Sometimes, When the Light by Lisel Mueller (guest post)

Once again, Ted Kooser’s column has really struck a cord with me, and once again, they’ve kindly allowed me to republish it here. Mueller’s piece is the perfect way to start the New Year! Enjoy friends and cheers to a great 2012!

American Life in Poetry: Column 354
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

A wise friend told me that since the Age of Reason we’ve felt we had to explain everything, and
that as a result we’ve forgotten the value of mystery. Here’s a poem by Lisel Mueller that
celebrates mystery. Mueller is a Pulitzer Prize winning poet from Illinois.

Sometimes, When the Light

Sometimes, when the light strikes at odd angles
and pulls you back into childhood

and you are passing a crumbling mansion
completely hidden behind old willows

or an empty convent guarded by hemlocks
and giant firs standing hip to hip,

you know again that behind that wall,
under the uncut hair of the willows

something secret is going on,
so marvelous and dangerous

that if you crawled through and saw,
you would die, or be happy forever.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org),
publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of
Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©1980 by Lisel Mueller, from her most recent book of poems, Alive
Together: New and Selected Poems, Louisiana State University Press, 1996. Poem reprinted by permission
of Lisel Mueller and the publisher. Introduction copyright 2012 by The Poetry Foundation. The
introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the
Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
 
American Life in Poetry ©2006 The Poetry Foundation
Contact: alp@poetryfoundation.org
This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

accomplishments of other people

relentless in their pursuit —
they, so stealth, bait
us with doubt, claw us with question.

it’s not enough to simply wake,
brush teeth and hair,
and sit calmly legs folded in the jungle.

the tiger waits, whispering, “you are all
too slow and too tubby and
too perfect to eat.”

traditions on Christmas Eve

Christmas waits like gift wrap glowing warm beneath the welcoming arms
of pine needles hanging heavy –
inside the table is set, waiting by candlelight, and each flame preens
in a spoon’ s reflection, giving the impression of a smile.

Soon, with guided hands, we set the course of helgdad frukt soppa.
I’ll sigh like the cinnamon from the svenske kringlor rising in the oven,
knotted just how our grandmother taught us.

Dull Moments? By Alice B. Johnson

The small house, very much alive,
Wonders if we all are bent,
On making life some sort of game
And looks on with a deep content

At bicycles and bathing suits,
Bats and roller skates,
Bobby-socks and dungarees
And diaries and dates —
First tuxedo to appraise,
Bow tie to approve,
Clothes discarded on the floor
Everywhere I move —
High school year books, trophies won,
Commencement and a formal prom,
Phone bell or a door bell’s ring,
“Is it Jack or Bill or Tom?”
Corsages using up the space
That always was reserved
For more important things – like food –
For dinner to be served.

It seems to say, “Dull moments where
Life lifts its restless wing?
Peace is found in homes where youth
Knows no journeying.”

[taken from Where Childern Live (1958) by my great-grandmother Alice B. Johnson]

I Shall Sing A Song by Helen Bayley Davis (1936)

This poem was taken from the book of the same title by poet Helen Bayley Davis, copyright 1936. The book was inscribed to my great-grandmother in a beautiful black cursive, “From one poet to another with best wishes for your continued success.”

I Shall Sing A Song

I shall sing a song
Of my own making,
Of life, and love —
All subterfuge forsaking.

It will be the same song
That fools and sages
Have lived and died for,
Down through the ages.

What does it matter
That I sing alone,
That life has stripped me
Bare as a bone?

I shall sing a song
Of my own choice.
I shall sing it softly
In a brittle voice.