Sherry Chandler » A poem for your pocket
A poem for your pocket
The quality of mercy is not strain’d;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this-
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence ‘gainst the merchant there.
— Portia’s speech from Act IV, Scene I of The Merchant of Venice, text from Project Gutenberg.
It is Poem in your Pocket Day and I thank Margo Berdeshevsky for reminding me of this passage in her Poet’s Pick last week.
Garrison Keillor threw a sonnet contest. Results, winner and 32 finalists, here. Or you can listen to a streaming broadcast of the show Sonnet in your Bonnet? in which members of the cast read the poems.
And also, in my list of local events this week, I, rather stupidly, forgot to mention that Lynnell Edwards will be reading from her new book The Highwayman’s Wife tonight at 6:30 at the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning in Lexington. The reading is free. The workshop afterwards is $25. Tonight’s event is, I think, the last of the CCLL’s New Books by Great Writers Series for this season.
Which reminds me, in turn, of Alfred Noyes’s poem “The Highwayman”. I submit this link to you as your bonus poem.
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2 Comments
1. Rosalie replies at 17th April 2008, 10:22 am :
in my pocket:
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear, and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing, is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
e.e. cummings
2. sherry replies at 20th April 2008, 2:24 pm :
Rosalie, I love this Cummings poem. It isn’t one that I am familiar with and I’ve read it every day now for the last three days. It gets better with each reading.
Here is a Jane Kenyon poem that Leatha Kendrick gave me to carry in my pocket:
Happiness
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
-Jane Kenyon
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