"wendell" poems
by Wendell Berry
You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Thou metamorphic god!
Who mak'st the straight Olympus thy abode,
Hermes to subtle laughter moving,
Apollo with serener loving,
Thou demi-god also!
Who dost all the powers of healing know;
Thou hero who dost wield
The golden sword and shield,--
Shield of a comprehensive mind,
And sword to wound the foes of human kind;
Thou man of noble mould!
Whose metal grows not cold
Beneath the hammer of the hurrying years;
A fiery breath doth blow
Across its fervid glow,
And still its resonance delights our ears;
Loved of thy brilliant mates,
Relinquished to the fates,
Whose spirit music used to chime with thine,
Transfigured in our sight,
Not quenched in death's dark night,
They hold thee in companionship divine.
O autocratic muse!
Soul-rainbow of all hues,
Packed full of service are thy bygone years;
Thy winged steed doth fly
Across the starry sky,
Bearing the lowly burthens of thy tears.
I try this little leap,
Wishing that from the deep,
I might some pearl of song adventurous bring.
Despairing, here I stop,
And my poor offering drop,--
Why stammer I when thou art here to sing?
2.8k
The Wild Geese
Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
title=
With fake and cheap copies of high-end popular designer wears increasing in the market, fashion experts have expressed their concern over plagiarism being on the rise in the industry.
"I think it (plagiarism) is an international problem, it is not just an Indian problem. It is said that plagiarism is a form of flattery (as the designs are getting copied). I don't subscribe to it. I am against it," noted designer Wendell Rodricks said.
"It took me seven years to patent my name Wendel l Rodricks as a brand. One should look to solve this problem the earliest," he said.
According to well-known designer Anita Dongre, the fashion industry should come together to tackle the issue.
"Now everything is digital, some of the designs get copied immediately online. All my lehengas are copied. It is sad," she said.
Echoing similar sentiments, designer Masaba also feels that plagiarism is the worst part of the fashion industry.
"It is sad that there is no control on the copycats...and too many undeserving people are getting recognition and chances to showcase," she said.
Masaba is known for her innovative prints and one can often see fake designs being sold at lesser prices.
"We are one of the most copied design houses in the country, and you just have to figure it if it eats into your business. If it doesn't, you shouldn't waste your time and money on it," she said.
Masaba, however, feels one can take culprits to court.
"Legal action can be taken if you have the bandwidth, but the fake market is too huge to tackle and lawmakers are extremely slow to act on it."
Wendell also thinks in a country like India, the legal matters pile up and it takes time, which is the sad part.
"The amount of time it takes in this country to bring someone (guilty) to court is too much. Ritu Kumar (designer) had taken people to court and won. But it is one of its kind of a case. You need to give that much amount of time," he said.
According to designer Gaurang Shah, one should take it as a compliment if their designs are copied.
"In a way it is a compliment that others are following you. But it is annoying as you work so hard and the design gets copied. It is a challenge for designers to come up with new ideas," he added.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 3:33 AM UTC
Dedicated to Mike Evans & Wendell Griffin…for their great approach to the King of sports, Golf.
Loosen up, feeling good,
Back swing nice and smooth
Power stroke an easy glide
A solid thwack to move
That golf ball into orbit,
Disappearing into air,
Diminishing like angel dust
On a trajectory so fair.
Looking good, nice and straight
In parabolic curve
At apex point it hesitates,
No breezes cause a swerve
Plummeting to emerald grass
The ball bounces on the green
To travel in a perfect arc,
The best I’ve ever seen,
It teeters at the cup lip
To roll around the rim
And by the grace of God,
That golf ball vanishes within!
The day at once looks perfect
The morning light pristine,
The singing birds in trees
Throw brilliant shadows to the green.
I peer into the cup
To see my sweetest dimpled ball,
That darling Dunlop eight
Henceforth shall grace my trophy wall.
My name will feature on the cup
Atop the clubhouse shelf
And the bar room shout for all the boys
Should put a large dent in my wealth.
But the wonder, the wonder,
The spangled wonder of it all
Will have me grinning foolishly
Whenever I recall,
That magnificent stroke
Towards that iridescent green
When I scored a hole in one
And drank a toast to Golf and Queen.
Marshalg
@ the Bach
Mangere Bridge
12th January 2009
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
After Do Not Be Ashamed by Wendell Berry
Unashamed
You can mute yourself at will
Or find you've hit mute in error.
On ocassion you might find
someone has muted you.
You can go off camera.
Observe and listen.
Unseen, unheard.
Ocassionally waving in the hope
that you will be called upon
to contribute
to comment
on the wisdom of others.
And after a while, on realising that
you've gone unnoticed, unneeded,
you give yourself permission
to walk away,
to simply listen in
while making a cup of tea.
And after a while, you walk out,
to test your necessity
and you won't be surprised
to find it wanting.
But then
as you return.
as you choose candour,
bear your inward clarity
raise your yellow hand,
as you select unmute, unashamed
click camera, unashamed
and find room, find voice -
then a sure screen will rise
from the margins and their eyes
will seek you out
and the mic is yours.
Apr 17, 2023
Apr 17, 2023 at 4:10 AM UTC
To the many readers, I ****** off with my poem about Bukowski.
I don't loathe Bukowski. My point is that he is a cult writer. His cult seems to be made up of people who are ignorant of other much better writers of his time. If they read the Beats (in particular Gary Snyder) or others like Richard Brautigan, Jim Harrison, Wendell Berry and many others, they would see how poorly his writing stands up to comparison.
Bukowski's persona is what seems to attract people. He knew that and cultivated it. It was his meal ticket. The poor, drunken, uncouth, outsider, loser who was scorned by the literati of his time. In truth, he was a writer of pulp poetry. What he needed was a good editor. You could take all of his books of poems, cut out the rambling, self-serving, tedious, self-glorifying ******** and cut them down to maybe two books of decent poetry. His prose is better, but not that much.
Young people, lacking better poetry for comparison, are mainly attracted by this cult of personality. Young people are attracted to rebels, even bogus ones. He himself said he didn't write, he just typed. Some hero.
He portrays himself as a big, tough *** willing to fight the whole world. Actually, he was a fat drunk barely six feet tall. That's why I laughed at him when he threatened me. I was 20, just three weeks back from Vietnam. The thought of fighting an old drunk seemed pathetic to me. I could have easily killed him. Who goes to a poetry reading for that?
There was also his attitude toward women. I believe he really hated women. He saw them as receptacles for his ***** nothing more. He used his fame to **** a good many young admirers. He's not alone in having done that, but he was obsessive about it. Women were a perk, nothing more.
In the end, his cult status will remain, but he will never be taken seriously as a writer, because - by his own admission - he wasn't. There is much excellent poetry out there by better writers of his time. Do yourself a favor, read them, educate yourself. If you only read mediocre poetry, you'll only ever be a mediocre poet.
Even at his most unheroic, he is the hero of his stories and poems, always demanding the reader’s covert approval. That is why he is so easy to love, especially for novice readers with little experience of the genuine challenges of poetry; and why, for more demanding readers, he remains so hard to admire.
Please: Join in. Tell me why I am wrong or right.
Mike Essig
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 4:28 AM UTC
I.
This is a poet of the river lands,
a lowdown man of the deepest
depth of the valley, where gravity gathers
the waters, the poisons, the trash,
where light comes late and leaves early.
From the window of his small room
the lowdown poet looks out. He watches
the river for ripples, flashes, signs
of beings rising in the undersurface dark,
or lightly swimming upon the flow,
or, for a minnow, descending the deeps
of the air to enter and shatter
forever their momentary reflections,
for the river is a place passing
through a passing place.
The poet, his window, and his poems
are creatures of the shore that the river
gnaws, dissolves, and carries away.
He is a tree of a sort, rooted
in the dark, aspiring to the light,
dependent on both. His poems
are leavings, sheddings, gathered
from the light, as it has come,
and offered to the dark, which he believes
must shine with sight,
with light, dark only to him.
II.
Times will come as they must,
by necessity or his wish, when he leaves
his enclosure and his window,
his homescape of house and garden,
barn and pasture, the incarnate life
of his desire, thought, and daily work.
His grazing animals look up
to watch in silence as he departs.
He sets out at times without even
a path or any guidance other than knowledge
of the place and himself as they were
in time already past. He goes among trees,
climbing again the one hill of his life.
With his hand full of words he goes
into the wordless, wording it barely
in time as he passes. One by one he places
words, balancing on each
as on a small stone in the swift flow
in his anxious patience until
the next arrives, until he has come
at last again into presentiment
of the Real, the wholly real in its grand
composure, for which as before
he knows no word. And here again
he must stop. Here by luck or grace he may
find rest, which he has been seeking
all along. Sometimes by the time’s flaws
and his own, he fails. And then
by luck or grace he will be given
another day to try again, to go maybe
yet farther before again he must stop.
He is a gatherer of fragments, a cobbler
of pieces. Piece by piece he tells
a story without end, for in the time
of this world no end can come.
It is the story of eternity’s shining,
much shadowed, much put off,
in time. And time, however long, falls short.
Wendell Berry's most recent books include It All Turns on Affection: The Jefferson Lecture and Other Essays, New Collected Poems, and A Place in Time, the newest volume in his Port William series.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
There are some people whose worn and wrinkled skin only tell stories of horizons at the end of suburban streets and modern collages of white paper. There are others whose creases seemed to have transferred from dry soil that was cracked preceding water falling from the hose in that hand. American spirit was lost in those who spent their days nodding to a television behind them. Disconnected from hands that once felt the soil where nourishment sprouted now used only to unload cellophane wrapped vegetables from plastic bags. That spirit was carried on by a man born in Kentucky not fooled by artificial colors for he knew the full spectrum of letting the sunlight arch from ear to ear.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
Where have all our beautiful flowers gone
Each so very special in their own way
Where have all our young flowers gone
Why has this world’s evil taken them away
Where have all our young flowers gone
Oh Lord, we miss them in so many ways
And it's hard to accept the reason they left
As our grief overwhelms us so much today
For our souls are broken in many, many pieces
While our hearts are deeply wrought with pain
We know from this moment forward in our lives
Nothing in our world will again be the same
Where have all our little flowers gone to
Though it may seem they are now far away
The jewels of our lives are still very near
For in our hearts, their smiles brightly stay
Even as our hearts deeply weep for all of them
In all their faces an angel’s smile, we'll see
Knowing our Lord has embraced each one lovingly
Giving their spirits the blessing of heavenly gain.
Wendell Arnold Brown
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC
My confusion comes from too much doing. During the news
eating cheese and crackers, drinking wine, thinking the world
needs me.
Or the falling leaves, the days shorter but so much brighter.
How the cloud cover of the canopy has lifted to reveal
maybe God.
The longest continuous democracy may end in another
theocracy.
A bunch of voodooists with their hocus pocus blessings
and understandings.
Bombs and poison. Grief. Chiseled, tearless face.
Chants gregorian. Her sad, clear, soulful missives from
the city.
Unbelievable acorn crop this year! Skate on them
like marbles. Last year was a maple year. The ash crop
significant, too.
But not the cherries. Or a single pear. Blackberries
held back too. Sure the towers were a violation, but they
came to
hold community.
One stands not apart or alone but an individual within
his or her platoon. Committed to the mission and survival of
the platoon.
Fedex leaves a package. There is or is no anthrax
in it. It is our disappointment as Americans that the world
cannot
be trusted.
Yes, New York is the enemy and brother of Kabul. How
does one reconcile those differing communities and be a non-
violent human?
With words. Wendell Berry's words. And service such as
the secretaries of state give, leaving when one's time and work
is done.
Staying in the diatonic. Agreeing first on rules of engagement.
Then engaging. Not stopping the fight or thought or song until
the fight
is done.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
For a poet
they are
necessary angels.
Poems do not
leap complete
from the head
like Zeus'
Children.
They are built
like cathedrals,
apprentice
and master,
practicing craft,
keen-eyed
over centuries.
Mine are the poets
I have read,
studied, dissected
and read again
and again
over 40 years.
Gary Snyder,
Richard Brautigan,
Leonard Cohen,
Wendell Berry,
Jim Harrison
and far too many more,
but just as important,
to name.
Eventually,
from their voices
came my voice.
Make your own list,
invite them over.
They will never tire
of teaching you.
If you are diligent
and listen closely,
you will learn
the craft
and sing in the voice
you belong to.
Hard work, learning,
practice and devotion:
all it takes to be a poet.
~mce
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
From the first time that I remember,
'til I penned this ode in September,
I never called him Chips (though many others did) --
Dad was always the name I used ever since I was a kid.
Separated were our ages by two score years and more.
In fact, when I was born -- he was fourty four.
He taught me to be interested in many many things,
for therein lies the essence of life -- with the joy that it brings,
(such as) trains, boats, music, science, photography, sports, and art to start,
... and then he'd tell me to pull his finger when he had to ****
I learned from him respect for others, and to be clever;
and whether or not I received what I ought
I should always appreciate all kinds of weather.
Speaking of which, we'd lie side by side watching the nighttime sky
for lightning, bats, and satellites, and other things that fly by.
Chante et pleure - I sing and cry as I lie beneath the stars
and consider the physics of light, and matters of matter like Mars.
I'll never forget clutching a tree by a flooded Brandywine River
pleading and quaking in my shoes, in the throes of mortal terror
mortified as I watched my dad standing by the rushing drink --
-- ... taking pictures and movies, I think.
Family and friends mattered much to dad,
and keen was his memory of facts he had.
He was serious and fun; and I loved him a ton.
He'd pull a bully aside and tell him to go fish.
And I wish he was still here to correct my English.
So Chips, I would not even be here, I see
without you and mom both growing me,
and I'm grateful 'cause I'm sure that must'a took alot of energy.
I never told you there once was a time when somehow I felt like you;
and now that you have joined the cosmos, I'm sure that that feeling is true. Occasionally, I am swept away by the tide of work and rhyme
but knowing you helps me stay afloat, and focus each snapshot in time.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
Le navire est venu à cheval, à une heure inexacte
Notre frère-matelot, du Panthéon des Poètes, était à son bord
Jean Pierre Basilic Dantor Frankétienne D’argent
Qui écrivait, à la hâte, le dernier acte
Se trouvait par hasard, miraculeusement sur le port
Il est monté, il est parti sans parler, sans argent
Sans ses chefs d’œuvre, sans une petite maison
C’est la vie, on part à toute saison.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
Franckétienne n’est pas disparu
Il est quelque part, à Ravine-Sèche, dans les rues
Son inspiration est dans ‘l’émission le Point’
Nous n’avons pas d’autres choix que de prendre soin
De sa mémoire, de son invention et de son imagination
Franckétienne était un génie Haïtien, poète, dramaturge, spiraliste
Ministre de la culture, faiseur de mots, chanteur, peintre et artiste
Son nom était une longue phrase
Et ses paroles faisaient rire jusqu'à l’extase.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
De son vivant, il n’avait pas obtenu sa petite maison
C’était un génie légendaire qui a défié l’imagination
La dictature, l’ordinaire, l’inordinaire et l’abstraction
En devenant un mapou, un baobab. Dirait Wendell
Quel potomitan! Quelle cathédrale! Quelle citadelle!
Pour paraphraser le fils du directeur de Mac Donald
« S’il arrive que tu tombes, apprends vite à chevaucher
Ta chute, que ta chute devienne un cheval, ton cheval
Pour continuer le voyage », la randonnée.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
« Chaque minute compte après cinquante ans »
Disait Franckétienne, puisqu’on peut partir
A n’importe quelle heure, à n’importe quel instant
‘Galaxie plomb gaillé’, pas trop **** du nadir
Une trace invisible sur la tète à la Valentino ou à la Tino Rossi
Frankétienne s’en est allé, l’artiste est parti
Il demeure plus que jamais un Être nouveau
Le géant, l’écrivain, le comédien, le créateur des mots
Est habillé en bretelle comme un gros blanc nègre
Pas comme un monstre de Dr. Frankenstein. Comme une pègre
Le navire est venu à cheval, c’est la mort
Qui nous menace comme si nous avions tort
Nous pleurons maintenant comme la mère
Pour cet octogénaire avancé, pour ce prince de lumière.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
P.S. Un Hommage à Franckétienne et famille, à Wendell Théodore
Et compagnie, à Radio Métropole et à tous les Haïtiens conséquents.
J’offre mes sincères condoléances à tous. Sit ei terra levis!
Copyright © Février 2025, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs recueils de poésie.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 7:38 AM UTC
I read, it seemed, a thousand books.
The looks I took through windows tall and wide
did not hide from me my sorrow and sadness felt
as I gazed upon the leafless trees outside.
The Mayor of Casterbridge did not move me once;
Othello did not touch me. The tears, the fears,
did not abate as I sat in wooden chairs;
I simply starred at winter. I did not know how blind
I was, seeing with only one half of one eye.
I'd go into the stacks to cry; a certain kind of comfort
were all the lonely books that kept me company.
No sudden symphony of enlightenment did I hear
as I leaned against the shelves, themselves my only friends.
The end seemed more near than spring seemed soon
to blossom. I often was content to read the poems
of William Blake and Tennyson and Coleridge and Keats
in dark corners where no one stood but I. But as darkness
grew to end the sun and color skies pure black,
I knew it time to say goodbye to rhythms and to rhymes
and begin my stroll along endless paths to sleep away
my hidden horrors, and as well, my sorrows sodden.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 11:13 PM UTC
Whenever you are not with me
My heart quickly turns within
To the image, my heart will see
Whose daily love helps me begin
Nothing could ever separate us
Or keep my heart from loving you
And as long as I am breathing
To you Lord I will remain so true
My heart will sing its praises
Making moments to be treasured
I will cause them to last longer
Praying each will be alive forever
And I will never be lonely long
Without Your love here beside me
For I will give life to my dreams
As your tender touch keeps me free.
Wendell A. Brown
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
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Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC