Friday, March 21, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Thursday, March 6, 2014
You wear coarse wool, but you're a king,
as the soul's energy hides, as love
remembers. You enter this room in a human
shape and as the atmosphere we breathe.
You are the central pole through the nine
levels connecting them and us to absolute
absence. So that we can have what we want,
you give failure and frustration. You want
only the company of the lion and the lion
cub, no wobbly legs. That man there, you
suggest, might remove his head before
entering the temple. Then he could listen
without ears to a voice that says, My
creature. A month of walking the road, you
make that distance in one day. Never mind
gold and silver payments. When you feel
generous, give your head. My beauty,
you have no need for a guide. The one
who follows and the one who leads are
inseparable, as the moon and the circle
around it. An Arab drags his camel town
to town. You go through your troubles
and changing beliefs, both no different from
the moon moving across or basil growing
and getting cut for a bouquet. It doesn't
matter you've been lost. The hoopoe is
still looking for you. It's another
beginning, my friend, this waking in a
morning with no haze, and help coming
without your asking! A glass submerged
is turning inside the wine. With grief
waved away, sweet gratefulness arrives.
Coleman Barks, Nevit Ergin version
with thanks to alixe at love is a place
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
How something is made flesh
no one can say. The buffalo soup
becomes a woman
who sings every day to her horses
or summons another to her private body
saying, come, touch, this is how
it begins, the path of a newly born
who, salvaged from other lives and worlds,
will grow to become a woman, a man,
with a heart that never rests,
and the gathered berries,
the wild grapes
enter the body,
which can love,
where nothing created is wasted;
the swallowed grain takes you through the dreams
of another night,
the deer meat becomes hands
strong enough to work.
But I love most
the white-haired creature
eating green leaves;
the sun shines there
swallowed, showing in her face
taking in all the light,
and in the end
when the shadow from the ground
enters the body and remains,
in the end, you might say,
This is myself,
still unknown, still a mystery.
from Rounding the Human Corners
with thanks to Love is a Place
Sunday, March 2, 2014
~ Matthieu Ricard
Saturday, March 1, 2014
One day some people came to a solitary monk .
They asked him:
"What is the meaning of silence and meditation? "
The monk was just the scooping of water
from a deep well.
He said to his visitors:
"Look into the well. What do you see?"
The people looked into the deep well and responded:
"We see nothing!"
The monk put down his bucket.
After a short while, he urged the people once more:
"Look into the well!
What do you see now? "
The people looked down again:
"Now we see ourselves!"
"You could not see anything," replied the monk,
"Because the water was restless as your life.
But now it's quiet.
This is what the silence gives us : one sees himself "
Then the monk told the people to wait a while.
Finally, he asked them:
"And now look again into the well.
What do you see? "
The man looked down.
"Now we see the stones on the bottom of the well."
The monk said:
"This is the experience of silence and meditation.
If you wait long enough, you can see the reason of all things. "
~ author unknown
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.
One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.
It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.
~ Tomas Transtromer
from The Half-Finished Heaven
translated by Robert Bly