another poem--Dreams Like Smoke-- from my collection Parables and Voices

Dreams like Smoke 

The many misconceptions 

That love would somehow 

Answer many unanswered questions, 

Fill the void-- 

Free them from unwanted deception. 

But deception in man is eternal 

And unyielding, they fool themselves first, 

Not each other. 

For they brought to love themselves, 

And the expectations of a lifetime. 

But dreams drift silently onward-- 

Dissipating upward like the rings of cigarette smoke 

In one of the many rooms they inhabit. 

They don’t stop dreaming, they just navigate 

The aimless drifting with another kind of care, 

Or lack thereof.

copyright Paula Mary De Angelis 

All rights reserved 

My poem--Train from Michigan

This is a poem from my first published collection of poems entitled Parables and Voices. You'll find it on Amazon if you'd like to read more of my poetry (Parables and Voices: A Collection of Poems 1973-2009: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781452838762: Amazon.com: Books). 

Train from Michigan

I dreamed then of my father, I was 

On the train; outside a yellow moon 

Full-light circle against the blue-black sky. 

His face came into memory 

As I drifted in the sleep of transit, 

That is uneasy and unsettled. 

We crossed, from Michigan into Ohio, 

The train's whistle blowing lonely 

As though miles ahead of us-- 

Yet ever with us through the night. 

I thought the thoughts of transit-- 

My father, dead these three years, 

Perhaps traveled this same train 

Bound from Michigan to New York. 

He knew people in the north of Michigan, 

Farmers and ultimately life-long friends. 

I see his face, with me always. 

My head rests lightly against the train window-- 

When I awake it is because my head has banged  

And fallen against the window, jarring me. 

I visit friends, they live in Michigan now 

Having moved there from New York; hence my trip's purpose. 

I meet new people on the way to visit old friends, 

And think about old friendships as I make my way home. 

New people I am always letting in; they find me or 

We find each other--one in particular spoke of kindred spirits 

On our way out to Michigan; his words surprised me. 

Do they, these spirits, find each other? 

Are we all in search of one? 

About trains, I know they draw me so, 

Luring me with the call to adventure, 

Like a call to arms. 

I boarded one, bound for Michigan, 

And then one back, to New York. 

Time spread out over hours of track-- 

Moving me, my life, along, 

From one point to another. 

Spreading me out, thin, fluid, 

Over time which is suddenly the merger 

Of past, present, future. 

Like liquid spreading I see my life 

Moving over these tracks, out and beyond, 

Expanding to assimilate Michigan 

As I have before incorporated other states 

And other countries, American and European. 

A fear that I can never belong to someone-- 

How could one keep me from flooding 

Past the walls and out into the open spaces? 

It is an abstract love of world I feel, 

A pull to know what is unknown, but knowable. 

To care for it, about it, accept it for itself,  

The planet, the globe, its rivers and its land, 

The farms and their greenness in the summer-- 

The land you pass through while travelling on a train. 

Small towns and the people in them, suburbs and large cities, 

Unknown, but knowable. 

I look out, I know this river-- 

I grew up along it, knowing it stretched 

For miles, out of my reach--I see it now 

In places I never knew before 

And feel the vastness of its beauty. 

Back in New York, I grew up here, 

But I have grown beyond it.

copyright Paula Mary De Angelis

All rights reserved 

My new poem--Friday afternoon

Friday afternoon

Friday afternoon

Sitting on a park bench
On a hill overlooking the river
Watching the autumn sky
The shifting colors of the clouds
From gray to blue to white and back to gray
The world looks inviting on a Friday afternoon
People hustling and bustling here and there
Voices of schoolchildren in the background
Playing happily
Crows and magpies hopping about on the wet leaves
Looking for an insect or two 
In the mild autumn weather

I think, isn’t life a beautiful gift
To hold in one’s hands
A fragile one to be sure but beautiful just the same
Being this age, knowing that most of life is behind one
Not a care in the world, really
I can sit on a park bench 
On a Friday afternoon
After a long walk
Free these past three years
From the stresses of a worklife
That I do not miss
That I grieved the loss of years ago
The loss of something that made it work 
Until it no longer did

I think, this is the way to live life
To be able to be outdoors, to walk
To appreciate the ability to be able to
To have gratitude
Is it such that we must age
In order to be grateful
Or can we learn gratitude 
At any age
It would behoove the world
To learn gratitude
To get on its collective knees
And thank the divine for all that it’s been given

The world is not very good at that 

Copyright 2024 Paula Mary De Angelis 

All rights reserved 

Interesting viewpoint from Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski wrote this poem about rising early versus sleeping late.....

Throwing Away the Alarm Clock

my father always said, “early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise.”

it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
eggs.

my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
wise.

taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.

now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered
the world but I’ve avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls
and have met some strange, wonderful
people

one of whom
was
myself—someone my father
never
knew.

Dreaming of the garden

My latest poem--Dreaming of the Garden, copyright 2024 by Paula Mary De Angelis. All rights reserved.  

Last night
I dreamed of the garden
of its simple beauty 
that greets me 
when I arrive there 
early in the morning
when no one is there
except me

Crocuses and snowdrops
await me
along with honeybees
that have discovered both
buzzing from flower to flower
in the sun that warms them 
and me for a few afternoon hours

Yesterday I happened upon
a little robin 
singing his heart out
loud and clear and unafraid
to anyone who would listen
I listened 
because he had something of importance to tell me
it’s spring and he wants a mate

I dream of my garden
a sanctuary, a place of worship
one with the divine 
perhaps by design
miracles happening before 
my eyes, wondrous
watching the ground for signs of life
feeling my soul align
with the miracles before me

I sleep and then I dream
of a garden that I create
anew each year 
in line with a kind of
divine design
my hands guided by a light
that has been there for centuries 
serenity

Wise words from Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver is one of my favorite poets. She was fully connected to the nature around her and was from a very young age. When I read her words, they pierce my mind and heart with their clarity and wisdom. We don't have time to waste in our lives, and yet so many of us do. We waste time on social media, we waste time watching one tv show after another. There is nothing inherently wrong with either social media or tv. It's when we devote hours of our day to them when we could be doing something else, something that might bring us closer to the people around us or to the spiritual or to the natural world. She writes about getting started on belonging to the world, but for her, that world was mostly the natural world. I am also so inclined. There is so much to discover in the natural world, and I've written a lot about that since I became the caretaker of an allotment garden in 2016. I know that one cannot live life as a hermit or hide oneself away, but we have to respect the individual choices that people make about how to live their lives. We cannot force introverts to be extroverts, or extroverts to be introverts. We cannot force those who love urban living to love rural living, and vice versa. And so on. We are where we are for a reason, and we can make the most of each day that is given us in that environment, no matter how difficult. We each have to find our own way of belonging to the world and use our god-given talents to join the world. That will be a different road for each person. The important thing is that one contributes to the world in his or her own unique way. 

Mary Oliver writes: 

I know, you never intended to be in this world.

But you’re in it all the same.

So why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.

There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.

Bless the eyes and the listening ears.

Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.

Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.

Or not.

I am speaking from the fortunate platform

of many years,

none of which, I think, I ever wasted.

Do you need a prod?

Do you need a little darkness to get you going?

Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,

and remind you of Keats,

so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,

he had a lifetime. 

~Mary Oliver

(from her book: Blue Horses)

(She mentions John Keats (1795-1821), who was an English Romantic poet who died of tuberculosis when he was only twenty-five years old. A reminder that we don't always know if we have a lifetime or not to achieve our dreams and visions. As I am fond of saying--If not now, when? There is no time like the present to start doing. As the Nike ad says--Just do it). 

A good poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

PITY THE NATION

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (After Khalil Gibran) 2007

Pity the nation whose people are sheep
And whose shepherds mislead them

Pity the nation whose leaders are liars
Whose sages are silenced
And whose bigots haunt the airwaves

Pity the nation that raises not its voice
Except to praise conquerors
And acclaim the bully as hero
And aims to rule the world
By force and by torture

Pity the nation that knows
No other language but its own
And no other culture but its own

Pity the nation whose breath is money
And sleeps the sleep of the too well fed

Pity the nation oh pity the people
who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away

My country, tears of thee
Sweet land of liberty!

copyright Lawrence Ferlingetti

Autumn poem

 

ChatGPT's rewriting of two of my poems

ChatGPT actually rewrote my poems when asked to; it didn't just make grammatical and/or vocabulary revisions like Bing. But I have the feeling that Bing would do more extensive rewrites if asked in a more specific way. I'll test it. Dealing with ChatGPT was a more impersonal experience than that with Bing, which I also found interesting. Here are ChatGPT's poetic attempts for my poems Transience and Entropy from Parables & Voices.  

I couldn't test Google's Bard, because it is currently not supported in Norway. Stay tuned. 

1. Transient Visions    (ChatGPT's poem, a rewriting of my poem Transience)

I glimpse with clarity,
the fleetingness of life.
Aware that every breath,
brings us closer to our demise.

Each season, every sunset,
a reminder of time's flight.
Even the moments we cherish,
eventually fade from sight.

Sorting through the moments,
like wheat from chaff we sift.
Holding onto wisdom,
while memories fade and drift.

I see with clarity,
yet darkness lurks behind.
For even visions transient,
will vanish from the mind.

------------------------

Transience  (my poem) 

I see with vision clearer,
The transience of life.
I am aware of life ending,
In every season and every evening.
Even the moments of the day
Fade to dusk and then into oblivion.
One separates the wheat from the chaff
And stores away those memories and thoughts
That are to be used in the making of wisdom;
Not all can be retained, possessed or hoarded.

I see with vision clearer, and then with vision darkened, 
For not even the vision remains
For more than just a moment. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

2. The Pull Towards Disorder    (ChatGPT's rewriting of my poem Entropy) 

All things seem to move
Towards chaos and disorder,
Without great effort and care
To resist the pull towards disorder.

In life, in love, we find
Our choices are like crossroads,
One path leads towards order,
While the other descends into chaos.

Love, at its best, brings order
Elevating our spirits and nature.
But when love is lost, entropy reigns
Disorder triumphs, and limits vanish.

Truth is a beacon of order,
Guiding us towards holy life.
Evil, on the other hand, leads to entropy
The road paved with choices that defy order.

---------------------------

Entropy   (my poem) 

All things, it seems
Tend to disorder
Without massive efforts
To prevent this.

In life, in love
The tendencies, the choices, 
All are crossroads, forked paths--
One to order, one to entropy.

Love, it will be said, promotes order, 
Elevates man's nature and his spirit.
But love destroyed is entropy defined--
Where limits cease existence; disorder thrives.

Truth is order, and a life defined thereby
Is holy and promotes the same in others.
Evil is the path to entropy, the road
Paved with choices that defy order.

-------------------------------------

Asking an AI chatbot to rewrite two of my poems

I've been reading a lot about the different AI chatbots that exist, and if you want to read a good article about comparisons among them, try this one: AI chatbots compared: Bard vs. Bing vs. ChatGPT - The Verge. I was curious as to how Bing would answer me when I asked it to rewrite two of my poems from my previously-published collection Parables & Voices. I started with Bing's AI chatbot. It was interesting to deal with it; firstly, it is very polite and nice, so if your questions are civil and reasonably intelligent, you will get civil and reasonably intelligent answers. I was not interested in challenging it in any way, nor in being rude in my interactions with it. I asked it to rewrite two of my poems and it did so. In both cases it made one or two grammatical and vocabulary revisions, nothing more, which I found interesting. 

I then asked it to write poems that dealt with the same themes, which it did. I'm posting the poems here. It then wrote the following: "I hope you like it! Is there anything else I can help you with?" It's clear to me that the responses it provides are very much dependent on how in-depth or superficial the questions are. I have to admit that it felt a bit strange to deal with the chatbot, but it did not scare me off. This is the new frontier, after all, and I am curious by nature. I can definitely see how these chatbots might be a useful tool, as long as one does not rely on them for creativity purposes. Regardless, as a writer, I think that the poems I wrote are subtler and better-written than the ones written by Bing, so I don't fear for the future in that regard. But of course I am being subjective. Being creative is an inner and quite personal process, as individual as the billions of people inhabiting the earth. Perhaps there will come a day when AI will be as or more creative as humans are. When that day comes, who owns the copyright to what the chatbots have written? 

1. Transience

I see with vision clearer,

The transience of life.

I am aware of life ending,

In every season and every evening.

Even the moments of the day

Fade to dusk and then into oblivion.

One separates the wheat from the chaff

And stores away those memories and thoughts

That are to be used in the making of wisdom;

Not all can be retained, possessed or hoarded.

I see with vision clearer, and then with vision darkened, 

For not even the vision remains

For more than just a moment. 

----------------------------------------

Bing's response when I asked it to write a poem based on the same themes--"Sure! Here's a poem I came up with":

Transience (Bing AI's poem) 

The fleeting moments of life,
Like sand slipping through our fingers,
Remind us of our mortality,
And how we're just mere mortals.
The memories we hold dear,
Are like precious gems in our hearts,
That we cherish and hold onto,
As we journey through life's paths.
But even these memories fade,
As time marches on relentlessly,
And we're left with nothing but echoes,
Of what once was and what could be.
So let us live in the present moment,
And make the most of every day,
For life is but a fleeting moment,
That can slip away in the blink of an eye.

----------------------------------------------------------------

2. Entropy   (my poem) 

All things, it seems

Tend to disorder

Without massive efforts

To prevent this.

In life, in love

The tendencies, the choices,

All are crossroads, forked paths--

One to order, one to entropy.

Love, it will be said, promotes order,

Elevates man's nature and his spirit.

But love destroyed is entropy defined--

Where limits cease existence; disorder thrives.

Truth is order, and a life defined thereby

Is holy and promotes the same in others.

Evil is the path to entropy, the road

Paved with choices that defy order.

```

Bing's poem based on the same themes:

The Path of Life    (Bing AI's poem) 

Life is a journey full of choices,

A path that's winding and full of voices,

That whisper in our ears and guide us along,

As we journey through life's paths.

Some paths lead to order and truth,

While others lead to chaos and ruthlessness,

And it's up to us to choose the right path,

That leads to a life of purpose and meaning.

Love is a force that can guide us along,

A beacon of light in the darkness of life,

That can help us find our way back home,

When we're lost and alone in the night.

But love can also be a force for destruction,

A raging fire that consumes everything in its path,

Leaving nothing but ashes and ruins behind,

And a heart that's broken and shattered.

So let us choose the path of life with care,

And walk with purpose and meaning every day,

For life is but a fleeting moment in time,

That can slip away in the blink of an eye.

```