December 28: Letting Go, Naomi Shihab Nye, "Burning the Old Year"

We come to a time of letting go.  In a few days, we will be writing "2018" on all our letters and e-mails and checks and poems.  It is time to think about endings and beginnings.

I am ready to let go of 2017, which has been full of wonderful things for me.  But, of course, it hasn't been all poetry and joy.  There have been challenges, as well.

Saint Marty is ready to start the fire . . .

Burning the Old Year

by:  Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies.

January 3: Burial, Naomi Shihab Nye, "Burning the Old Year"

In a couple of hours, my wife and I will be driving out to the cemetery for the burial ceremony of her grandmother.  It will be the end of a long journey that began exactly one week ago, in the old year.  Now, we will begin the new year with a letting go.  It will be cold and white and beautiful with a fresh layer of snow.

This week, I am going to include poems about the New Year by poets who I admire and love.  The first comes from Naomi Shihab Nye.  It's all about losses and leavings.  Appropriate for this afternoon's gathering.

Saint Marty wishes everybody a prosperous New Year, filled with more hopes than regrets.

Burning the Old Year

by:  Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies.