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The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry
The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry gathers one hundred poems written between 1957 and 1996. Chosen by the author, these pieces have been selected from each of nine previously published collections. The rich work in this volume reflects the development of Berry’s poetic sensibility over four decades. Focusing on themes that have occupied his work for years―land and nature, family and community, tradition as the groundwork for life and culture― The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry celebrates the broad range of this vital and transforming poet.
192 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 1998
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About the author
Wendell Berry
292 books4,870 followersWendell Berry is a conservationist, farmer, essayist, novelist, professor of English and poet. He was born August 5, 1934 in Henry County, Kentucky where he now lives on a farm. The New York Times has called Berry the "prophet of rural America."
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 146 reviews
July 26, 2017
If I had to define the spirit of Berry’s poetry, I would appeal to the link that man is capable of stablishing between his secluded self and the earth that sustains him. The harmony of man’s life, and finally of his future survival and eventual death, depends on the profundity of that connection and the respect with which he treats the gift of life in all its forms, and the natural cycle that leads all living things to an ineludible end.
Berry doesn’t moralize or engage on superficial eulogy about the benefits of small communities versus unrestrained growth or the escalating overuse of technology; instead, he elevates the transient existence of man to the level of immortal poetry, which recalls a unique blend between Thoreau’s philosophical explorations and Wordsworth’s lyrical vision of the natural world.
This is the kind of book that lights up a spark of hope when grief, impotence or uncertainty cloud one’s vision. Berry’s poetry exudes with the comforting wisdom that nothing important is ever lost, for the essence of those you love remain imbedded in the everlasting rhythms of nature; in the impossible shapes of rivers and mountains, in the indescribable colors of stormy horizons, in the inexplicable symphony of birdsong, all of which exist around us only when we pay attention, only when we are ready to perceive a greater whole in the erratic ebb and flow of our limited emotions.
Hear this idea sung by Berry’s poetic voice:
“All that passes descends,
and ascends again unseen
into the light: the river
coming down from the sky
to hills, from hills to sea,
and carving as it moves,
to rise invisible,
gathered to light, to return
again.”
(…)
Gravity is grace.
All that has come to us
has come as the river comes,
given in passing away.”
The Gift of Gravity
“Whatever is singing
is found, awaiting the return
of whatever is lost.”
The Law That Marries All Things
To understand the rhythms, movements and metaphoric vision of Berry’s dance with words is to accept our place in the world, not with resignation but with grateful humility.
May readers dance to the melody of a liberated mind that has seen the light and captured its full glow, sealed it in verses and kept it intact for us to confront the impending darkness that awaits us at the end of our life journeys.
May Berry’s poetry remind you of who you were, of who you are, especially when you have lost your way in moments of anguish, in moments of loss.
“Remembering who we are, we live in eternity.”
Berry doesn’t moralize or engage on superficial eulogy about the benefits of small communities versus unrestrained growth or the escalating overuse of technology; instead, he elevates the transient existence of man to the level of immortal poetry, which recalls a unique blend between Thoreau’s philosophical explorations and Wordsworth’s lyrical vision of the natural world.
This is the kind of book that lights up a spark of hope when grief, impotence or uncertainty cloud one’s vision. Berry’s poetry exudes with the comforting wisdom that nothing important is ever lost, for the essence of those you love remain imbedded in the everlasting rhythms of nature; in the impossible shapes of rivers and mountains, in the indescribable colors of stormy horizons, in the inexplicable symphony of birdsong, all of which exist around us only when we pay attention, only when we are ready to perceive a greater whole in the erratic ebb and flow of our limited emotions.
Hear this idea sung by Berry’s poetic voice:
“All that passes descends,
and ascends again unseen
into the light: the river
coming down from the sky
to hills, from hills to sea,
and carving as it moves,
to rise invisible,
gathered to light, to return
again.”
(…)
Gravity is grace.
All that has come to us
has come as the river comes,
given in passing away.”
The Gift of Gravity
“Whatever is singing
is found, awaiting the return
of whatever is lost.”
The Law That Marries All Things
To understand the rhythms, movements and metaphoric vision of Berry’s dance with words is to accept our place in the world, not with resignation but with grateful humility.
May readers dance to the melody of a liberated mind that has seen the light and captured its full glow, sealed it in verses and kept it intact for us to confront the impending darkness that awaits us at the end of our life journeys.
May Berry’s poetry remind you of who you were, of who you are, especially when you have lost your way in moments of anguish, in moments of loss.
“Remembering who we are, we live in eternity.”
Read
October 29, 2013There are some poets from whom one poem is really all I needed, no matter how much of their other work I may read.
I could read my favorite Wendell Berry poem fifty or a hundred times in a row, and cry every single time. And that tells you just about everything you need to know about me. So I share it with you here.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
I could read my favorite Wendell Berry poem fifty or a hundred times in a row, and cry every single time. And that tells you just about everything you need to know about me. So I share it with you here.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
September 11, 2019
I’ve tried to read some of Berry’s fiction and struggled to gain traction (not because I disliked it, just wrong time and frame of mind). His poetry, however is magnificent. Like any prolific poet he’s written so many of varying styles that I do not love every one. But the ones I love are indelibly beautiful.
August 3, 2019
"The wheel of eternity is turning
in time, its rhymes, austere,
at long intervals returning,
sing in the mind, not in the ear." -Wendell Berry, from "From the Distance"
The 2017 documentary Look & See: A Portrait of Wendell Berry restructured my worldview, my understanding of history and modernity and the ties binding rural and urban peoples, so I had to buy this book containing ninety of Berry's poems, selected by Berry himself in 1998. The earnest ease these poems take in their Biblical diction, their meandering gregariousness and sonority, their love of abstractions took a bit of getting used to at first, but with time I fell into stride quite happily. Beginning at the end of the book and working backward helped. The book is pastoral, not in a way that is escapist, but as a deliberate conscientious choice made at a morally troubling time in history. My favorite poems were "Horses" and "Elegy" (we can never learn enough about how to reconcile ourselves to death). I also liked the subtle depths, the balance between empathy and distance, in the narrative poems "Meditation in the Spring Rain" and "Creation Myth." Although most of these poems are free verse, "The Clear Days" shows Berry's talent for rhyme perfected. "Stay Home" is a delightful rejoinder to Frost's "The Pasture" -- you could almost think of it as a parody if you didn't sense the author was perfectly serious. The poem titled "Anglo-Saxon Protestant Heterosexual Men" touches interestingly on the identity issues that so often crop up in discourse these days.
Some quotes:
"To imagine the thoughtlessness
of a thoughtless thing
is useless.
The mind must sing
of itself to keep awake." -from "The Design of a House"
*
"the gathering of many into much" -from "The Winter Rain"
*
"I owned a slope full of stones.
Like buried pianos they lay in the ground,
shards of old sea-ledges...." -from "The Stones"
*
On birds at a feeder:
"They...waste
more sometimes than they eat.
And the man, knowing
the price of seed, wishes
they would take more care.
But they understand only
what is free.... Thus they have
enlightened him. He buys
the seed, to make it free." -from "Window Poems"
*
"every man
his own mosquito" -from "Window Poems"
*
"My old friend tells us how the country changed:
where the grist mill was on Cane Run....
"[M]y young friend says: 'Have him speak this
into a recorder. It is precious. It should be saved.'
"[D]o not tell a machine to save it.... Stay and listen
until he dies or you die.... Live here
as one who knows these things. Stay, if you live;
listen and answer." -from "The Record"
*
"It is dangerous
to remember the past only
for its own sake, dangerous
to deliver a message
you did not get." -from "In a Motel Parking Lot, Thinking of Dr. Williams"
*
"What can bring us past
this knowledge, so that you
will never wish our life
undone? For if ever you
wish it so, then I must wish
so too, and lovers yet unborn,
whom we are reaching toward
with love, will turn to this
page, and find it blank." -from "Duality"
On a somewhat tangential note, I was listening to some old albums the other day, and I imagined sharing the songs with an imagined fellow listener, drawing attention to bits I loved and why. And that reminded me why I joined Goodreads in the first place, some dozen years ago: just to share these "songs" I love with anyone who will listen.... So, for anyone who's read this far, thanks for listening along :-)
in time, its rhymes, austere,
at long intervals returning,
sing in the mind, not in the ear." -Wendell Berry, from "From the Distance"
The 2017 documentary Look & See: A Portrait of Wendell Berry restructured my worldview, my understanding of history and modernity and the ties binding rural and urban peoples, so I had to buy this book containing ninety of Berry's poems, selected by Berry himself in 1998. The earnest ease these poems take in their Biblical diction, their meandering gregariousness and sonority, their love of abstractions took a bit of getting used to at first, but with time I fell into stride quite happily. Beginning at the end of the book and working backward helped. The book is pastoral, not in a way that is escapist, but as a deliberate conscientious choice made at a morally troubling time in history. My favorite poems were "Horses" and "Elegy" (we can never learn enough about how to reconcile ourselves to death). I also liked the subtle depths, the balance between empathy and distance, in the narrative poems "Meditation in the Spring Rain" and "Creation Myth." Although most of these poems are free verse, "The Clear Days" shows Berry's talent for rhyme perfected. "Stay Home" is a delightful rejoinder to Frost's "The Pasture" -- you could almost think of it as a parody if you didn't sense the author was perfectly serious. The poem titled "Anglo-Saxon Protestant Heterosexual Men" touches interestingly on the identity issues that so often crop up in discourse these days.
Some quotes:
"To imagine the thoughtlessness
of a thoughtless thing
is useless.
The mind must sing
of itself to keep awake." -from "The Design of a House"
*
"the gathering of many into much" -from "The Winter Rain"
*
"I owned a slope full of stones.
Like buried pianos they lay in the ground,
shards of old sea-ledges...." -from "The Stones"
*
On birds at a feeder:
"They...waste
more sometimes than they eat.
And the man, knowing
the price of seed, wishes
they would take more care.
But they understand only
what is free.... Thus they have
enlightened him. He buys
the seed, to make it free." -from "Window Poems"
*
"every man
his own mosquito" -from "Window Poems"
*
"My old friend tells us how the country changed:
where the grist mill was on Cane Run....
"[M]y young friend says: 'Have him speak this
into a recorder. It is precious. It should be saved.'
"[D]o not tell a machine to save it.... Stay and listen
until he dies or you die.... Live here
as one who knows these things. Stay, if you live;
listen and answer." -from "The Record"
*
"It is dangerous
to remember the past only
for its own sake, dangerous
to deliver a message
you did not get." -from "In a Motel Parking Lot, Thinking of Dr. Williams"
*
"What can bring us past
this knowledge, so that you
will never wish our life
undone? For if ever you
wish it so, then I must wish
so too, and lovers yet unborn,
whom we are reaching toward
with love, will turn to this
page, and find it blank." -from "Duality"
On a somewhat tangential note, I was listening to some old albums the other day, and I imagined sharing the songs with an imagined fellow listener, drawing attention to bits I loved and why. And that reminded me why I joined Goodreads in the first place, some dozen years ago: just to share these "songs" I love with anyone who will listen.... So, for anyone who's read this far, thanks for listening along :-)
December 23, 2019
This is an incredible poetry collection that spans years of Berry's life, reflecting his experiences and growth and thoughts over time. The poems are very accessible, even if you aren't a huge poetry reader (like me!). I found it very easy to read a few each night. He writes on topics of home, land, loss, cultural changes, and relationships in ways that feel profoundly personal and real. And my copy of the book is just full of dog-eared pages and marked passages that I hope to return to over the years and to share with those I love.
June 6, 2009
Once I was given the great gift of Wendell Berry's poem "Do Not Be Ashamed," which can be found in this selection of his poetry.
"Do Not Be Ashamed"
You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
"Do Not Be Ashamed"
You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
May 30, 2017
I read a review one time that said Wendell Berry was a national treasure. I think that's a great assessment. This dude is amazing. I actually consider him a prophet, of sorts. A voice of one crying in the wilderness. A voice calling moderns back to simplicity, faithfulness, humility, honor - honor of roots, soil, sweat, and toil. The writings of WB act somewhat like a ballast to me. Some authors help me think big, others help me think small. Berry does the latter, and reminds me that it's not inconsequential. Small represents the things we get bored with or take for granted, yet, they're the things that hold us together and give our lives meaning.
This is a beautiful collection of poems. Ones that impart wisdom with such natural grace.
But, then, leave it to Berry, he includes this one self-effacing poem, perhaps my favorite:
A Warning to My Readers
Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.
This is a beautiful collection of poems. Ones that impart wisdom with such natural grace.
But, then, leave it to Berry, he includes this one self-effacing poem, perhaps my favorite:
A Warning to My Readers
Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.
December 15, 2020
Ugh I struggle with poetry! Really trying to learn to like it but it is tough sometimes.
This collection had some real gems about nature and love but a few misses as well. The writer had kind of a neocolonial perspective sometimes which was not great.
This collection had some real gems about nature and love but a few misses as well. The writer had kind of a neocolonial perspective sometimes which was not great.
November 6, 2012
3.5 stars.
I am not qualified to rate poetry, I can only share what speaks to me. And these did:
I am not qualified to rate poetry, I can only share what speaks to me. And these did:
The Broken Ground
The opening out and out,
body yielding body:
the breaking
through which the new
comes, perching
above its shadow
on the piling up
darkened broken old
husks of itself:
bud opening to flower
opening to fruit opening
to the sweet marrow
of the seed--
taken
from what was, from
what could have been.
What is left
is what is
Breaking
Did I believe I had a clear mind?
It was like the water of a river
flowing shallow over the ice. And now
that the rising water has broken
the ice, I see that what I thought
was the light is part of the dark.
July 30, 2025
there’s something personal about poetry & its ability to say so much in so few words. this particular compilation of works was all-encompassing. ugh I loved it!
BIG wendell berry fan! s/o to gail for having the best reading taste and recommending books such as this and being my friend.
BIG wendell berry fan! s/o to gail for having the best reading taste and recommending books such as this and being my friend.
January 22, 2023
A rare witnessing of the conscientious American.
I think I love him?
I think I love him?
June 29, 2017
Wendell Berry is my favorite poet of them all. His poetry speaks to me on every spiritual and human level. His poems have changed my life. Simple as that. His words soothe and heal my soul when it is most in need. I'll be forever grateful that he took the time to write down his words and share them with the world. Most of my favorites of his are in this collection. I have so many of them memorized, thanks, in part, to knowing them by way of song via the great composer Malcolm Dalglish. Others, I committed to memory out of nothing more than the want to never be parted from them.
August 2, 2009
I've known of Wendell Berry all my life, his poetry being some of my father's favorite. But I have never read much Berry. I'm taking a poetry class this semester and we have been encouraged to read good poetry, because that is considered one of the best ways to become a better poet. I am starting off my reading list with Berry, from this volume I found on the bookshelf of my professor in whose house I'm living while he and his family are away in Latvia on the Fullbright Fellowship.
June 3, 2016
I picked this book upon a recommendation for this book as a follow up to Mary Oliver's poetry. It was similar in tone but new content and overall it is a great paring with Oliver. A few gems lay hidden here, enjoy!
February 7, 2016
As my father lay dying, I read Berry's poetry to him at his bedside. It's a wonderful collection, deeply moving and spiritual.
March 13, 2014
I didn't love as many of these poems as with other collections; it felt like these was his academic, proof-of-being-a-serious-poet-collection. But I see why he is considered to have "returned American poetry to a Wordsworthian clarity of purpose." NTYBR. Simple, timeless, spiritual.
His epic Window Poems held incredible promise, I was reading them out loud, enjoying the tone, pace, and resonance since I too love to look out windows especially in my family home. It was epic and spanned generations, nature, the beauty and frailty of what it means to be human, and I can see again, that is a academic, representative piece. And then the momentum fizzled out, and it was just some words. There were 27 stanzas, so it was hard to maintain the sense of urgency and beauty he was starting with. But, he is a master, so even if I was not moved, I was amazed.
Window Poems
Stanza 10:
Rising, the river
is wild. There is no end
to what one may imagine
whose lands and buildings
lie in its reach. To one
who has felt his little boat
taken this way and that
in the braided currents
it is beyond speech...
...the window
looks out, like a word,
upon the wordless, fact
dissolving into mystery, darkness
overtaking light.
Stanza 25:
The bloodroot is white
in the woods, and men renew
their abuse of the world
and each other. Abroad
we burn and maim
in the name of principles
we no longer recognize in acts.
at home our flayed land
flows endlessly
to burial in the sea.
When mortality is not heavy
on us, humanity is-
public meaningless
preying on private meaning...
Three Elegiac Poems
I.
Let him escape hospital and doctor,
the manners and odors of strange places,
the dispassionate skills of experts.
Let him go free of tubes and needles,
public corridors, the surgical white
of life dwindled to poor pain.
Foreseeing the possibility of life without
possibility of joy, let him give it up.
Let him die in one of the old rooms
of his living, no stranger near him.
Let him go in peace out of the bodies
of his life -
flesh and marriage and household.
From the wide vision of his own windows
let him go out of sight; and the final
time and light of his life's place be
last seen before his eyes' slow
opening in the earth.
Let him go like one familiar with the way
into the wooded and tracked and
furrowed hill, his body.
II.
I stand at the cistern in front of the old barn
in the darkness, in the dead of winter,
the night strangely warm, the wind blowing,
rattling an unlatched door.
I draw the cold water up out of the ground, and drink.
At the house the light is still waiting.
An old man I've loved all my life is dying
in his bed there. He is going
slowly down from himself.
In final obedience to his life, he follows
his body out of our knowing.
Only his hands, quiet on the sheet, keep
a painful resemblance to what they no longer are.
III.
He goes free of the earth.
The sun of his last day sets
clear in the sweetness of his liberty.
The earth recovers from his dying,
the hallow of his life remaining
in all his death leaves.
Radiances know him. Grown lighter
than breath, he is set free
in our remembering. Grown brighter
than vision, he goes dark
into the life of the hill
that holds his peace.
He's hidden among all that is,
and cannot be lost.
The Sycamore
In the place that is my own place, whose earth
I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.
There is no year it has flourished in
that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it
that is its death, though its living brims whitely
at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
Over all its scars has come the seamless white
of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
in the warp and bending of its long growth.
It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
In all the country there is no other like it.
I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
I see that it stands in its place and feeds upon it,
and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.
Do Not Be Ashamed
You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
His epic Window Poems held incredible promise, I was reading them out loud, enjoying the tone, pace, and resonance since I too love to look out windows especially in my family home. It was epic and spanned generations, nature, the beauty and frailty of what it means to be human, and I can see again, that is a academic, representative piece. And then the momentum fizzled out, and it was just some words. There were 27 stanzas, so it was hard to maintain the sense of urgency and beauty he was starting with. But, he is a master, so even if I was not moved, I was amazed.
Window Poems
Stanza 10:
Rising, the river
is wild. There is no end
to what one may imagine
whose lands and buildings
lie in its reach. To one
who has felt his little boat
taken this way and that
in the braided currents
it is beyond speech...
...the window
looks out, like a word,
upon the wordless, fact
dissolving into mystery, darkness
overtaking light.
Stanza 25:
The bloodroot is white
in the woods, and men renew
their abuse of the world
and each other. Abroad
we burn and maim
in the name of principles
we no longer recognize in acts.
at home our flayed land
flows endlessly
to burial in the sea.
When mortality is not heavy
on us, humanity is-
public meaningless
preying on private meaning...
Three Elegiac Poems
I.
Let him escape hospital and doctor,
the manners and odors of strange places,
the dispassionate skills of experts.
Let him go free of tubes and needles,
public corridors, the surgical white
of life dwindled to poor pain.
Foreseeing the possibility of life without
possibility of joy, let him give it up.
Let him die in one of the old rooms
of his living, no stranger near him.
Let him go in peace out of the bodies
of his life -
flesh and marriage and household.
From the wide vision of his own windows
let him go out of sight; and the final
time and light of his life's place be
last seen before his eyes' slow
opening in the earth.
Let him go like one familiar with the way
into the wooded and tracked and
furrowed hill, his body.
II.
I stand at the cistern in front of the old barn
in the darkness, in the dead of winter,
the night strangely warm, the wind blowing,
rattling an unlatched door.
I draw the cold water up out of the ground, and drink.
At the house the light is still waiting.
An old man I've loved all my life is dying
in his bed there. He is going
slowly down from himself.
In final obedience to his life, he follows
his body out of our knowing.
Only his hands, quiet on the sheet, keep
a painful resemblance to what they no longer are.
III.
He goes free of the earth.
The sun of his last day sets
clear in the sweetness of his liberty.
The earth recovers from his dying,
the hallow of his life remaining
in all his death leaves.
Radiances know him. Grown lighter
than breath, he is set free
in our remembering. Grown brighter
than vision, he goes dark
into the life of the hill
that holds his peace.
He's hidden among all that is,
and cannot be lost.
The Sycamore
In the place that is my own place, whose earth
I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.
There is no year it has flourished in
that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it
that is its death, though its living brims whitely
at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
Over all its scars has come the seamless white
of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
in the warp and bending of its long growth.
It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
In all the country there is no other like it.
I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
I see that it stands in its place and feeds upon it,
and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.
Do Not Be Ashamed
You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
August 17, 2022
2.75 stars seeked out after I noticed another reader reading it. He's pretty good, Berry. Just not a favourite. Definitely smart. Sometimes it's arrangement in writing. You'll know what I mean if it's your thing.
April 7, 2024
Berry’s poetry is earth and death and sun and seed and humanity and the unshakable desire for more and for less. I love it.
December 27, 2024
I question if I can be who I've wanted to be since it looks like that role has already been taken.
I find his work most enjoyable to myself when it is internal and pastoral, which most of it is. When he gets preachy... I just find the poetry gets lost in the essay.
Top picks: The Plan; Throwing Away the Mail; The Stones; Meditation in the Spring Rain;
I find his work most enjoyable to myself when it is internal and pastoral, which most of it is. When he gets preachy... I just find the poetry gets lost in the essay.
Top picks: The Plan; Throwing Away the Mail; The Stones; Meditation in the Spring Rain;
June 2, 2022
Took 6 months to read through this one. Thanks Matt Bennett for the gift to read berry for the first time.
September 18, 2011
I really love Berry's poetry. There's such a beauty to it...he's really made me fall in love with poetry again. His poetry is understandable on the first read, yet brings so much meaning to his words that I find myself reading them again and again. :)
August 5, 2015
Wendell Berry's poems are a respite from a busy world. Reading one or two each day was an escape, a lovely quiet detour that laid bare the essence of some beautiful thing that was deserving of a pause, of a moment, of a breath.
August 11, 2012
Let's just say that if I ever had a son, I'd be seriously tempted to name him Wendell.
Lovely and brilliant as always.
Lovely and brilliant as always.
Read
October 2, 2019'... To remember,
to hear and remember, is to stop
and walk on again
to a livelier, surer measure.
It is dangerous
to remember the past only
for its own sake, dangerous
to deliver a message
you did not get. '
'Whatever is singing
is found, awaiting the return
of whatever is lost.'
'But in his dream he knew their way
was prepared, and in their time
they would rise up joyful. '
'Outside the window
is a roofed wooden tray
he fills with seeds for the birds.
They make a sort of dance
as they descend and light
and fly off at a slant
across the strictly divided
black sash. At first
they came fearfully, worried
by the man's movements
inside the room. They watched
his eyes, and flew
when he looked. Now they expect
no harm from him
and forget he's there.
They come into his vision,
unafraid. He keeps
a certain distance and quietness
in tribute to them.
That they ignore him
he takes in tribute to himself.
But they stay cautious
of each other, half afraid, unwilling
to be too close. They snatch
what they can carry and fly
into the trees. They flirt out
with tail or beak and waste
more sometimes than they eat.
And the man, knowing
the price of seed, wishes
they would take more care.
But they understand only
what is free, and he
can give only as they
will take. Thus they have
enlightened him. He buys
the seed, to make it free.'
'Look in
and see him looking out.
He is not always
quiet, but there have been times
when happiness has come
to him, unasked,
like the stillness on the water
that holds the evening clear
while it subsides
- and he let go
what he was not. '
to hear and remember, is to stop
and walk on again
to a livelier, surer measure.
It is dangerous
to remember the past only
for its own sake, dangerous
to deliver a message
you did not get. '
'Whatever is singing
is found, awaiting the return
of whatever is lost.'
'But in his dream he knew their way
was prepared, and in their time
they would rise up joyful. '
'Outside the window
is a roofed wooden tray
he fills with seeds for the birds.
They make a sort of dance
as they descend and light
and fly off at a slant
across the strictly divided
black sash. At first
they came fearfully, worried
by the man's movements
inside the room. They watched
his eyes, and flew
when he looked. Now they expect
no harm from him
and forget he's there.
They come into his vision,
unafraid. He keeps
a certain distance and quietness
in tribute to them.
That they ignore him
he takes in tribute to himself.
But they stay cautious
of each other, half afraid, unwilling
to be too close. They snatch
what they can carry and fly
into the trees. They flirt out
with tail or beak and waste
more sometimes than they eat.
And the man, knowing
the price of seed, wishes
they would take more care.
But they understand only
what is free, and he
can give only as they
will take. Thus they have
enlightened him. He buys
the seed, to make it free.'
'Look in
and see him looking out.
He is not always
quiet, but there have been times
when happiness has come
to him, unasked,
like the stillness on the water
that holds the evening clear
while it subsides
- and he let go
what he was not. '
May 10, 2020
I’ve read a few of Berry’s poems here and there, but never a full volume of his works. I picked this one because I love “Peace of the Wild Things” and that is included. Other than a few poems that I really just didn’t connect to it “get,” I really enjoyed Berry’s writing and deep connection to nature along with our humanity. I’ve also been spending a lot of time outside due to COVID 19 quarantine, so I’ve been reading more books about nature/with nature themes lately and that’s perhaps also why I found so many of the poems so moving.
November 24, 2022
Favorites per collection:
Openings
"The Thought of Something Else"
"The Peace of Wild Things"
"Marriage"
"The Want of Peace"
"To a Siberian Woodsman"
Farming: A Handbook
"To Know the Dark"
"To the Unseeable Animal"
"Air and Fire"
"Enriching the Earth"
"The Wish to Be Generous"
Clearing
“A Vision”
A Part
“Stay Home”
“The Cold Pane”
“The Lillies”
“The First”
“The Hidden Singer”
“We Who Prayed and Wept”
“Grief”
“The Way of Pain”
“Except”
The Wheel
“The Gift of Gravity”
Entries
“The Blue Robe”
“The Mad Farmer, Flying the Flag of Rough Branch, Secedes from the Union”
“The Storm”
“Duality”
Openings
"The Thought of Something Else"
"The Peace of Wild Things"
"Marriage"
"The Want of Peace"
"To a Siberian Woodsman"
Farming: A Handbook
"To Know the Dark"
"To the Unseeable Animal"
"Air and Fire"
"Enriching the Earth"
"The Wish to Be Generous"
Clearing
“A Vision”
A Part
“Stay Home”
“The Cold Pane”
“The Lillies”
“The First”
“The Hidden Singer”
“We Who Prayed and Wept”
“Grief”
“The Way of Pain”
“Except”
The Wheel
“The Gift of Gravity”
Entries
“The Blue Robe”
“The Mad Farmer, Flying the Flag of Rough Branch, Secedes from the Union”
“The Storm”
“Duality”
February 15, 2025
I discovered this collection at the start of grad school in 2019. I’ve been reading it ever since and it has unquestionably changed my life. There is care, hope, peace, justice, and love throughout these poems. They give me hope for a world and self made whole (and they’ve worked indelible healing in my own post college cynical soul).
“In a time that breaks
in cutting pieces all around,
when men, voiceless
against thing-ridden men,
set themselves on fire, it seems
too difficult and rare
to think of the life of a man
grown whole in the world,
at peace and in place.
But having thought of it
I am beyond the time
I might have sold my hands
or sold my voice and mind
to the arguments of power
that go blind against
what they would destroy.”
“In a time that breaks
in cutting pieces all around,
when men, voiceless
against thing-ridden men,
set themselves on fire, it seems
too difficult and rare
to think of the life of a man
grown whole in the world,
at peace and in place.
But having thought of it
I am beyond the time
I might have sold my hands
or sold my voice and mind
to the arguments of power
that go blind against
what they would destroy.”
June 4, 2020
Wendell Berry's poetry has been such an unexpected, steadying gift amidst a tumultuous season for me and so much of the world. His words are rich, earthy, thoughtful, and direct his readers to see beyond immediate circumstances. I'm grateful and encouraged by his exhortations to "not tax [your life] with forethought of grief," to "be joyful though you have considered all the facts," and to "practice resurrection."
November 15, 2022
Wendell Berry is lovely and brilliant and undoubtedly a prophet of rural America. These poems are stirring and poignant. I have dog-eared, highlighted, and underlined so many pages… a lot of these poems have made me challenge the boundaries of loving the earth as well people. I highly recommend this to any Mary Oliver fans out there!
August 13, 2023
an absolutely tremendous collection of poems! wendell’s poetry is unpretentious and unexpected. specifically, his poem “the country of marriage.” i could read it a million times and never tire. truly the work of a simple, quiet master.
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