The Poet With His Face in His Hands - Mary Oliver

You want to cry aloud for your

mistakes. But to tell the truth the world

doesn’t need any more of that sound.

So if you’re going to do it and can’t

stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t

hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines

of rocks and water to the place where

the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that

jubilation and water-fun and you can

stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can

drip with despair all afternoon and still,

on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,

puffing out its spotted breast, will sing

of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

The Voices - Richard Shelton

Suddenly dawn

had to get up and build the trees.

I could no longer deny

the voices so I came

to terms with them: glistening

votaries dipped in madness,

a blue eye in the wrong socket,

an old chair

rocking by itself,

leather with its memory and silk

which forgets everything,

a machine producing time

in the factory.

This does not mean

I learned to trust them

but I came to terms with them

because, as they said,

we are the only family you have.