Poetry
Sri Chinmoy
What do you want?
I want hope
Meditate on a seed under the ground.
Meditate on a lovely, tender plant.
Hope is not a momentary flicker.
Hope is Eternity’s slow, steady,
Illumining and fulfilling height.
To live on the outskirts of hope
Is not enough.
Cultivate a hope-life
Inside the very breath
Of your moment-to-moment existence.
Just a particle of hope
Can give us
A totally new life.
A thousand hopes
Embody
A thousand fearful Earth-tears.
Again,
A thousand hopes
Embody
A thousand fruitful Heaven-smiles.
Because there is a hope-flower,
There will definitely be
A hope-fruit.
Just wait and watch.
Life
Is nothing but
A river of hope.
Sri Chinmoy (1931-2007), an eminent spiritual teacher as well as prolific poet/author, artist and composer, charted a course for how we can live in peace and harmony in today’s world. For over thirty years he led peace meditations at the United Nations, sharing his perspective on questions such as humanity’s relationship with the natural world. He has written thousands of poems offering encouragement and illumination into our inner journey towards self-perfection. Sri Chinmoy received the UNSRC Society of Writers Award of Excellence from former President Hans Janitschek on 30 March 1993.
Photo of Sri Chinmoy: Adarini Inkei
Darrel Alejandro Holnes
Praise Song for My Mutilated World
Ode to the Japanese radio oozing hot tunes in
the hot afternoon of my childhood at age four in
La Ciudad de Panamá at my abuelo’s house.
Ode to the Black women made of air and imagination who
Pito and I dance with in his living room in
La Rosita, the rosy part of Rio Abajo
known for turning bullets into blooms.
Ode to Laolwa Braz, the early 90s Brazilian siren in Kaoma who
seduces us into dancing with our dream girls and
away from the bullet-bitten bodies
plastered across the front page of La Critica News.
Ode to the famous mulatto melody howling
from the bellows of the accordion on the record
and to the Portuguese words I pronounce in near-Spanish as
I try to sing along to the forbidden dance song:
A recordação vai estar com ele aonde for.
A recordação vai estar pra sempre aonde for.
There isn’t much forbidden in my family
except piedra and hierba and the tiroteo from their trade.
There isn’t much forbidden in my family
except pistolas and secuestros, chanchudos y
corruptos who’ve become piedra’s slaves.
Pito and I save the Negras in our arms from
piedreros, drug dealers, and the cartel with
our moreno swing-hips, dips, and spins to the two-beat
carimbó drum rhythm stronger than the pulse
thumping through my little boy body
until I can’t tell the difference
between my corazón and the radio’s ton-ton,
until our dream girls become our real women,
until we’ve praise-danced our world
back to being one that
little brown-black boys like me
can believe in.
Darrel Alejandro Holnes is the author of Stepmotherland (Notre Dame Press, 2022) & Migrant Psalms (Northwestern Press, 2021) as well as the co-editor of Happiness, The Delight-Tree: An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, published to commemorate the United Nations International Day of Happiness. Holnes is an Afro-Panamanian American writer, performer, and educator. His writing has been published in English, Spanish, and French in literary journals, anthologies, and other books worldwide and online. He also writes for the stage. Most of his writing centers on love, family, race, immigration, and joy. He works as a college professor in New York City, NY.
Glenn P. Garamella
A Need to Fill
Something inside me calls
to fill in that empty space
at the front of the yard,
a single voice traveling
the length of the body
in need of a conversation
with the outside world.
The thought to add color
where there is little,
transplant daylilies and let them sing,
dig out a shovel full of earth,
move the bulbs and roots a stone’s-throw away.
By summer,
bright orange and yellow flames appearing
where before only a dry dirt patch.
When Eyes Awake
When eyes awake, day appears
a stranger at the door.
Should I welcome him or turn my back
like I have done so many times before?
Each morning a blank page to write upon
and I must choose to take up the pen.
Slowly, I am drawn out of myself
by the needs of others:
the cat reconnects me to the world
with her soft sounds.
A flash of white catches my eye,
a crane landing on my neighbor’s roof
waiting patiently to dive into the pond for fish.
Afternoon, the bloom
of daylilies in the front garden.
Sudden mysteries sparking the mind to motion,
inviting me to step forward,
take a walk outside myself.
Stopped by Words
Stopped by words, tied to their meaning by a rope of thought.
Words fit into their sentences like houses along a street,
each a world of its own.
A word stands apart, abandoned;
a cabin in the woods.
To look into a word is seeing through its window
imagining what life inside could be about.
Is the word filled with activity or a quiet place,
a living room without much living going on?
If I stare at a word long enough, the shape becomes
loosed from the mooring, drifting off the page,
afloat, a leaf down the river.
When a word awakes, great vines grow,
no separating the house from the landscape.
The wooden furniture goes back to the forest.
I remember, words are living things.
A Lucky Day
I pulled to the side of the road
saying “hello” to my neighbor
from the driver’s side window of the car,
she, taking her newborn
for a walk in the stroller.
Heading home to feed her child,
me on my way to a doctor’s appointment.
Only a few minutes later
along the narrow road
a massive tree fell.
One could say this was a lucky day,
an incredibly lucky day,
better than winning the lottery.
At that very spot our paths had crossed
standing so near the feet of death,
fate determined not our time.
In a matter of moments
our world would have changed forever.
In a matter of moments
our worlds changed forever.
Glenn P. Garamella was raised in Douglaston, NY and graduated Queens College with a B.A. in Philosophy. He received an M.A. in Counseling Psychology from New York University and spent his career developing and coordinating Employee Assistance Programs for employees of the city of New York. He is a lifelong meditator and student of eastern religion and spirituality and lives with his wife Ann in Huntington, NY. Their son Matthew, an environmentalist and musician, lives in Boston, MA.
Elizabeth Lara
I Dream Them Small
I repair the portal even invite stray horses in
have a little toy receiving station
that sits by the bed
Anne Waldman, “Cabin”
sky
with rooms so large my hair drifts and
tangles in them
landscape
on the ceiling
of my mind
doors appear at sunrise
disappear
at dusk lock unlock
bamboo branches
root
to crown
red spreads to violet while my eyes
walk the labyrinth
I repair the portal, even invite
stray horses in
sky
holds the horizon in place blesses
rows
of alfalfa and corn sunlight
dazzles the sleep
from a foal’s
first sight
I dream a symphony
of cattle
their music fills the chambers I have
a little toy
receiving station
to keep them safe
I am their shepherd Wedgewood figurine
that sits
by the bed
When I am asked
After Lisel Mueller
When I am asked, as the sun splits open another morning
and the grass grows so fast it hums, what is it like to be
seventy-five, I say, Look, it has always been this way,
friends die and babies are born, always somewhere a war,
over and over small injuries that scar us. I say, None of this
stops me because tomorrow I will find a blue halo
over the horizon, or Yeti footprints in Central Park.
When I am asked, what is the meaning of life, I say,
Here are my multitudes: my first-grade teacher’s tall silhouette,
my father woven into his nest of books, stacks of exams
clipped to a stand, pencils spilling onto the floor. All these
live in me: the stinging words scribbled in secret spiral
notebooks exchanged surreptitiously by seventh-grade girls,
the Masaai warrior sweaty from the dance, overweight
from too much city life, wrapping his sinews around
my niece’s waist, the grad student in my linguistics class –
Levin after Lara – now a lifelong friend.
When I am asked, are you afraid of dying? I say, Yes, for the dead
do not return. But why not ask me about my life? Children, grown up,
prospering. Grandchildren. When I wrestled my way up the mountain,
an oasis waited on the other side, when the waterfall swept me away,
the current bore me back to the shore. Under the blackest desert sky,
the stars murmured over my head.
Gemology
I dreamed my life a diamond, full faceted and far
from its mother mine. Around it I closed my fist,
warm palm against cold stone, lodestar
dreaming the life a diamond sees, full faceted and far.
How lucky to be a sister to the sun, no simple feldspar
under the cutter’s tool, but fiery face of xenocryst.
I dreamed my life was a diamond. Full faceted. Far
from the mother mantle around it. Warming in my fist.
Originally appeared in Mom Egg Review, vol. 16 (2018).
Elizabeth Lara holds a Master’s Degree from Teachers College, Columbia University, in Teaching English as a Second Language. In addition to teaching ESL in the United States and overseas, she worked for many years as an editor at the United Nations. Her poems have appeared in numerous anthologies and journals, in both English and Spanish. With Bhikshuni Weisbrot and Darrel Holnes, she co-edited Happiness: The Delight-Tree – An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry (United Nations SRC Society of Writers, 2nd Ed., 2019). In 2019 she curated the “MER VOX folio Soy Mujer: Latinx Poets of the Diaspora”, and published her bilingual chapbook, Fire in the Mind / Fuego en la Mente.
Pragati Pascale
Hope in a Time of Darkness
Hope is not some flimsy,
Feathered thing.
No, it is the green fuse
That blasts and burrows
Through the muck
Before it emerges as a lotus
By dumb luck.
When ambulances wail
And assail the anxious air
With every gasping breath,
It is the grip that grabs my ukulele
By the throat –
Sing, goddammit, sing
“Keep Your Hopes Alive”
Like some minstrel show in hell.
No, hope is fierce –
A white-knuckled finger-hold
As we dangle over the abyss.
A refusal to surrender
Knowing way deep down
Someday, somehow
A higher Hand will pluck us
From the precipice.
Pragati Pascale is a native New Yorker, has worked as a communications strategist, writer and spokesperson on sustainable development issues for the UN for over 30 years.
Kusumita P. Pedersen
The Keeper of the Pass
The valley falls away
East from this high pass;
Forested mountains rise
On both sides, densely green.
The sky lightens as night ends;
A dawn-colored cloud moves
Toward me slowly saying,
“It will be today.”
At noon I hear steps of the ox
Coming up the path,
The Sage riding on his back.
He dismounts and I prostrate,
Head on the ground.
“My son,” he says, “We meet
For the first time and the last.
Tomorrow I go into the west.”
I make a place for him
Under the great tree, the platform
Where I watch the moon,
And beg him to write,
Write his knowledge of the Way.
Let it not depart with him unlearned.
He sits long unmoving, takes the brush
And writes, is still, then writes again.
At times he sings faintly, hardly to be heard.
The silence grows. Small sounds of bird
And leaf are keen. The sun descends.
Twilight falls, now darkness, darkness
Deeper and deeper – we have come
To the gate of the Nameless.
It is dawn. The ox stands ready.
With the scroll in my arms
I watch him ascend the path
And disappear from sight.
The Sage embraces the One
And takes care of the whole world.
Kusumita P. Pedersen is Professor Emerita of Religious Studies at St. Francis College. She is Chair of the Interfaith Center of New York, a Trustee of the Parliament of the World’s Religions, and a member of the Climate Working Group of the Committee of Religious NGOs at the UN.
Lao Tzu means simply “The Old Master.” This poem is inspired by the legend of Lao Tzu’s departure from China across the western frontier in his old age. The keeper of the toll gate asked him to write down his spiritual wisdom, and these 5,000 characters became the Tao Te Ching or “Classic of the Way and Its Power.”
Kevin Powell
Hope Wanted
Hope Wanted
for New York
city
under
quarantine
like
gorgeous mosaic quilts
under
the
thumbs
of
somebody’s grandmother
stitching pieces
of cloth
together
the way
her life
has needled and patched
star-spangled photos of
people
who done seen some things
who done survived some things
whose lives
are re-born
again and again
the way
a butterfly
can be hatched
again and again
from the cracked-egg concrete
of TheBronxManhattanQueensBrooklynStatenIsland
and rise
and rise
and rise—
Kevin Powell is a poet, journalist, filmmaker, civil and human rights activist and the author of 14 books including two upcoming works: a collection of new poetry and biography of Tupac Shakur, the late global hip-hop and pop culture icon. His work has appeared in a wide range of publications, including The New York Times, British GQ, The Washington Post, The Guardian, Esquire, Utne Reader, and HuffPost. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Hashi Roberts
Willow
How can we think of grace
without considering the willow?
With oriental beauty it speaks to us,
arching its limbs to softly touch the earth
in brush strokes, patterning the light
with sun and shade.
Have you made it your home,
even for a day, an hour, a minute?
A first herald of spring to watch for,
with its pale yellow shoots.
Under its branches the silvery green leaves
fill in to fall softly as quiet, airy rooms.
Can you not imbue your buildings
with such grace,
with space for air and subtlety,
writ with an artistic brush
to settle your soul
in the arms of beauty?
Butterfly
Have you asked the butterfly
why she dances
on the wings of the wind?
What is the cadence of her dance?
And who plays the music that moves her?
After her long, dark night of the soul,
when she awoke to wings, was she grateful?
Would you be?
If you spent your time on earth
inching along the tender spears of grass,
nibbling the green skins of leaves,
would you not be astounded by the sky?
By your place in the wind?
By feasting with the flowers
on their nectar?
When she travels
with all her kin to Mexico,
on wings as light as light,
with the map singing in her veins,
does she not show courage?
Or does she simply put one wing-beat
in front of the other?
Can you not also find that courage,
let your spirit leap into the sky
and follow after,
committing to the Love that moves
the wind, the clouds, the sky?
That plays the music for your dance?
Hashi Roberts retired from UNICEF after 33 years of service, particularly in the areas of publications and administration. She continues working on literary projects and enjoys helping her husband design floral arrangements in their flower shop in Queens.
Bhikshuni Weisbrot
3:41 a.m.
Let me start by
saying it’s a good
thing nature does
not wait until
you’re ready.
It will embarrass
you with industriousness
as it turns spectacle to spring.
You sigh, one more day,
meanwhile across the street
tulips pop and elsewhere
battalions prepare to flower
and
if waking from sleep is a kind of nature,
then poetry may walk your
bad knees across the room
where the walls are quiet and
the “chit chit” of raccoons subdued
to sit together like old friends
and observe that
you are thankful
and steady
and breathe easy.
It is four a.m
and birdsong
announces
a new day.
Yet Another War
Poem dedicated to Natalia Kashchuk killed near her flat by the train station in the city of Donetsk, Ukraine.
I never knew them,
but here is the story told
in my family of how my
maternal grandfather met
his wife:
Somewhere in Galitzia,
let us say Ukraine,
in an imagined summer resort,
a young woman alone in the
night, makes her way to the outhouse.
Under the guiding full moon,
her long blond hair shines golden.
This is all a young man with similar
purpose sees of her from the distance.
golden hair fragrant summer night
full moon.
Certain it is love and resolute,
he succeeds in the coming
days to find and woo her.
This morning I receive good news.
A friend from Kyiv has made it to
the train station and in six hours
will leave her country and her home.
I imagine her as my grandmother,
walking alone, free and unafraid
in the night, to stand beneath the
full moon light long enough
to fulfill a young man’s wish for love.
Bhikshuni Weisbrot is President of United Nations SRC Society of Writers and worked for the United Nations Development Programme for 25 years. She is the editor, along with Elizabeth Lara and Darrel Alejandro Holnes, of Happiness: The Delight-Tree, An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, honoring The International Day of Happiness, 20 March. Her poems have most recently appeared in On Human Flourishing (2015, McFarland Press).
Nilpushpi White
It Is Not The Writing
It is not the writing,
It is the tuning in
Behind the writing –
Being aware of the
Incoming thoughts, ideas,
Yes, that shape
stories, yet
Go beyond them,
Entering into an
Inner sphere
Where all is one story,
Told by one voice
To one listener,
Only one.
Flowers of Hope
Hope never waits
For me to call.
Hope arrives at my
Heart-door
Carrying its bouquet
Of fragrant flowers
Saying,
“You needed me
and now I have come.
Your heart-room will be
more beautiful
with these flowers;
please take them from me.
They are all yours.”
If You Write Enough
If you write enough,
among the chaff there may be a few grains
of truth.
Maybe these grains,
hidden behind everyday events,
are growing tall and strong.
Maybe there will come a harvester,
pulling from here and there
a word, a phrase,
carefully crafting a mosaic
of moods and seasons.
The Bali Within
Perhaps
The moss-lined steps,
The ancient statues,
sentinel in stone,
watching, waiting,
In the ever-presence
of today,
Are neither lost nor
distant
But reside within
The inner gardens
of peace and delight –
resplendent
in verdant glory –
Awaiting our
awakening-awareness
return.
When We Care
It is only when we care
passionately for the
essence of life
that Life itself
comes to us, saying,
“Sit with me awhile.
I wish to paint flowers
on your laughter —
I wish to place bells
around your ankles
that will ring softly
when you dance
with me.”
Photos: Nilpushpi White
Nilpushpi White, writes stories and poetry to nourish the heart. Her writing offers insights and experiences gleaned from her years of spiritual search, travel and her two decades working at UNFPA, the United Nations Population Fund. Her work appears in various publications, including Happiness: the Delight-Tree, An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry. Canadian-born, mother of one daughter, she lives in Queens, New York. She is now gathering her writing – with a few recipes added for flavour – into a collection entitled: Kitchen Anarchy.
Di Zou
Stop
Stop
The white lotus flower
Has closed her body
Drifting into sleep
Deep in the evening wind
A gentle hand is caressing
Stop
The endless pain
Will soon be lost
To the setting sun
Like an injured bird
Combing its blue feather
Stop
Stop your cowardice
In its perpetual cycle
You know it
All that suffering
Is not your fault
Untitled 1
Sitting in a castle
made of skin
You watch a herd wrangle
trying to take your throne
The dark is defeated
light prevails
“You are dispelled.”
You say
Lightly touching
Your scepter
Peace again.
Take your best soldiers
Win this one man’s war
Untitled 2
You know you’ve got to get rid of them
Those who will be hurt
Those who worry
Those who always tell you
That you are not enough
They must not attach to your soul
And become you
Di Zou works at the United Nations Secretariat in New York. “I find both the joy and challenge of writing poetry is that it must convey something essential. It distills the superfluous human experience into something pure, solid, and eternal. A poem thus often starts from a place of vulnerability, but ends with strength, grounding, and clarity.”
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