Poems for Life (12 page)

L
IV
U
LLMANN

Dear Class V:

My favorite is John Donne's Meditation #17, “No Man Is an Island.”

The poem is especially meaningful because to live is to learn the truth that no man is an island — and that we must respect others as we would ourselves want to be respected.

M
EDITATION
#17

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

—John Donne

K
URT
V
ONNEGUT

Dear Emma—

I congratulate you and your class for wanting to do something about world hunger.

A poem I often quote in lectures is this one by William Blake:

The Angel that presided o'er my birth

Said, “Little creature, form'd of Joy & Mirth,

Go love without the help of any Thing on Earth.”

That's the whole thing, Emma, but it seems to me that there is a whole lot there, if you stop to think about it. It says to me that loving people are born that way, and don't need any prods or rewards to make them helpful, compassionate and affectionate.

I sometimes paraphrase it ever so slightly when talking to people who want to be writers and who need advice. In the third line I substitute “write” for “love.”

Cheers,

W
ENDY
W
ASSERSTEIN

Dear Leslie —

I am enclosing the first lines of “The Ancient Mariner,” which I had to memorize in 8th grade at The Brooklyn Ethical Culture School. Actually, I still have friends from that time and when we get together, at some point we begin to recite “The Ancient Mariner,” which is odd for girls from Brooklyn! He will always be dear and close to my heart.

Wendy Wasserstein

F
ROM
“T
HE
R
IME OF THE
A
NCIENT
M
ARINER
”

Part I

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

“By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

Now whereof stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,

And I am next of kin;

The guests are met, the feast is set:

May'st hear the merry din.”

He holds him with his skinny hand,

“There was a ship,” quoth he.

“Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!”

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye —

The Wedding-Guest stood still,

And listens like a three years' child:

The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed Mariner.

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge

P
AUL
W
ATKINS

Dear Nicole,

My choice of poem for your compilation would be Rupert Brooke's “Clouds.” I haven't got a copy of it on hand, but you shouldn't have any trouble tracking it down. Please do forgive me for not finding it myself; things are a bit hectic at the moment and I am leaving to do some research in the Arctic tomorrow. The opening line of the poem is “Down the blue night the unending columns press.” Rupert Brooke was an Englishman who died during the First World War. He writes with innocence and beauty which I believe were permanently extinguished by that war, and that makes his words all the more poignant to me. “Clouds” was the first poem I ever voluntarily memorized, so it has always been a favorite of mine.

Best of luck with your project. It truly is a worthy cause.

Yours —

C
LOUDS

Down the blue night the unending columns press

In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,

Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow

Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.

Some pause in their grave wandering comrade less,

And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,

As who would pray good for the world, but know

Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say that the Dead die not, but remain

Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.

I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,

In wise majestic melancholy train,

And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,

And men, coming and going on the earth.

— Rupert Brooke

E
LIE
W
IESEL

Dear Sophia,

Thanks for your letter. I am always happy to hear from young people.

Of course, I think your poetry project is worthwhile (in fact, I am a vice-president of the International Rescue Committee), and therefore I am enclosing a poem for you. It's by a boy named Motele — and was originally written in Yiddish, which was the language of my childhood as well. I have always found it moving.

With best wishes —

From tomorrow on, I shall be sad —

From tomorrow on!

Today I will be gay.

What is the use of sadness — tell me that? —

Because these evil winds begin to blow?

Why should I grieve for tomorrow — today?

Tomorrow may be so good, so sunny,

Tomorrow the sun may shine for us again;

We shall no longer need to be sad.

From tomorrow on, I shall be sad —

From tomorrow on!

Not today; no! today I will be glad.

And every day, no matter how bitter it be,

I will say:

From tomorrow on, I shall be sad,

Not today!

—Motele