{"id":5738,"date":"2013-04-17T15:12:43","date_gmt":"2013-04-17T19:12:43","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.beliefnet.com\/beginnersheart\/?p=5738"},"modified":"2013-04-17T15:15:51","modified_gmt":"2013-04-17T19:15:51","slug":"day-17-of-national-poetry-month","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/beginnersheart\/2013\/04\/day-17-of-national-poetry-month.html","title":{"rendered":"day #17 of National Poetry Month ~"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>
Martin Richard, victim of the Boston Marathon bombings<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Poetry always helps me with grief. With rage at injustice, with loss. With all the sorrows — as well as joys — of human existence. Today’s poem is for the many victims rippling out from the horrific centre of the Boston Marathon bombings. It’s a poem by a poet who absolutely understood ugly hate, as well as war and loss.It’s also a poem of hope.<\/p>\n

Here’s an excerpt from Stanley Kunitz’s ‘Night Letter’:<\/p>\n

Night Letter (an excerpt)<\/strong><\/p>\n

Violence shakes my dreams; I am so cold,
\nChilled by the persecuting wind abroad,
\nThe oratory of the rodent’s tooth,
\nThe slaughter of the blue-eyed open towns,
\nAnd principle disgraced, and art denied.
\nMy dear, is it too late for peace, too late
\nFor men to gather at the wells to drink
\nThe sweet water; too late for fellowship
\nand laughter at the forge; too late for us
\nTo say, “Let us be good to one another”?
\nThe lamps go singly out; the valley sleeps;
\nI tend the last light shining on the farms
\nAnd keep for you the thought of love alive,
\nAs scholars dungeoned in an ignorant age
\nTended the embers of the Trojan fire.
\nCities shall suffer siege and some shall fall,
\nBut man’s not taken. What the deep heart means,
\nIts message of the big, round, childish hand,
\nIts wonder, its simple lonely cry,
\nThe bloodied envelope addressed to you,
\nIs history, that wide and mortal pang<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Poetry always helps me with grief. With rage at injustice, with loss. With all the sorrows — as well as joys — of human existence. Today’s poem is for the many victims rippling out from the horrific centre of the Boston Marathon bombings. 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