here

what is grace?
the skill, the wish
to hold another in your hand
a stranger, especially
when they show themselves
a little more than they meant
to welcome them and say
I
am here with you and
we are here, together

God

the great dream giver
the great dream doer
the one who makes your secret wish come true

who frees you
David
from the rock

to stand in shining glory
naked, uncontained

what poems can do 2

poems take you back ten years
show you who you always were
poems show the world your
friends your loves and crushes
all the bastards all the boys

poems sit and wait for you
to hear them see them notice them

for that moment when they sing
off your lips, when you say

This is my poem.

and goddamn
I have to write it

buzzfeed said

in lieu of new work,

please accept this poem by Elizabeth Bishop:

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

for old times, after Robert Burns

we two have run about the fields
and wearied out our throats
till when we staggered into bed
dressed still in muddied coats.

and we have journeyed down the road
from morning's sun till dawn,
yet still between us oceans roar
and heavy rivers run.

but surely you shall sit with me
while sun shines and by fire.
we'll raise a glass to keep us warm
until the moon retires.

so here's a hand, my trusted friend,
and here's to thee and thine.
tonight we stand, hand in hand
to welcome brave, new times.

for old times, and old times,
we've kindness yet for old times,
that old times never be forgot,
that old souls remind us not
forget old times.

What poems can do*

poems can't persuade someone to love you
or disavow the fear of loving you
poems can't calm the rages you indulge
or erase the bruises you regret
poems will not dry your eyes
won't even dry your laundry
they are poor friends
who need you more than you need them
but still

when you take them out to coffee
you will pay their way
and when you speak about them to your friends
be kind.

* revised: simpler

these fearsome marvels · What poems can do