The morning sets the mood, at least for a couple hours. And yet, for me, it’s so easy to grab the phone first—because it’s my alarm clock—and find my way into scrolling, into a mood I don’t want.
I’m not always good at this, but when I remember, I do find my day starts better if poetry comes first.
In case you’re reading this in the morning, still in bed, perhaps “The Roses” by Mary Oliver, from American Primitive.
One day in summer
when everything
has already been more than enough
the wild beds start
exploding open along the berm
of the sea; day after day
you sit near them; day after day
the honey keeps on coming
in the red cups and the bees
like amber drops roll
in the petals: there is no end,
believe me! to the inventions of summer,
to the happiness your body
is willing to bear.
I’ve written about this here before, how poems have a bad rap for being obtuse, being puzzles seemingly meant to be solved by people with PhDs. And some poems are like that. But most are not, and even ones that appear to make little sense can be—often are meant to be—enjoyed more for what they suggest, how you feel as you read them, how they sound, especially if you read them aloud.
“In the Garden” by Jay Hopler, from Green Squall
And the sky!
Nooned with the steadfast blue enthusiasm
Of an empty nursery.Crooked lizards grassed in yellow shade.
The grass was lizarding,
Green and on a rampage.Shade tenacious in the crook of a bent stem.
Noon. This noon –
Skyed, blue and full of hum, full of bloom.
The grass was lizarding.
Sometimes a poem in the morning puts my mind into mellow reflection. Sometimes it invigorates me, deepens the moment or lightens it. Sometimes it helps me to measure time, to put the season outside the window in a different light.
“September Tomatoes” by Karina Borowicz, from Proof
The whiskey stink of rot has settled
in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises
when I touch the dying tomato plants.Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms
flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots
and toss them in the compost.It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready
to let go of summer so easily. To destroy
what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.
Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village
as they pulled the flax. Songs so old
and so tied to the season that the very sound
seemed to turn the weather.
Poets are often trying to see what they can get away with. There will be experiments I don’t love to see in novels, but I find exciting in poetry—and I find that a sense of boundary-pushing, of deliberate exploration, can be a good thing to be conscious of early in the day.
If you’re reading this in the morning, still in bed, I hope your day is great.
𓀠 By the way: I’m able to write these meditations thanks to paying subscribers.
If you haven’t yet, level up and enjoy tomorrow’s supplement with 3-plus things to love—new music, new books, new apps, new gear—plus the monthly “Humans Being Humans” ballyhoo.
Speaking of which, tomorrow’s 3-plus things—
Newsletters, Instagram accounts, and other ways to get a good daily dose of poetry
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What the what
“Meditations in an Emergency” is a weekly essay from writer Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with three-plus things to love, plus the monthly “Humans Being Humans” ballyhoo.
Rosecrans is the bestselling author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. Other books include The Last Kid Left and Paris, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down. His debut novel, You Lost Me There, was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice. For magazine articles, bio, contact info, blah blah blah, try rosecransbaldwin.com.
Truly, I do not think I would be alive today without poetry. What a gift! Thanx, Rosecrans.