This is a happier poem.
At least it's a poem in praise.
It's called "From a Litany."
It comes after reading a lot of Christopher Smart
as you will soon see.
I've even stolen lines from him.
"There is an open field I lie down in a hole I once dug
and I praise the sky.
I praise the clouds that are like lungs of light.
I praise the owl that wants to inhabit me
and the hawk that does not.
I praise the mouse's fury, the wolf's consideration.
I praise the dog that lives in the household of people
and shall never be one of them.
I praise the whale that lives under the cold blankets
of salt. I praise the formations of squid, the domes of meandra.
I praise the secrecy of doors, the openness of windows.
I praise the depth of closets.
I praise the wind, the rising generations of air.
I praise the trees and whose branches
shall sit the Cock of Portugal and the Polish Cock.
I praise the palm trees of Rio and those
that shall grow in London.
I praise the gardeners, the worms and the small plants
that praise each other.
I praise the sweet berries of Georgetown, Maine
and the song of the white-throated sparrow.
I praise the poets of Waverly Place and 11th Street,
and the one whose bones turn to dark emeralds
when he stands upright in the wind.
I praise the clocks for which I grow old in a day
and young in a day.
I praise all manner of shade that which I see
and that which I do not.
I praise all roofs from the watery roof
of the pond to the slate roof of the customs house.
I praise those who have made of their bodies
final embassies of flesh.
I praise the failure of those with ambition,
the authors of leaflets and notebooks of nothing.
I praise the moon for suffering men.
I praise the sun its tributes.
I praise the pain of revival and the bliss of decline.
I praise all for nothing because there is no price.
I praise myself for the way I have with a shovel
and I praise the shovel.
I praise the motive of praise by which I shall be reborn.
I praise the morning whose sun is upon me.
I praise the evening whose son I am."