Poetry of Joy and Laughter
Poems of Joy and Laughter
Rev. Douglas Taylor
4-27-25
Sermon Video: https://youtu.be/IOskXW4Zg9E
Part I
Poetry helps us understand the meanings of things. Poetry, through metaphor and the turn of phrase, opens us to grasping reality in a way that regular talking does not. All art, really, allows for this, but poetry is particularly fun.
When considering the topic of joy, it is valuable to ask the dictionary to take a seat and tell the philosophers to wait outside. Set the spotlight on the poets instead and learn wisdom from a sideways glance.
John Keats wrote, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Mother Theresa explained “Joy is a net of love by which you catch souls.” While Rumi reminds us “An eye is meant to see things. The soul is here for its own joy.”
What does any of that mean? I will smile slyly and ask, what do you all think it means? Billy Collins, in his poem “Introduction to Poetry” explains it like this.
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
—
So, instead of interrogating, let’s explore, let’s have some fun. Perhaps we’ll learn something along the way; perhaps not what we intended to learn. Yet the journey will be worth it all the same.
Poems of Joy and Laughter. We begin with advice from Mary Oliver who warns us with her title – Don’t Hesitate.
If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.
—
Joy was not made to be a crumb, she says. Yes, there is pain and cruelty, and, Mary Oliver admits, we are “not very often kind.” And yet, life continues. “Perhaps,” she continues, “this is its way of fighting back.” Joy remains plentiful. Certainly our laughter is often borne of a moment of frivolity and lightness. And other times it bursts out of a depth despite its surroundings. Joy is not merely a happy prank or playful joke. Joy is a reclaiming of life in the face of death. Some note that happiness is transient, reflective of circumstance. While joy is a container for both happiness and sorrow. In this way, joy is a response to life. Listen to the wisdom of African American poet, Lucille Clifton’s in her piece entitled “Homage to My Hips”
these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!
—
Joy is something we sometimes must claim for ourselves when the world would rather have us feeling shamed and small. Remembering Keats, we revel in beauty because “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” So forget the world’s judgment, embrace your beauty, and live in your joy.
In scripture, joy is listed as one of the fruits of the spirit (Galatians 5:22) and in proverbs (17:22) we read “A joyful heart is good medicine.”
Joy arrives in the juxtaposition, the unexpected, the pairing of light and dark, the surprises large and small. And … joy most appears most often in the simple rounds of daily living. Consider the gift of socks. You may know I am partial to socks myself – odd socks, silly socks, colorful and fun socks – I delight in playful socks. Consider Pablo Neruda’s poem, “Ode to My Socks.”
Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as though into
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were
two fish made
of wool,
two long sharks
sea-blue, shot
through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons:
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks.
They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that woven
fire,
of those glowing
socks.
Nevertheless
I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as learned men
collect
sacred texts,
I resisted
the mad impulse
to put them
into a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdseed
and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle who hand
over the very rare
green deer
to the spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the magnificent
socks
and then my shoes.
The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter.
—
Have you ever found joy in an ordinary moment? Ponder this question. Have you ever found joy in an ordinary moment. Consider this next poem, a captured glimpse of joy among horses and young children, written by our own Christine O’Donnell entitled “Old Logging Road.”
The old logging road
meandered through the forest,
like a slow, moving reptile,
plodding along, one mighty
step at a time.
General, the palomino, stepped,
lightly along the overgrown trail,
or leap over fallen tree trunks,
keeping his balance.
Topper, the sweet, gentle Morgan,
tiptoed, light as a feather,
gracefully maneuvering the trail,
He refused to be startled by the racoon,
that ran across the ancient road.
The children, Chrissie and Mavis,
laughed and giggled,
unaware of the power
of the old logging road.
—
I have so many poems to share this morning. And here is one more before we wrap up Part One of this poetry reading in the guise of a sermon, with a poem that feels to me like a beloved classic, although I don’t recall ever sharing it in worship before. It continues the theme of where we find joy. “Welcome Morning” by Anne Sexton.
There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “hello there, Anne”
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.
All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.
—
Part II
When I was researching – looking for poetry and more, looking for how poetry leads us into understanding – I found an article in a magazine called “Rethinking Schools” focused on promoting equity and racial justice in the classroom.
The article was about how a teacher was using poetry to empower the learners and bring more joy into the learning process. The teacher uses the work of poets such as Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou, encouraging the kids to write their own poetry in response to and in conversation with their great works. Lucille Clifton’s poem about her hips is included in the curriculum. They read Pablo Neruda’s Ode about the socks in English as well as in the original Spanish. They discussed his descriptive imagery and how he offers praise for an ordinary object.
I want to share one of the student’s poems this morning. Sarah Scofield, found particular joy in reading Neruda’s poetry in Spanish and sparked her write about the linguistic pleasure she had found. “Ode to Spanish” by Sarah Scofield
A language
As beautiful as music:
Melodious verbs
Harmonious adjectives
Rhythmic nouns
Intertwine as I speak.
An orchestra of words
Conducted by my tongue.
I compose
A new song
As those around me listen.
Musical sentences
Rich with the notes
Of culture.
A romance language stirring the hearts
of its listeners.
The music plays on
As I watch with wonder how
My untrained yet experienced tongue
conducts the orchestra,
and the music pleases me.
—
For some, the joy of poetry is in the rhythms and cadence, the rhymes and phrasing. For others, it is the subtle twist revealing a message. If we were talking about music, I would be talking about how some like the beat while others like the lyrics. Carol Finch sent me a poem someone had given to her many years back that has continued to feel bright and enlightening to her after all this time. It is called “Bugs in a Bowl” by Han-shan
We’re just like bugs in a bowl.
All day going around
never leaving their bowl.
I say: That’s right! Every day
climbing up the steep sides,
sliding back. Over and over again.
Around and around.
Up and back down.
Sit in the bottom of the bowl,
head in your hands, cry, moan,
feel sorry for yourself.
Or.
Look around.
See your fellow bugs.
Walk around. Say,
Hey, how you doing?
Say, Nice Bowl!
—
A wisdom poem, inviting us to enjoy the delivery of the message and to uncover the content of the message as well – there are riches all around us awaiting our discovery. “Hey, nice bowl!”
Here is a silly one from children’s author and poet Judith Viorst. Karen Manzer submitted this for us this morning. “Mother Doesn’t Want a Dog” by Judith Viorst
Mother doesn’t want a dog.
Mother says they smell,
And never sit when you say sit,
Or even when you yell.
And when you come home late at night
And there is ice and snow,
You have to go back out because
The dumb dog has to go.
Mother doesn’t want a dog.
Mother says they shed,
And always let the strangers in
And bark at friends instead,
And do disgraceful things on rugs,
And track mud on the floor,
And flop upon your bed at night
And snore their doggy snore.
Mother doesn’t want a dog.
She’s making a mistake.
Because, more than a dog, I think
She will not want this snake.
—
A lot of joy is found in relationship. The love of a good animal companion is a source of joy indeed. I know I already brought you a Mary Oliver poem and I’m straining our Mary Oliver Quota to bring you a second one, yet that is exactly what I about going to do. Mary Oliver does not limit her poetry to moss and bugs and birds – she was a small set of poems about her little white dog Percy. The third one in the set is “Little Dog’s Rhapsody in the Night (Percy Three)”
He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I am awake, or awake enough
He turns upside down, his four paws
in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.
Tell me you love me, he says.
Tel me again.
Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask it.
I get to tell.
—
I had the great pleasure to hear Mary Oliver recite poetry back in 2006. Almost 20 years later, when thinking about this service, I remembered hearing her recite the Percy poems – they still make me smile. I’m not a dog person, I confess. But I do understand the draw and appreciate the love and joy. The second Percy poem was written back in the early 2000’s – an important point of context for the poem, although many of the references remain recognizable and relevant today.
Percy (two)
I have a little dog who likes to nap with me.
He climbs on my body and puts his face in my neck.
He is sweeter than soap.
He is more wonderful than a diamond necklace,
which can’t even back.
I would like to take him to Kashmir and the Ukraine,
and Jerusalem and Palestine and Iraq and Darfur,
that the sorrowing thousands might see his laughing mouth.
I would like to take him to Washington, right into
the oval office
where Donald Rumsfeld would crawl out of the president’s
armpit
and kneel down on the carpet, and romp like boy.
For once, for a moment, a rational man.
—
Might we all need reminders from time to time that joy is not just a break, an escape, a small bit of fun when everything else is so serious. Might we all need reminders now and then that joy is one way we stay human. Experiencing joy is a way we keep our spirits alive when we live in soul-deadening times. When we say joy is a form of resistance, we mean that joy helps us stay connected to ourselves and others.
And poetry is a form of communication that is revelatory; poetry lifts us beyond the ordinary and reveals to us insights we might otherwise miss. Our final poem is by my elder colleague Mark Morrison-Reed, entitled “Let Me Die Laughing.”
We are all dying,
our lives always moving toward completion.
We need to learn to live with death,
and to understand that death is not the worst of all events.
We need to fear not death, but life—empty lives, loveless lives
lives that do not build
upon the gifts that each of us has been given, lives that are like living deaths,
lives which we never take the time
to savor and appreciate,
lives in which we never pause to breathe deeply.
What we need to fear is not death,
but squandering the lives we have been miraculously given.
So let me die laughing, savoring one of life’s crazy moments. Let me die holding the hand of one I love, and recalling that I tried to love and was loved in return. Let me die remembering that life has been good, and that I did what I could.
But today, just remind me that I am dying so that I can live, savor, and love with all my heart.
—
Let me die laughing, that I may better love with all my heart.
In a world without end,
May it be so.
Rev. Douglas Taylor 