Alone in the night
On a dark hill
With pines around me
Spicy and still,
And a heaven full of stars
Over my head
White and topaz
And misty red;
Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire
The aeons
Cannot vex or tire;
Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill
I watch them marching
Stately and still.
And I know that I
Am honored to be
Witness
Of so much majesty.
Listen to my Podcast, Journey from Grief to Healing, Episode 133 on your favorite podcasting app or click here for Episode 133
Episode 133: Transforming Grief into Gratitude: A Journey in Three Poems
Where are you on your grieving journey? In this heartfelt episode, we explore the three stages of grief: from gasping for air in the depths of sorrow to transitioning into a place where the ache remains but healing begins, and finally, reaching a state of gratitude for both what was and what is to come.
We can’t bypass the hard parts; we must go through the process to transform our grief into something more—a deep appreciation for life’s gifts. Drawing on the powerful words of poets William Stafford, Mary Oliver, and W.S. Merwin, we examine how poetry helps us understand and navigate the journey from sorrow to serenity. Discover how grief can eventually be transformed into a peaceful state of gratitude.
Keywords: grief, grieving journey, stages of grief, gratitude, healing after loss, poetry on grief, William Stafford, Mary Oliver, W.S. Merwin, overcoming grief, personal growth, emotional healing
George Essex Evans
Around and beneath, the dull grey mist and the sullen roar of the sea,
Scant footing-place on the sheer cliffs face—with death for a penalty;
But afar and above there is rest and love, there is hope for brain and hand,
The valleys fair and the crystal air and the peaks of Morning Land.
Around and beneath are the mists of toil and the sullen roar of the world,
And the sneer of scorn for a foothold gone and a climber backward hurled;
But afar and above are the hopes of men with the heart and will to stand
On the thin rift’s edge and the slippery ledge that lead to Morning Land.
They slip and fall from the sheer cliffs face; ah, God! they are falling still!
But another leaps for the vacant place, and another his place will fill.
’Tis little they fear the coward’s sneer, or the scorn of a selfish band,
Whose eyes are set on the parapet and the heights of Morning Land.
Hark to the ring as their rock picks swing, and bite for a foothold there!
Grip by grip they are straining up that others may travel fair.
The world will follow them all some day, the men it has shunned and banned,
The gallant hearts that hewed the way that leads to Morning Land.
Shel Silverstein
Oh the changing of the seasons it’s a pretty thing to see
And though I find this balmy weather pleasin’
There’s the wind come from tomorrow and I hear it callin’ me
And I’m bound for the changing of the seasons
Oh it’s blowin’ in Chicago and it’s snowin’ up in Maine
And the Islands to the south are warm and sunny
And I’ve got to feel the earth shake and I gotta feel the rain
And I’ve got to know a taste of more than honey
So don’t ask me where I’m goin’ or how long I’m gonna be away
Don’t make me give you all the hollow reasons
I’ll think of you like summer and I might be back some day
When my heart miss the changing of the seasons
Oh it’s blowin’ in Chicago…
[ guitar ]
Oh it’s nothing that you said and it ain’t nothing that you done
And I wish I could explain you why I’m leavin’
But there’s some men need the winter and there’s some men need the sun
And there’s some men need the changing of the seasons
Yeah it’s blowin’ in Chicago…
John Keats
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes.
Or wait the Amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed casket of my soul.
George Sterling
Calling you now, not for your flesh I call,
Nor for the mad, long raptures of the night
And passion in its beauty and its might,
When the ecstatic bodies rise and fall.
I cannot feign: God knows I see it all—
The flaming senses, raving with delight,
The leopards, swift and terrible and white,
Within the loins that shudder as they crawl.
All that could I exultingly forego,
Could I but stand, one flash of time, and see
Your heavenly, entrancing face, and know
I stood most blest of all beneath the sun,
Hearing these words from your fond lips to me:
“I love, love you, and love no other one!”
Donald Marquis
CLOTHED on with thunder and with steel
And black against the dawn
The whirling armies clash and reel. . . .
A wind, and they are gone
Like mists withdrawn,
Like mists withdrawn!
Like clouds withdrawn, like driven sands,
Earth’s body vanisheth:
One solid thing unconquered stands,
The ghost that humbles death.
All else is breath,
All else is breath!
Man rose from out the stinging slime,
Half brute, and sought a soul,
And up the starrier ways of time,
Half god, unto his goal,
He still must climb,
He still must climb!
What though worlds stagger, and the suns
Seem shaken in their place,
Trust thou the leaping love that runs
Creative over space:
Take heart of grace,
Take heart of grace!
What though great kingdoms fall on death
Before the stabbing blade,
Their brazen might was only breath,
Their substance but a shade —
Be not dismayed,
Be not dismayed!
Man’s dream which conquered brute and clod
Shall fail not, but endure,
Shall rise, though beaten to the sod,
Shall hold its vantage sure —
As sure as God,
As sure as God!
Gorgia Douglas Johnson
Behold ! the living thrilling lines
That course the blood like madd’ning wines,
And leap with scintillating spray
Across the guards of ecstasy.
The flame that lights the lurid spell
Springs from the soul’s artesian well,
Its fairy filament of art
Entwines the fragments of a heart.
Langston Hughes
Being walkers with the dawn and morning,
Walkers with the sun and morning,
We are not afraid of night,
Nor days of gloom,
Nor darkness—
Being walkers with the sun and morning.
Carlos Drummond de Andrade
The door of truth was open,
but only let pass
half of a person each time.
Thus, it was impossible to reach the whole truth,
for the half of a person who passed by
brought only the profile of half truth
and their own second half.
Carrying half profiles when leaving,
and the half profiles, did not match the truth.
They broke the door.
They knocked down the door.
Arrived at the bright place
where the truth sparkled its fires.
It was divided in halves,
two different parts.
There was a question, which one
was the prettiest.
None of the two was really beautiful
and it was necessary to choose.
And choices were made according their whims,
their illusions,
their myopia.
