Poems for Life (11 page)

O
N
S
TRIPPING
B
ARK FROM
M
YSELF
(
FOR
J
ANE, WHO SAID TREES DIE FROM IT
)

because women are expected to keep silent about

their close escapes I will not keep silent

and if I am destroyed (naked tree!) someone will please

mark the spot

where I fall and know I could not live

silent in my own lies

hearing their “how
nice
she is!”

whose adoration of the retouched image

I so despise.

No. I am finished with living

for what my mother believes

for what my brother and father defend

for what my lover elevates

for what my sister, blushing, denies or rushes

to embrace.

I find my own

small person

a standing self

against the world

an equality of wills

I finally understand.

My struggle was always against

an inner darkness: I carry within myself

the only known keys

to my death — to unlock life, or close it shut

forever. A woman who loves wood grains, the cold yellow

and the sun, I am happy to fight

all outside murderers

as I see I must.

— Alice Walker

B
EVERLY
S
ILLS

Dear Alison,

This is not a poem — but it's my favorite “prose.” I carry a copy in my wallet. There's nothing wrong with trying and not succeeding. It's very wrong not to try at all.

Good luck!

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms; the great devotions; and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

— Theodore Roosevelt

M
ARGARET
C
HASE
S
MITH

Dear Antoinette Grannum,

This project of yours and your classmates sounds like a worthwhile one and I am pleased to send you
My Creed
, which I have used for many years to live by. I hope this will serve your purpose and wish you well in the future.

Sincerely,

M
y
C
REED

My creed is that public service must be more than doing a job efficiently and honestly. It must be a complete dedication to the people and to the nation with full recognition that every human being is entitled to courtesy and consideration, that constructive criticism is not only to be expected but sought, that smears are not only to be expected but fought, that honor is to be earned but not bought.

— Margaret Chase Smith

R
ONALD
B. S
OBEL

Dear Olivia:

To select one poem from the world's library of great poetry and declare it to be my favorite poem is as daunting a task as choosing one work of prose and claiming it to be the most significant. In the category of favorite poetry there are any number of selections I could make reaching across the ages back to the time of King David in ancient Israel and going forward to the last decade of the twentieth century.

There is a tendency, completely understandable, for people to react especially favorably to literature that was authored in a geographical setting that they know very well. It is from that perspective that I have chosen to respond to your request by submitting, as one of my favorite expressions, a simple poem entitled “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” The author is Robert Frost, whose literary skill mirrors so clearly the life and labors of rural people who live in New England. My family own a home on a Vermont mountaintop and the scene that Robert Frost evokes in this poem is one with which I am well familiar as I trek through the snow-filled woods on a cold winter's day. I have seen the solitary house and the frozen lake and I have heard the sounds of harness bells. I know, as well, that in the beautiful solitude, while walking alone in those woods filled with birch and maple, that I cannot remain there, for there are things still to be done, indeed promises to keep.

Thank you for asking me to contribute to this wonderful project upon which you are engaging to raise the consciousness of people, so that they will be concerned for refugee children so desperately in need of help.

Yours sincerely,

S
TOPPING BY
W
OODS ON A
S
NOWY
E
VENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

— Robert Frost

S
TEPHEN
S
ONDHEIM

Dear Lindsay Richardson —

I have no “favorite” poem, but a short one that I like immensely is by Christopher Logue. Here it is:

Come to the edge.

We might fall.

Come to the edge.

It's too high!

COME TO THE EDGE!

So they came

and he pushed

and they flew.

As a writer, I think this is the most succinct description of the relationship between the artist and the audience (or viewer or listener) that I've ever read.

Yours sincerely,