SELECTED POEMS
by miriam berg

Poems grouped by content

List of classifications

STORIES AND SONGS
2. I Cannot Keep From Singing
6. Happiness (Fall, 1953)
25. The Flower (a story; Fall 1957)
37. The Child and the Oracle (3/30/1958)
49. Narrative Poem #1 (Summer, 1960)
71. Conversation With A Stone On The Eve Of My Death (Dec 3, 1962)

List of Poems
2. I CANNOT KEEP FROM SINGING (Spring, 1953)
(song to Corky Corbelli)

I cannot keep from singing,
    From dancing all day long,
there's music in me ringing,
    My heart just bursts with song.

A sweet and lovely flower,
    A sprite that's young and gay,
I think of every hour,
    She's swept my cares away.

       The sun and moon and stars that glow
       Are all repeating what I know,
       That heaven above and earth below
       Are mine, so singing now I go;

My love to her I'm bringing,
    My heart will e'er be true.
I cannot keep from singing,
    Since I'm in love with you.

List of Poems
6. HAPPINESS (Fall, 1953)
(to Ron Fox, my first roommate)

I'm laughing, I'm carefree, I'm happy as a lark,
I love to see the children play and hear the puppies bark,
No sadness, or worry, or sorrow bothers me,
For I can live enjoying life so happy and so free!!

    The birds at daybreak me awake
        And I stroll out with a happy shout
    To greet the sun and ev'ryone
        Smiling with a song!
    Lightheartedly and happily
        I go my way all through the day
    Never sad but always glad
        As I go along!

I'm singing, I'm dancing, and turning round and round,
The air is always freshest while the dew is on the ground.
Treetops and mountains make all outdoors a throne,
By letting all the world be free I find it is my own!

    For love is mine and life is fine,
        Songs fill the air--there's no despair;
    But singing, laughter! here and hereafter!
        This will be my song!
    The world is joy and life's a toy,
        Belongs to all, oh, hear the call,
    Be gay and free, come, follow me,
        And carry it along!

List of Poems
25. THE FLOWER (Fall 1957)
(for Marty Turner, I think)

        There was a little girl, or maybe she was full-grown; her name
might have been Malvina, or Natasha; but that doesn't matter. She
lived in a brick cottage on the outskirts of a little hamlet at the
bottom of a broad valley. She lived by herself except for a parrot
named Jasper and a mouse who had no name, since he woyuld answer to
none anyway. Natalye painted; that is, every morning she would paint
a picture of the first thing she noticed. Then she would bake cookies
for Jasper, and gather nuts and seeds for the little mouse. She
painted sunrises, she painted landscapes, she painted butterflies,
grapes, and toads.

        One day growing in her garden was a flower, its lines smooth
and graceful, its colours lustrous and gay, its demeanor haughty as
it unfurled its shimmering petals to the earth and sky and to Natasha,
saying proudly, "Here I am!" Immediately Natasha said, "I must paint
this flower!" and set to work. By evening she had finished; and when
she looked at it, for the first time she was displeased. "Tomorrow,"
she said to Jasper, "I shall paint it again, properly." Jasper said,
"Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow!" And the mouse just squeaked, for he
could say nothing.

        So the next day she hurriedly painted it over; and again she was
unhappy. "I must paint it again, before it dies," she said anxiously
to Jasper, who could only reply, "Again, again, again and again." And
the mouse said nothing, for he was asleep.

        Next day the swallows were singing and soaring around the eaves
of her cottage, the dampness of the morning dew gave a rich smell to
the air, and again she painted carefull, seeking to enrich each detail
and fill the picture so that it would say as eloquently as the flower
did, "Here I am!" And once more she was dissatisfied. "Why can't I
get it right?" she complained to Jasper, who replied, "Can't! can't!
can't!" And the mouse only squeaked and squeaked, for he was hungry.

        Day after day passed as Natasha sought to capture the brilliance
and radiance of the flower, hurrying because she wished to finish
before the end of the season of the flower. Jasper started gathering
seeds for the little mouse, and ate the insects himself. Natalye grew
more and more unhappy while the flower bloomed smugly and powerfully
in the garden, tho' it had received no water and the other plants were
turning yellow. Finally one day after 40 attempts to paint the flower
Natalye awoke to find it gone, and suddenly she noticed the sere look
of her garden and saw the ragged feathers of Jasper, and heard the
tiny squeak of her little mouse. "Oh!" she said to herself and her
eavesdropping parrot said, "Oh! oh!" and the little mouse squeaked,
"Ee!" She drew no picture that day, and as she sat on the lawn that
evening with her mouse and Jasper, watching the setting of the Evening
star, she thought to herself, "A poem would recall the majesty of that
flower," and Jasper somehow answered, "Flower, flower."

        So the next day after baking a cake and combing out the mouse's
whiskers she went for a long walk with her pets into the woods that
covered the valley sides. On top of a rock which jutted its beak out
into the open air above the buzzing pines she tried to write. After
finishing a short poem she discovered that her mouse was lost. Jasper
had been visiting some rock pigeons and had not seen him leave. "Never
mind, he'll come back," Natasha reassured Jasper, who answered, "Never,
never, never!" For five days and nights Natasha remained there,
looking short distances from the pinnacle while Jasper flew on longer
searches. After all the nearby nuts and berries were gone she wearily
took her poem and her parrot and returned home.

A flower in such glory
Must really know a story
To tell to all the lands,
To all the list'ning bands,
    Of beauty, rich and deep;
    Come, tell it ere you sleep.

The flower does not move;
It surely can't approve
Of keeping what it knows
Of raptures and of woes
    Solely for itself,
    Like a book upon a shelf.

Ho, flower, vain and proud,
Stop gazing on the cloud,
Look 'round you, see the mirth
Of life upon the earth!
    Tell us what you know;
    Tell it ere you go.

The flower now for days
Has ignor-ed my gaze;
I want to catch the spell
That's ringing like a bell,
    And save it for mankind;
    I thought he wouldn't mind.

No flower ever sprang
From earth with such a bang;
I know no other bloom
So proudly to assume
    The world belonged to him;
    The world was but his whim.

My flower bed is bare
Of that one flower rare
Whose beauty I could not
Catch, tho' hard I sought.
    Now gone, I know not why,
    From all the world and I.

List of Poems
37. THE CHILD AND THE ORACLE (3/30/1958)
(possibly for Linda Allen)

        The child stood at the door of the cave. It seemed warm within,
and so he stepped into the silence. A dull glow nestled at the end of
the cavern, and he climbed toward it. A small, fragrant fire was at its
heart, in a basin carved in the granite. He looked around and at first
saw nothing, then suddenly it seemed to him that he saw a figure behind
the blaze. It was the Oracle.
        "Seek ye me, son of men?" purred the Oracle.
        "What are you?" responded the child in wonder.
        "I am the spirit of the mountain, son of men. I am constant, and
still, and men presume to g1ean additional wisdom by visiting me."
        "What do they ask?" asked the child after a pause.
        "They want to know where is success, and glory, and wealth, and
love, and what is the future, and what is wisdom, and what they should
do, or work for, or believe in."
        "What do you tell them?" the child wanted to know.
        "Child," rumbled the figure, "no man leaves me richer than as he
came; if he has eyes, he need only look about him to find his answer.
I, I have none. Yet they need words, so I give tnem words. If they wish
to know the future, I say, What hath been is, and will be. What you
are is what you want. Find out what you want, and pursue it. But, they
ask, what is worth wanting? So I reply, can you understand desire? the
desire of a miser for his gold? or a tyrant for power? or a he-ass for
the female? or the smoke for the heights of the air? or the rain for
the earth, or the bird to sing? the squirrel to scamper or a woman for
child? Is life so unapparent that you descend into a cave to find it?
        "Or they ask for wisdom. Verily, you know as much as any of tnat,
even me. I ask t' you, child of men, what is wisdom?"
        "Me? I know nothing, spirit of the mountain. I can only run and
play in the sunshine and grass. But the darkness of your cave is restful,
and I cannot always run and play.
        "Thanks indeed, 0 little sage. See that jar? if you are thlrsty,
drlnk of it; but only the earth's surface provides food," the oracle
went on musingly.
        "And then there are those who wish honor, and glory, and wealth.
To whom I can only reply, What you had yesterday, you have today. What
is it? What you wish for tomorrow will not come till then. Why be
impatient! The peach tree bears its fruit in season, and in the
meanwhile, it blossoms, it leaves, it dances and sings in the wind,
and worships the sun."
        "Then they ask, will the harvest and its fruits be mine? I ask them,
is it your empty heart you want me to fill for you?"
        The child curled up in a corner near the fire after having drunk
of the contents of the jar. "I should like to sleep, spirit of the
mountain."
        "Sleep deep, then, little fair-skinned one."
        And as the child slept, he dreamed; and as he dreamed, he left that
haven of childhood, and became a man; and as a man he stood again
before the Oracle.
        "Tell me. 0 spirit of the mountain, how may I know my true love? It
        "Why do you ask me this? Is not the answer in your own breast? Only
you can know the stirrings, the concord, the sympathetic vibrations of
your heart. Trust them, and know that if they are answered by she of
your mind, then the flame of life is irresistible."
        And again, he stood before the Orac1e, older, darker, quieter,
and said, "Tell me, 0 Oracle, was I right in my choice?"
        "O timid fool, do you yet regard it as a choice? Do you desire a
justification? assurance that it is right? Ask yourself, have your
feelings faltered, your mind meandered, your thoughts turned, or has
there been a constancy, constant outlet, constant inlet, constant as
the waterfall tumbling down the crags?"
        Once more, he stood facing the Oracle, still erect, wrinkled with
life and love.
        "Oracle, the eye of heaven winks at me; for I have given as it
pours forth, freely, unhesitateingly; and I have received as the
outstretched arms of the soil, fulfilling its purpose and seeking
nothing."
        "And has there been no desire but that which comes of itself?"
        Then the child awoke, and sprang up; the Oracle was gone, and the
child saw that it was again light outside the cave, and so he returned
to the sunshine and grass.

List of Poems
49. NARRATIVE POEM #1 (Summer, 1960)
(to Patricia; published in the Editors, 1964)

Surrounding a cottage, old-fashioned and small,
A flourishing garden once stood by the road,
Where travelers would often stop for a look,
Admiring the flowers and grasses and shrubs
Which tingled with care, with laughter and fun.
And sometimes the window would open up wide,
The widow who lavished her love and her life
Upon that small meadow and miniature wood
Would cry out a greeting and ask him to stop
And share with her, crumpets and four o'clock tea.
Scarce ever a passerby, charmed by the voice,
Entrapped by the wonderful feel of the place,
Would refuse her invariable company seat,
And she would soon learn of the traveler's way,
And where he was going, and where he had been,
And what did he think of the towns he had passed,
And did he like small towns, or larger ones, too;
And what of his family and what of his work,
And what were his thoughts as he wandered alone,
And what did he think of her garden and home;
And many a tale, exciting and lone,
Did the old woman hear over crumpets and tea:
Of long-gone friends and also relations,
Of fiery persons who could not stay still,
Who'd left all they had to wander and sing,
Or missions important that were undertaken
In hope of enriching a meagre possession,
In hope of a love or a friend or a brother,
In hope of adventure, or success, or of pleasure.
Often then after the story was told
They'd talk of philosophy, science, society,
And share with each other their fears and ideas;
Theories about the existence of man,
And purpose and truth, of love and of will.
And often the lady would say with a laugh,
"Why, never has that been apparent to me,
But now it is clear, and you've shown the light."
Or often, again, the traveler would say,
"My wanderings, although I think they are great,
Ignore the real problems which I left behind;
I saw there no reason to stay and to fight
And to learn and to help where I know the best
The nature of people, and, then, of myself;
So thanks to you, madam, for opening my eyes."
And sometimes a traveler, rapt by her spell,
Would stay for the night in her neat little cottage,
And share with her, breakfast of sausage and eggs
And orange juice and doughnuts and fresh goats' milk,
And more conversation, and views of the world,
And finally depart in the clear noonday sun.
Or if it were raining, the guest would remain,
And play ancient games with the saintly old lady,
Or talk of the objets d'art which filled out
Her fresh little cottage which sparkled and shone
Because of the tenderness shown to the plants,
And also to the animals, goats, chickens, dogs,
Uncaged sparrows, and even a snake
Who stayed by the waterpump out by the fence,
An opossum who hid 'neath the floor of the hosue,
Some little white mice who ran in the kitchen,
And one old gray owl who sometimes flew 'round,
And sat in the boughs of the pussy-willow tree
And stared, unblinking, at ev'ryone there.
And sometimes, some others who lived in the town
Would come for a bee while the wand'rer delayed,
Bring cookies and fruit, and set down to work,
To knit and to sew, and to talk of the town,
Creative virtue concealed in the chatter,
Kind hearts whose pleasure lay in the rocking
And making some garment for some poorer person,
And sharing the goodness which e'er overflowed
From the kindly old lady who lived by the road;
But finally the trav'ler, who itched to remain,
Would take farewell, his Aloha, his hat,
His share of the peace and the earnest endeavor
Reflected in all that's contained in this scene.
And never the widow forgot any face;
She'd talk of the visitors who'd lingered there,
And, exub'rantly joyful, she'd welcome each one,
Give them some fruit for their hot dusty way,
Throw open her doors, as we have related,
Throw open her mind, throw open her heart,
Throw open her spirit, radiant and loving.
And so I conclude, with something like this:
The world's meant for people, to have and to share,
The world is a fruitful and glorious land,
But keep your eyes open and your hands at work,
Whether with objects or people or thoughts,
Have largeness of heart, and laughter of mind,
Keep your fingers in practice, they're meant to be used,
In music, in creating, working or play.
Sometimes you'll feel that you must be alone,
And that's a necessity, in spite of my moral,
To settle, to simmer, and to recuperate
And gather the wrinkled and tarnished folds
Of the garments of self, to clean and to press,
Then return to the picnic of playing with life,
Of turning the stones which you see into bread,
Of searching the mystery of each human heart,
And of exercising the Power within,
Which cries for fulfillment of its energy.
So if you have listened to this story and moral,
My song it is done, and tell it to others
If you agree, but yet if you don't,
You may have a diff'rent or new understanding
Of what's what with people, with life, and with doing.
So follow it, don't doubt it, hold to it fast,
Unless you find that it's inadequate,
Then be not afraid to change in the middle,
From horse to horse, to continue to ride,
Dangerous and difficult though it may be.
Better to struggle and escape, than to drown.

List of Poems
71. CONVERSATION WITH A STONE ON THE EVE OF MY DEATH (Dec 3, 196
(at a workshop at Four Springs with Elizabeth Boyden Howes)

    Are you dead?

    No.

    Well, I am going to be.

    No you're not.

    What's it like?

    Like me.

    You mean I'll become stone?

    Aren't you already?

    Um....

    Are you compassionate unto all creatures as God is?

    I have tried to be open to everything.

    And the wind has just whistled through.

    Should I have been closed?

    You should have been as a dragon ~
with the communication bursting forth as fire.

    Have you?

    I am what I am.

    So am I.

    We are brothers.

    But man and I have not been.

    Because you are not still and firm like me.

    But I like to eat and play and spend energy and make love
and swim and fly and be unpredictable.

    So do I.

    What do you mean?

    No man can understand me or predict what I will say to him. Most
cannot even understand my words.

    Can you fly?

    If I want.

    I don't need to.

    What do you want?

    Nothing.

    Not even to stay alive?

    One needn't try; if one does, one does.

    Or the more you love, the more you love.

    And you can do what you please if you do what you please.

    And I'm very happy to tell you I'm very happy.

    Are you really?

    I don't know. What difference does it make?

    None.

    I'm glad I talked to you.

    Why?

    Should I have a reason?

    No.

    But I do. This has been a very meditative conversation. Will you
accompany me to hell?

    Why not? I've been there before, it's quite beautiful, high
mountains, clear water, people whenever you want conversation.

    What's heaven like?

    There isn't any.

    But where do good people go?

    There aren't any.

    Haven't you found any at all?

    Yes. They are now birds and flowers.

    Oh!

    Yes.

    Oh.

    Let's go. Hold my hand?