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Light Made Flesh and Blood – Wendell Berry

September 4, 2026 by GriffinPoetry

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4 poems by Wendell Berry from Sabbaths,
North Point Press, San Francisco CA; © 1987
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1979 – I
 . 
I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.
 . 
Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.
 . 
Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.
 . 
After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing
the day turns, the trees move.
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❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
1979 – VII
 . 
What if, in the high restful sanctuary
That keeps the memory of Paradise,
We’re followed by the drone of history
And greed’s poisonous fumes still burn our eyes?
 . 
Disharmony recalls us to our work.
From Heavenly work of light and wind and leaf
We must turn back into the peopled dark
Of our unraveling century, the grief
 . 
Of waste, the agony of haste and noise.
It is a hard return from Sabbath rest
To lifework of the fields, yet we rejoice,
Returning, less condemned in being blessed
 . 
By vision of what human work can make:
A harmony between wood-land and field,
The world as it was given for love’s sake,
The world by love and loving work revealed
 . 
As given to our children and our Maker.
In that healed harmony the world is used
But not destroyed, the Giver and the taker
Joined, the taker blessed, in the unabused
 . 
Gift that nurtures and protects. Then workday
and Sabbath live together in one place.
Though mortal, incomplete, that harmony
is our one possibility of peace.
 . 
When field and woods agree, they make a rhyme
That stirs in distant memory the whole
First Sabbath’s song that no largess of time
Or hope or sorrow wholly can recall.
 . 
But harmony of earth is Heaven-made,
Heaven-making, is promise and is prayer,
A little song to keep us unafraid,
An earthly music magnified in air.
 . 
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❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
1981
 . 
Here where the world is being made,
No human hand required,
A man may come, somewhat afraid
Always, and somewhat tired,
 . 
For he comes ignorant and alone
From work and worry of
A human place, in soul and bone
The ache of human love;
 . 
He may come and be still, not go
Toward any chosen aim
Or stay for what he thinks is so.
Setting aside his claim
 . 
On all things fallen in his plight,
His mind may move with leaves,
Wind-shaken, in and out of light,
And live as the light lives,
 . 
And live as the Creation sings
In covert, two clear notes,
And waits; then two clear answerings
Come from more distant throats—
 . 
May live a while with light, shaking
In high leaves, or delayed
In halts of song, submit to making,
The shape of what is made.
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❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
1980 – IV
 . 
The frog with lichened back and golden thigh
Sits still, almost invisible
On leafed and lichened stem,
Invisibility
Its sign of being at home
There in its given place, and well.
 . 
The warbler with its quivering striped throat
Would live almost beyond my sight,
Almost beyond belief,
But for its double note—
Among high leaves a leaf,
At ease, at home in air and light.
 . 
And I, through woods and fields, through fallen days
Am passing to where I belong:
At home, at ease, and well,
In Sabbaths of this place
Almost invisible,
Toward which I go from song to song.
 . 
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
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When field and woods agree, they make a rhyme . . .
 . 
Wendell Berry, (August 5, 1934 – August 31, 2026) was a Kentucky farmer on land his great-great-grandfather bought after the war of 1812. And he was a poet, novelist, essayist, advocate, activist, and environmentalist, whose many award include the 2010 National Humanities Medal awarded by President Barak Obama. Place is a character in all that Wendell Berry has written. The land is his anchor. The contrast of field and woods, man-tilled earth versus wild spaces, is a constant theme, and not in the sense of conflict or incompatibility but with the admonition that field and wood must converge in our reverence and in our stewardship. We must care for our planet or perish. He listened and heard the song of Creation. He opens our ears, our eyes, our souls to know that song as well.
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❀
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Wendell Erdman Berry obituary at the Kentucky Lantern:
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Wendell Berry biography and letters at The Poetry Foundation:
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present one or more poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
 . 
If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:
 . 
 . 
If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.
 . 
If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to
 . 
COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
 . 
Thanks again for joining the conversation.
 . 
– Bill
 . 

Mountains-to-Sea Trail, Surry County NC

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MST, Doughton Park, Blue Ridge Parkway

Posted in Ecopoetry, Imagery, poetry | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments »

In a Public Place – J.R.Solonche

August 28, 2026 by GriffinPoetry

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[ 3, no, 4 poems by J. R. Solonche ]
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At the Reflecting Pool
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one (there are many
gathered now in the closing minutes
before the play’s beginning) pretends
 . 
to jump in, mugging for his companions,
as so many have done,
as so many will do.
 . 
“It lacks an emotional center,
a focus, a heart.” (But this will be later,
on the steps inside, coming down,
 . 
the hand brushing the brass banister.)
None mistake it for the sky,
as none mistake the secret pool of their desire
 . 
for a loop in time, as none
mistake themselves for others,
as none mistake more of the same for more room,
 . 
as none mistake life’s rules
for the lures of explanation or life’s raw deals
for the leadenware on the tables of their hearts.
 . 
J. R. Solonche
from In a Public Place, Dos Madres Press, Loveland, OH; © 2019
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❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Saturday
 . 
On the street in town,
everyone is carrying something,
everyone’s arms are full.
 . 
This old man is carrying
fifty years of newspapers.
Each year is a bundle tied in string.
 . 
His back is bent from the weight.
This wife is carrying her past.
It is made of glass. It is extremely fragile.
 . 
She carries it in a velvet pouch
inside a wooden box inside a metal case
inside a leather satchel with two straps.
 . 
The husband is carrying Monday.
He holds it like a dozen roses.
He holds it like the wheel of a fast car.
 . 
This teenaged boy is carrying three futures.
They are light as feathers, as bubbles.
He tosses them up before him as he walks.
 . 
This old woman is carrying death.
She holds it in her arms like a newborn.
She is singing it a lullaby under her breath.
 . 
I am carrying myself on a tray.
I am a waiter delivering the meal.
Arrogant and aloof, I balance myself
 . 
on my right hand, over the heads
of the others. My left arm swings freely.
It clears my way to your table.
 . 
J. R. Solonche
from In a Public Place, Dos Madres Press, Loveland, OH; © 2019
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❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
America
 . 
I am sitting on a bench in front of the Department of Justice,
thinking, under the massive magnolia tree,
of the meaning of justice, when the sharp,
metallic smell of the homeless man
across the avenue mingles with the aroma of the blossoms.
Such a strange perfume.
Let us call it America.
 . 
J. R. Solonche
from In a Public Place, Dos Madres Press, Loveland, OH; © 2019
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❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Zhao Li realizes that he has been writing poems for so long a flower is not a flower anymore, a bird is not a bird anymore, a cloud is not a cloud anymore. A flower has become a poem, a bird has become a poem, a cloud has become a poem. He is very sad about this. He also realizes that Zhao Li is not Zhao Li anymore, for Zhao Li has become a poem, so he sheds a tear for the flower, he sheds a tear for the bird, he sheds a tear for the cloud, but he does not shed a tear for himself, for he has always wanted to be a poem, even if it is one written by himself.
 . 
J. R. Solonche
from The Lost Notebook of Zhao Li, Dos Madres Press, Loveland OH; © 2022
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Carnegie Hall. Poe Cottage. A parking lot. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. West 64th Street. Washington Square. A mall. Some hotel lobby. Planetarium. Botanical Garden. Shoprite. The Brooklyn Bridge. Panera. Starbucks. The Department of Justice. The Vietnam War Memorial. Public places all. As perfect a place for writing a poem as the garret overlooking Montmartre, the round tower of the medieval castle on the Irish Coast, any prison cell anywhere. The poems are not about the place but are in the place. The places are in the poems. The moments in the places are in the poems, those moments spent walking, reading, observing, thinking, all while in a public place. And then each poem brings the poet’s mind into a public place where we readers can be in the moment with him.
 . 
When I sit on my porch and read poems by J. R. Solonche, do I really begin to notice bug song in greater clarity, a brighter spectrum of sun dapple on the leaves? Or do I only imagine that I do? Wait, are you going to try to tell me that imagining something doesn’t make it so?
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❀
 . 
Both In a Public Place and The Lost Notebook of Zhao Li, as well as six other books by J. R. Solonche, are published by Dos Madres Press in Ohio, which notes that the small press is essential to the vitality of contemporary literature, and which is dedicated to the creation of fine books pleasing to the eye and hand.
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You might consider spending a moment with Dos Madres at
 . 
You are also welcome to consider these other poems by J. R. Solonche at Verse and Image:
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present one or more poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
 . 
If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:
 . 
 . 
If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.
 . 
If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to
 . 
COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
 . 
Thanks again for joining the conversation.
 . 
– Bill
 . 
 . 
2020-06-11a Doughton Park Tree

Posted in Imagery | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments »

Richard Chess – The Loneliest Monk

August 21, 2026 by GriffinPoetry

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[ 2 poems by Richard Chess ]
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In That Classroom, He Dwelled
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1.
 . 
Our attention wrapped him in a sacred scroll.
That’s how intensely we regarded him, eager
for whatever spark—one of his insights,
one of ours—would ignite him.
And when it came, the calf-skin parchment
blazed, but the letters were not consumed
by the flames. They were freed from story, song, and law.
Then it was up to us, students and our guide, to gather
the consonants and vowels, adrift like confetti,
and arrange them to reveal
secrets hidden by the plain, original text.
 . 
2.
 . 
Of course none of this is true.
No unburnt alphabet. No fire. No Torah scroll
in which he was wrapped. And the students’ attention?
The fierce concentration? That devotion?
Who do you think they were? Monastics?
 . 
I was his student, too.
After he closed the classroom door,
turned to the text at hand, and read it
aloud, he’d ask the class, his congregation,
what we heard. No right or wrong,
he assured them. You hear what
you hear. Thus began the hour.
 . 
On the chalkboard, he scribbled illegibly, letters
as if an alphabet from another world.
Was he, as he stood
with his back to twenty pairs of eyes,
a vessel into which a spirit poured?
 . 
3.
 . 
I bumped into him yesterday at the gym.
Dumbbells his devotion now. He didn’t remember me
or the poem I interpreted—brilliantly, he wrote
on my paper. We exchanged a few words, nothing
special, nothing to illuminate our souls.
 . 
4.
The weight of worship, that’s what it was, worship
in that classroom, the only Temple for him,
the only place where, without a thought
of God, he dwelled with God, one line, one word,
one syllable, one consonant, one vowel—
one breath at a time.
 . 
Richard Chess
from The Loneliest Monk, Orison Books, Asheville NC; © 2026
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❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
From Generation to Generation
 . 
Where did it go, the faith
of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,
after it entered his father’s life?
The highway from Philly to High Point,
a traveling salesman’s road.
The commission provided
for his mother and him, the adopted son.
 . 
For his bar mitzvah, the boy
who would become a yearning man, received
a Smith Corona Super Sterling typewriter.
Ever since, he’s been typing
his way to Eden’s gate.
 . 
What could his father make of a boy
who would never sell a thing hi his life?
A boy who escaped through a window
of words, turning pages
while in another room family and friends
noshed and laughed?
 . 
Did his father ever imagine, driving
his Oldsmobile Cutlass, AM radio crackling,
that his son would but a period
on the sentence of his territory—Pennsylvania
to North Carolina—by settling
at the farthest point from home on his map?
 . 
The boy’s inheritance:
a sunburst mirror, diamond plaques—
a set of four, one for each season.
Plastic wall décor, samples
his father left behind, stored in the garage.
Meanwhile, the boy, now grown,
clacks another line.
 . 
If there were scissors in heaven,
his father would send a clipping
of a news story about a good life to his son:
a putting green, a winning
local team, a stock market beyond
heart-stopping wild swings.
But he does not want his son
to join him, not tomorrow, not today.
Let him make as much of heaven
as he can there, in the monkish solitude
of his mountain room, his father prays,
though he never was one for prayer.
Let’s call it a wish.
 . 
Richard Chess
from The Loneliest Monk, Orison Books, Asheville NC; © 2026
 . 
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Richard Chess writes that he is not the lonely monk. Not lonely with so many students and teachers spanning the decades, not lonely because of his many friends. Perhaps most of all not lonely because words visit him, gather about, perch on his shoulder to whisper, sometimes shriek. And yet there is a space where words dissolve, where etymologies and taxonomies lose their substance in the mist and swirl, which space one calls nothing and another calls everything. In that place, aren’t we all sentenced to loneliness?
 . 
Quantum physicist Richard P. Feynman has written, “Which end is nearer to God; if I may use a religious metaphor. Beauty and hope, or the fundamental laws? . . . And I do not think either end is nearer to God. To stand at either end, and to walk off that end of the pier only, hoping that out in that direction is the complete understanding, is a mistake.” The monk is never lonely because it is always him and God. The monk is always lonely because it is only him and God. And the monk is loneliest, perhaps, because this long journey is a solitary one, the journey of gathering up those words again and herding them back into some order that at least aspires to perfection. That waves away the obvious impossibility of the task and nevertheless orders the words to convey.
 . 
We readers, we companions on that journey, we are also lonely monks. We walk into that space of words (or run, or jump) and hope. Will it be just the poet and us? Or will it be us, the poet, and God?
 . 
❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Richard Chess is Professor Emeritus at the University of North Carolina, Asheville, where for more than three decades he taught courses in English, Creative Writing, and Jewish Studies. Among his other wide ranging service, he has been active in The Association for the Contemplative Mind In Higher Education. The Loneliest Monk is Richard’s fifth book of poetry.
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Orison Books focuses on writing that expresses the life of the spirit from a broad and inclusive range of perspectives. The Loneliest Monk is available HERE
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Other poems by Richard Chess at Verse and Image:
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[The quotation by Richard P. Feynman is from a talk he gave at Cornell University in 1964, broadcast by the BBC and published in Feynman’s book, The Character of the Physical Law; excerpted in The World Treasury of Physics, Astronomy, and Mathematics, edited by Timothy Ferris; Little, Brown, and Company © 1991 by Timothy Ferris.]
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
 . 
Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present one or more poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
 . 
If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:
 . 
 . 
If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.
 . 
If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to
 . 
COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
 . 
Thanks again for joining the conversation.
 . 
– Bill
 . 
Doughton Park Tree, 2022-05-17A
 . 

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