Conference poetry, part three. These came to the Conference with Brother Bill Denham.

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The Fire in the Song

The mouth opens
            and fills the air
                        with its vibrant shape
Until the air
            and the mouth
                        become one shape.
and the first word,
            your own word
                        spoken from that fire
surprises, burns
            grieves you now
                        because
you made that pact
            with a dark presence
                        in you life.
He said, "If you only
            stop singing,
                        I'll make you safe."
And he repeated the line,
            knowing you would hear
                        "I'll make you safe"
as the comforting
            sound of a door
                        closed on the fear at last.
But his darkness crept
            under your tongue
                        and became the dim
cave where
            you sheltered
                        and you grew
in that small place
            too frightened to remember
                        the songs of the world,
its impossible notes,
            and the sweet joy
                        that flew out the door
of your wild mouth
            as you spoke.

                                                …David Whyte, Fire in the Earth

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When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before
 
like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the humming bird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.
 
A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.  

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.
 

                                                                        Mary Oliver