Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry, Rest in Peace

                                                           

first published in the May, 1970 issue of Poetry magazine

"Having worked/I would sleep..." 

Having worked — so hard, for so long, for so many — may he sleep with and in the deepest peace, knowing that he brought so much beauty to the world. 

Wendell Berry (August 5, 1934 – August 31, 2026), in addition to his many poems and powerful essays, wrote some of the most beautiful novels I've ever encountered. Here's what I said, ten years back, about Hannah Coulter: 

I finished Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter last week and discovered for myself why my friends, when the title comes up, gasp and seem to rise from the planet for a moment as they relive their own experiences of reading it. When they circle back down to earth and are able to speak again, they always mention underlining, highlighting, and the lyrical beauty of the writing. 

They are right. And I have joined their ranks. 

Title character Hannah Coulter, now in her 70s, is looking back over the years of her life. Hannah shares her history with us in prose that is both simple and reflective. I don't think it's a spoiler to share this passage, which comes very early in the book:  

When you are old you can look back and see yourself when you were young. It is almost like looking down from Heaven. And you see yourself as a young woman, just a big girl really, half awake to the world. You see yourself happy, holding in your arms a good, decent, gentle, beloved young man with the blood keen in his veins, who before long is going to disappear, just disappear, into a storm of hate and flying metal and fire. And you don't know it.

My copy, with its creased but lovely cover, is full of such underlinings. I read with pencil in hand, marking passage after passage, ripe plums that I wanted to preserve and remember forever. I read Hannah quickly and slowly: flying through the pages, but savoring the words of a world that has passed into memory.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being 

hosted by the incomparable Patricia Franz at Reverie. 

Poetry Friday: October 10 by Wendell Berry

Here's a short, perfect (and perfectly-timed) autumn poem by Wendell Berry. Serendipitous. 

(Did you know Berry has a new novel out? My copy is winging its way to my house as I type. Thanks, Bookshop.org!) 

October 10

by Wendell Berry

Now constantly there is the sound,

quieter than rain,

of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright

gold, the sycamore limbs

....

(read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by 

the marvelous Mrs. B. — Linda at TeacherDance. 

(Photo thanks to Pixabay.)

Poetry Friday: Hayden Carruth, "I Could Take"

Last week I mentioned Wendell Berry's poetic tribute to Hayden Carruth, so this week I'm sharing some Carruth poetics. This one's for Atticus, because we are indeed "two imperfections that match." 

I Could Take
by Hayden Carruth

I could take
two leaves
    and give you one.
Would that not be
a kind of perfection?

But I prefer
one leaf
    torn to give you half
            showing

(after these years, simply)

....

(Read the last few lines here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by 

Buffy Silverman. 

Photo thanks to Nika Akin, Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: I'm Hosting!

This poem by Wendell Berry perfectly describes the way I feel when I read Wendell Berry, which is apparently the same way Wendell Berry feels when he reads Hayden Carruth. 

Who is your Berry, your Carruth? Oh, so many I could name! But that's a list (or possibly a list poem) for another time. For now, enjoy this perfect little piece. 

To Hayden Carruth
by Wendell Berry

Dear Hayden, when I read your book I was aching

in head, back, heart, and mind, and aching

with your aches added to my own, and yet for joy

I read on without stopping, made eager

by your true mastery, wit, sorrow, and joy,

each made true by the others. My reading done,

....

(Read the rest here.) 

ETA: Here's the list of the poets you've mentioned so far: 

Nancy Willard

John O'Donohue  

Naomi Shihab Nye  

Shakespeare

Emily Dickinson  

Mary Oliver

e.e. cummings

Billy Collins

Khalil Gibran 

Rumi

J. Patrick Lewis

Joyce Sidman

Jane Kenyon

Irene Latham

Amy Ludwig VanDerwater

Marilyn Singer

Rebecca Kai Dotlich

Ursula K. LeGuin

Denise Levertov 

Margaret Atwood 

Ted Kooser 

Ada Limon 

Robert Frost 

Janet Wong 

Paul Janezcko

Gerard Manley Hopkins and 

Ross Gay

Aimee Nezhukumatathil 

Jubi Arriola-Headley

Patricia Smith

~~~~~~~~~~

Mr. Linky is rounding up this week's contributions for us. 

Drop your link, visit your friends, and share your "mastery, wit, sorrow, and joy, 

each made true by the others." 

Happy Poetry Friday! 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: VII by Wendell Berry

This ("Sabbaths, 2005, VII") is a beautiful one from Wendell Berry. 

It begins like this:

I know I am getting old and I say so,
but I don't think of myself as an old man.
I think of myself as a young man
with unforeseen debilities. 

and ends like this: 

...And you, who are as old
almost as I am, I love as I loved you
young, except that, old, I am astonished
at such a possibility, and am duly grateful.

And now you must go here to read the dozen or so lines between that exquisite beginning and that sublime ending. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Carol Varsalona has the Poetry Friday round-up today at Beyond LiteracyLink. 

(Image by Mirka at Pixabay.)

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry

I don't have much to add to this one, other than:

1. It's Wendell Berry. Win/win. 

2. It's lovely imagery. 

3. It's Wendell Berry. 

Before Dark
by Wendell Berry

From the porch at dusk I watched
a kingfisher wild in flight
he could only have made for joy.

He came down the river, splashing
against the water’s dimming face
like a skipped rock, passing

on down out of sight. And still

....

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Heidi Mordhorst has the Poetry Friday round-up at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Apparently, I often think of Wendell Berry in September, and Heidi often hosts in September, because three years ago, I shared another Berry poem on the day she hosted. Berry-endipity. 

Poetry Friday: September 2 by Wendell Berry

 

 

It's a Wendell Berry kind of week. I'm reading Jayber Crow, which I'm liking and expect to love, as I adored Hannah Coulter. 

This week, I'm sharing Berry's "September 2." It's an observation of the season, but also a poignant meditation on the inevitability of time and change, and the value of what we've invested. He has such a deft hand, wielding precise words in all the right places and ways: 

"... there grew an acceptance of decline." 

I read him, I nod, I exhale, I scribble his words in my journal. 

September 2 

by Wendell Berry 

In the evening there were flocks of nighthawks

passing southward over the valley. The tall 

sunflowers stood, burning on their stalks

....

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Heidi Mordhorst has has the round-up this week at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Poetry Friday: The Peace of Wild Things

I haven't shared this one for a while, but it's definitely time to share it again. Wishing you peace, friends.

The Peace of Wild Things 
by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
....

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Michelle Kogan has the round-up this week. 

Poetry Friday: How to Be a Poet by Wendell Berry

How to Be a Poet
Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

i  

Make a place to sit down.  
Sit down. Be quiet.  
You must depend upon  
affection, reading, knowledge,  
skill—more of each  
than you have—inspiration,  

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~

The round up today is at Check It Out. 

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry

This lovely, short Berry poem is speaking to my heart today. 

Be Still in Haste 

by Wendell Berry 

How quietly I

begin again 

(Read it here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Dori Reads. 

Recent Reading: Wendell Berry, Esther Ehrlich, and Another One From My Daughter

I dropped this beautiful book and marred the cover with a pronounced crease.  Somehow, though, that seems more than okay. 

I finished Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter last week and discovered for myself why my friends, when the title comes up, gasp and seem to rise from the planet for a moment as they relive their own experiences of reading it. When they circle back down to earth and are able to speak again, they always mention underlining and highlighting and the lyrical beauty of the writing. 

They are right. And I have joined their ranks. 

Title character Hannah Coulter, now in her 70s, is looking back over the many years of her life. Hannah shares her history with us in prose that is both simple and reflective. I don't think it's a spoiler to share this passage, which comes very early in the book: 

When you are old you can look back and see yourself when you were young. It is almost like looking down from Heaven. And you see yourself as a young woman, just a big girl really, half awake to the world. You see yourself happy, holding in your arms a good, decent, gentle, beloved young man with the blood keen in his veins, who before long is going to disappear, just disappear, into a storm of hate and flying metal and fire. And you don't know it.

My copy, with its creased but lovely cover, is full of such underlinings. I read with pencil in hand, marking passage after passage, ripe plums that I wanted to preserve and remember forever. I read Hannah quickly and slowly: flying through the pages, but savoring the words of a world that has passed into memory.

~~~~~

I read Nest, by Esther Ehrlich, in just the last couple of days. 

Nest, deliciously set in 1972, is narrated by eleven-year-old Naomi Orenstein, nicknamed Chirp, after her love of birdwatching.

Chirp has an awful lot going on at the moment. There's something wrong with her beloved mom, but the doctors aren't sure what. Chirp's older sister, Rachel, is going to weird parties ("Something feels funny; like they're all on one team and I'm on the other.") Chirp's next-door-neighbor, Joey, comes from a family that Chirp's psychiatrist dad says has "significant issues," so he might be scary or he might be nice…it's hard to tell, when a boy has a rock in his hand, just what he plans to do with it. Chirp's haven is Heron Pond, where she goes to look for her favorite bird, the elusive red-throated loon, which can be extremely awkward or immensely graceful, depending on where it is and what it's trying to accomplish.

I loved this book so much. Ehrlich's writing is iridescent; it shimmers like the sunlit water that has been part of Chirp's world since she was born. And that gorgeous writing serves well a story that is full and weighty. Sadness, deep pain, grief, and love mingle with insight and hope. Bring the tissues.

My only caveat is that it's billed as middle-grade fiction -- it could be too much for very sensitive children, as it covers extremely serious issues.

Read it for yourself, because it's worth the grown-up read. Then you can decide who you'll share it with.

~~~~~

Finally, I've mentioned NaNoWriMo before, but who knew the craziness was encouraged in July? Camp NaNoWriMo is November madness in the middle of summer. Betsy, who has completed five NaNo novels in the past, did another one last month. She finished 60,000 words before the end of July, let me read her first draft (that almost never happens), and she made my cry with one of her plot developments. Reading doesn't get any better than that. 

Ramona set herself a goal of a 10,000 word story for July and met it. She hasn't let me read her story yet, though -- not sure when she'll release a draft to me. And Anne-with-an-e is trying a longer work for the first time ever, so I'll keep you posted on future Edmisten-Daughter books, and whether or not they make me cry. 

Poetry Friday: Because I Love Both Wendell Berry and Anyone (Specifically His Daughter) Who Can Honestly Say, "It Was My Pleasure to Attend the Slow Meat Symposium."

And because history, culture, and tradition are small and personal. 

(With thanks to Arthur Powers,* who, on a Catholic writers' list, posted a link to Mary Berry's "Problem Solvers" at The Berry Center.)

An excerpt from Wendell Berry's "The Record":

And my young friend says: “Have him speak this
into a recorder. It is precious, It should be saved.”
I know the panic of that wish to save
the vital knowledge of the old times, handed down,
for it is rising off the earth, fraying away
in the wind and the coming day.
As the machines come and the people go
the old names rise, chattering, and depart.

But knowledge of my own going into old time
tells me no. Because it must be saved,
do not tell it to a machine to save it.


Read the whole poem here, at The Berry Center.

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is at Poetry For Children.

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry

Wendell Berry.
Do I need to say anything else to make you click through?
I doubt it.

But just in case I do, here are the final lines of the poem "VII":

...And you, who are as old
almost as I am, I love as I loved you
young, except that, old, I am astonished
at such a possibility, and am duly grateful.

Go now. It's at The Writer's Almanac today.

You'll be duly grateful.

~~~~~~~

The Rogue Anthropologist has the round up today.

"How To Be a Poet"

I've run this poem before, but it's been more than two years, and, after all, one can never have too much Wendell Berry.

I feel a wee bit bad posting this poem on a screen (you'll see why when you read the second stanza) but I'm going to do it anyway. Because sometimes the first place you meet a poet is on a screen, like this one, and I'd hate to think there's someone out there who hasn't met Berry's poetry, even on a screen.


How To Be a Poet
by Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.)

The round-up today is at A Teaching Life.

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry

The man knows whereof he speaks. 

The Peace of Wild Things 

by Wendell Berry 

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
...

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up is here.

For the full Poetry Friday schedule, head to KidLitosphere Central.

More from Wendell Berry ...

... and this one is perfectly lovely.


To My Mother

by Wendell Berry

I was your rebellious son,
do you remember? Sometimes
I wonder if you do remember,
so complete has your forgiveness been.

So complete has your forgiveness been
I wonder sometimes if it did not
precede my wrong, and I erred,
safe found, within your love,

prepared ahead of me, the way home,
or my bed at night, so that almost

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday roundup is at Random Noodling today.

Poetry Friday: How to Be a Poet

I feel a wee bit bad posting this poem on a screen (you'll see why when you read it.) But I'm going to do it anyway because sometimes the first place you meet a poet is on a screen like this one. And I'd hate to think there's someone who hasn't met Wendell Berry's poetry, even on a screen.

Not to mention that there's no way I'll not post a poem with a line like this:

Accept what comes from silence.

And now, a quiet post:

How To Be a Poet
by Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.)

The round-up today is at Scrub-a-Dub-Tub.

Poetry Friday: Wendell Berry

A lovely, perfect, thoughtful poem for this spring morning:

The Thought of Something Else

by Wendell Berry

A spring wind blowing   

the smell of the ground

through the intersections of traffic,

the mind turns, seeks a new   

nativity—another place,   

simpler, less weighted   

by what has already been. 

 ...

(Read the entire poem here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~
The round up this week is at Paper Tigers.

Poetry Friday: The Blue Robe

This is a sweetly captivating poem by Wendell Berry, a man who clearly knows what true marital love is.

Have a lovely Friday!

The Blue Robe 

by Wendell Berry

How joyful to be together, alone

as when we first were joined

in our little house by the river

long ago, except that now we know

each other, as we did not then;

and now instead of two stories fumbling

to meet, we belong to one story

that the two, joining, made. And now

Read the rest here.

Ramona Loves: A Quietly Lovely Book by Wendell Berry

Wendell Berry's Whitefoot: A Story from the Center of the World is a little bit of profundity disguised as a picture book.

It appears that it was originally published in Orion Magazine and it contains gems like this:

She lived at the center of the world. This is one of the things every mouse knows. Wherever she was, she was at the center of the world. That one lives at the center of the world is the world’s profoundest thought. So firmly was this thought set in Whitefoot’s mind that she did not need to think it. Like humans, she lived in the little world of what she knew, for there was no other world for her to live in. But she lived at the center of her world always, and of this she had no doubt.

Oooh, this begs discussion, doesn't it?

Or you can skip discussion altogether as I did with Ramona on a recent cool, rainy day. We simply curled up on the couch under a quilt and shared in the life and adventures of Whitefoot for awhile, as she was carried away by flood waters and did her best to survive, one moment at a time:

At the center of the world, on the silted and soiled floor of the woods, among the shadows of the moony night, she went about her still-unfinished task of staying alive.