what the bird with the human head knew

I went to the bird

with the human head,

and asked,

Please Sir,

where is God?

God is too busy

to be here on earth,

His angels are like one thousand geese assembled

and always flapping.

But I can tell you where the well of God is.

Is it on earth?

I asked.

He replied,

Yes. It was dragged down

from paradise by one of the geese.

I walked many days,

past witches that eat grandmothers knitting booties

as if they were collecting a debt.

Then, in the middle of the desert

I found the well,

it bubbled up and down like a litter of cats

and there was water,

and I drank,

and there was water,

and I drank.

Then the well spoke to me.

It said: Abundance is scooped from abundance,

yet abundance remains.

Then I knew.

~ Anne Sexton

.

(Few established poets nowadays have a background as non-spectacular as that of Anne Sexton (1928-1974), a mediocre student who neither went to college nor formally studied literature. For a time she worked as a fashion model. Emotional, impetuous, she even eloped at the age of 19.

.

Anne Sexton began falling to pieces in her early 20’s after the births of her two daughters. Her psychiatrist recommended writing poetry as a form of therapy; she took to the typewriter at the age of 26 and never looked back.)

(Biography from: http://katebenedict.com/lectio/sexton.html)

what's that

.

 

 

Before it came inside

I had watched it from my kitchen window,

watched it swell like a new balloon,

watched it slump and then divide,

like something I know I know —

a broken pear or two halves of the moon,

or round white plates floating nowhere

or fat hands waving in the summer air

until they fold together like a fist or a knee.

After that it came to my door. Now it lives here.

And of course: it is a soft sound, soft as a seal’s ear,

that was caught between a shape and a shape and then returned to me.

 

 

You know how parents call

from sweet beaches anywhere, come in come in

and how you sank under water to put out

the sound, or how one of them touched in the hall

at night: the rustle and the skin

you couldn’t know, but heard, the stout

slap of tides and the dog snoring. It’s here

now, caught back from time in my adult year —

the image we did forget: the crackling shells on our feet

or the swing of the spoon in soup. It is as real

as splinters stuck in your ear. The noise we steal

is half a bell. And outside cars whisk by on the suburban street

 

 

and are there and are true.

What else is this, this intricate shape of air?

calling me, calling you.

 

 

 

 

~ Anne Sexton

.

The divine will

.

The divine will

is a deep abyss

of which the present 

moment is the entrance.

If you plunge

into this abyss

you will find it

infinitely more vast

than your

desires.

.

~ Jean Pierre de Caussade

(French Jesuit who in the 18th century coined the phrase

"the sacrament of the present moment."  

He said,

"It is necessary to disengage from all we feel and do

in order to walk with God in the duty of the present moment...")

.

.

The Pentecost Castle (excerpt)

.

I shall go down

to the lovers' well

and wash this wound

that will not heal

beloved soul

what shall you see

nothing at all

yet eye to eye

depths of non-being

perhaps too clear

my desire dying

as I desire

~ Geoffrey Hill

You who want

.

.

You who want

knowledge,

seek the Oneness

within

.

There you

will find

the clear mirror

already waiting

.

~ Hadewijch II
art by Picasso

.

Tighten

.

 

 

Tighten

to nothing

the circle

that is

the world's things.

 

Then the Naked

circle

can grow wide,

enlarging,

embracing all

 

 

 

 

~ Hadewijch II

 

 

 

A Blessing

.

May the light of your soul guide you.

May the light of your soul bless the work you do 
with the secret love and warmth of your heart.

May you see in what you do the beauty of your own soul.

May the sacredness of your work bring healing, light, 
and renewal to those who work with you 
and to those who see and receive your work.

May your work never weary you.

May it release within you wellsprings of refreshment,
 inspiration, and excitement.

May you be present in what you do.

May you never become lost in the bland absences.

May the day never burden.

May dawn find you awake and alert, 
approaching your new day with dreams, possibilities, and promises.

May evening find you gracious and fulfilled.

May you go into the night blessed, sheltered. and protected.

May your soul calm, console, and renew you.

~ John O'Donohue

(John said, "the soul is not in the body;
 rather the body is to be found in the soul.)

.

stretching out toward God

When you go apart to be alone for prayer, put from your mind 
everything you have been doing or plan to do.  
Reject all thoughts, be they good or be they evil.  
Do not pray with words unless you are really drawn to this; 
or if you do pray with words, pay no attention to whether they are many or few.  
Do not weigh them or their meaning. 
 Do not be concerned about what kind of prayers you use, 
for it is unimportant whether or not they are official liturgical prayers, 
psalms, hymns, or anthems; whether they are for particular or general intentions; 
or  whether you formulate them interiorly, by thoughts, 
or express them aloud, in words.  
See that nothing remains in your conscious mind 
save a naked intent stretching out toward God.

from chapter 1 of The Book of Privy Counseling

by an anonymous fourteenth-century English author

The Fall

.

.

There is no where in you a paradise that is no place and there

You do not enter except without a story.

.

To enter there is to become unnameable.

...

Whoever is nowhere is nobody, and therefore cannot exist

except unborn:

No disguise will avail him anything

.

Such a one is neither lost nor found.

.

But he who has an address is lost.

...

Who would dare to go nameless in so secure a universe?

Yet, to tell the truth, only the nameless are at home in it.

.

They bear with them in the center of nowhere the unborn

flower of nothing:

This is the paradise tree.  It must remain unseen until words

end and arguments are silent.

.

~ Thomas Merton

(excerpt from The Fall)

.

Are you looking for me?

.

.

Are you looking for me? I am in the next seat. 

My shoulder is against yours.

.

You will not find me in the stupas, not in Indian shrine rooms, 

nor in synagogues, nor in cathedrals:

.

not in masses, nor kirtans, not in legs winding

around your own neck, nor in eating nothing but vegetables.

.

When you really look for me, you will see me.

instantly -- you will find me in the tiniest house of time.

.

Kabir says: Student, tell me, what is God?

.

He is the breath inside the breath.

.

~ Kabir

.

In Silence

.

Be still.

Listen to the stones of the wall.

Be silent, they try

To speak your

.

Name.

Listen 

to the living walls.

Who are you?

Who

are you? Whose

Silence are you?

.

Who (be quiet)

Are you (as these stones

Are quiet.) Do not

Think of what you are

Still less of

What you may one day be.

Rather

Be what you are (but who?) be

The unthinkable one

You do not know.

.

~ Thomas Merton

(excerpt from In Silence)

.

.

I loved what I could love

I had a natural passion for fine clothes, excellent food, and

lively conversation about all matters that concern

the heart still alive.  And even a passion 

about my own 

looks.

Vanities: they do not exist.

Have you ever walked across a stream stepping on

rocks so not to spoil a pair of shoes?

All we can touch, swallow, or say

aids in our crossing to God

and helps unveil the 

soul.

Life smooths us, rounds, perfects, as does the river the stone,

and there is no place our Beloved is not flowing

though the current's force you

may not always

like.

Our passions help to lift us.

I loved what I could love until I held Him,

for then - all things - every world

disappeared.

~ Saint Teresa of Avila

The Inner History of a Day

.

.

We seldom notice how each day is a holy place

Where the eucharist of the ordinary happens,

Transforming our broken fragments

Into an eternal continuity that keeps us.

.

Somewhere in us a dignity presides

That is more gracious than the smallness

That fuels us with fear and force,

A dignity that trusts the form a day takes.

.

So at the end of this day, we give thanks

For being betrothed to the unknown

And for the secret work

Through which the mind of the day

And wisdom of the soul become one.

.

~ John O'Donohue

(excerpt from The Inner History of a Day)

.

Love letters

.

.

Every day, priests minutely examine the Law

And endlessly chant complicated sutras.

Before doing that, though, they should learn

How to read the love letters sent by the wind

and rain, the snow and moon.

.

~ Ikkyu

(Ikkyu and the Crazy Cloud Anthology,

 trans. by Sonya Arutzen)

.

from: Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Ask the questions that have no answers. 

Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias. 

Say that your main crop is the forest 

that you did not plant, 

that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested 

when they have rotted into the mold.

Call that profit. Prophesy such returns. 

Put your faith in the two inches of humus 

that will build under the trees 

every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear 

close, and hear the faint chattering 

of the songs that are to come. 

Expect the end of the world. Laugh. 

Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful 

though you have considered all the facts. 

So long as women do not go cheap 

for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy 

a woman satisfied to bear a child? 

Will this disturb the sleep 

of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields. 

Lie down in the shade. Rest your head 

in her lap. Swear allegiance 

to what is highest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos 

can predict the motions of your mind, 

lose it. Leave it as a sign 

to mark the false trail, the way 

you didn't go.

Be like the fox 

who makes more tracks than necessary, 

some in the wrong direction. 

Practice resurrection.

~ Wendell Berry

from Collected Poems