I love this poem.
For me, the poet is saying that darkness can never completely win; focus on what it can’t touch.
Try to Praise the Mutilated World
Adam Zagajewski
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
Suzanne's Mom's Blog 
I love this poem ❤
I am following twitter and am so comforted by all the people offering to give blood (overwhelming the Red Cross, which says please schedule a later appointment bcs we’ll need it then) and offering guestrooms and rides to those who are stranded. Really beautiful.
Yes, I like that too.
Thank you,
Nancy
There are times when the only words that work are the words of a poem.
I agree–when emotion becomes so inexpressible that I can’t put it into words, and yet I feel compelled to put it into words (whether it’s bitter bereavement or the giddy delight of spending time with friends/loved ones), poetry is the answer. And music (which is like poetry’s sibling, both coming from the same parents of rhythm and sound).
I’m reblogging this… (as soon as I can figure out how to reblog something; I’ve never done it before).
Reblogged this on Tracy Lee Karner and commented:
When emotion becomes so inexpressible that I can’t put it into words, and yet I feel compelled to put it into words (whether the emotion is bitter bereavement, desolation, or the sweet comfort of love/solidarity), poetry is the answer. Music, which is like poetry’s sibling, both coming from the same parents of rhythm and sound, is the other answer.
Today has been a day in which words failed me. Thank you, to Suzanne’s Mom for posting this poem, for the reminder that there exists a “gentle light that strays and vanishes / and returns.”
Thank you, Tracie Lee. So many kind people are reaching out with whatever they can do. A small thing, but touching, is that at least three museums are have free days for anyone in Boston: The Institute of Contemporary Art, the Museum of Fine Arts, the Isabella Steward Gardner Museum, which I recently blogged about.
Such a real and tender poem, Tracy. It is a mutilated world, yet the perspective in the poem actually gives a gentle closure and hope.