to exist clearly

.

.

Last evening a city man

Was talking in the hotel door

To everyone, including me.

.

He talked of justice, of the struggle to obtain

Justice, of the workers

Suffering: of unending work

Of hungry men, of rich men turning

Their backs to it all.

.

Then, looking at me, he saw me with tears

In my eyes.  He smiled, happy,

Thinking I felt the same hatred he felt

And the compassion

He claimed to feel.

.

(But I was hardly listening to him.

What do I care about people

And what they suffer, or suppose they suffer?

Let them be like me - they will not suffer.

All the ill in the world comes from people interfering

With one another:

Wanting to do good, wanting to do evil.

Our soul, heaven and earth, these are enough:

To want more is to lose these and be wretched.)

.

What I was thinking when this friend of man

Spoke (and this moved me to weep)

Was that the far murmur of cowbells

In the evening air

Was nothing like small chapel bells

Where flowers and brooks might have heard Mass

Along with simple souls

Simple as mine.

.

(Praise be to God I am not good and have

The natural selfishness of flowers

And rivers, going on their way

Concerned only, and not knowing it,

To flower and go.

This is the only mission in the world:

This - to exist clearly

And to know how

Without thinking about it.)

.

The man fell silent,

He viewed the setting sun.

But what have sunsets to do

With haters and lovers?

.

~ Thomas Merton

from the Portuguese of Fernando Pessoa

#8, of twelve poems from The Keeper of Flocks

.

life partakes of the freshness

.

.

Our zest for the river did not wane...

We went on in much the same way, in surroundings which had become familiar, 

with not even a flood to make the year memorable.

.  

Ruts, however, are worn only in traveled ways on land: 

a river life partakes of the freshness of the river itself.  

.

Each rise and fall affords a new outlook 

and gives to a well-known shore the feel of one 

at which you have just landed for the first time...

.

~ Harlan Hubbard

from Shantyboat Journal

edited by Don Wallis

.

the current

.

For a long time some of us

lie in the marshes like dark coats

forgetting that we are water

.

dust gathers all day on our closed lids

weeds grow up through us

.

but the eels keep trying to tell us 

writing over and over in our mud

our heavenly names

.

and through us a thin cold current

never sleeps

.

its glassy feet move on until they find stones

.

then cloud fish call to it again

your heart is safe with us

.

bright fish flock to it again touch it

with their mouths say yes

have vanished

.

yes and black flukes wave to it

from the Lethe of whales

.

~ W.S. Merwin

from Migration, The Carrier of Ladders 1970

.

.

Hesitation: An Assay

.

.

Sometimes only a slowing

so momentary it can scarcely be seen -

as if a dog

chasing something large and swift and important,

were distracted by the white tremor of an overhead moth.

.

Other times a full lifetime tentative, lost.

.

The line of the roof in a child's crayoned drawing

can show a hesitation almost fatal.

The rain

comes to it hard or less hard,

knowing nothing of hesitations's rake-toothed debate

.

And the two lovers

now concealed around the corner?

They fool no one, not even themselves,

pausing in their own shadows outside a locked door.

.

If pleasure requires prolonging, then these lovers.

.

Yet slowness alone is not to be confused

with the scent of the plum tree just before it opens.

.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from After


.

our own limits transgressed

We need the tonic of wildness, 

to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow hen lurk, 

and hear the booming of the snipe; 

to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder 

and more solitary fowl builds her nest, 

and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.  

At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, 

we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, 

that land and sea be infinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed 

by us because it is unfathomable. 

We can never have enough of nature.  

We must be refreshed by the sight of inexhaustible vigor, 

vast and titanic features, the seacoast with its wrecks, 

the wilderness with its living and its decaying trees, 

the thunder cloud, and the rain which lasts three weeks and produces freshets.

We need to witness our own limits transgressed, 

and some life pasturing freely where we never wander.

  

~ Thoreau

from Walden, "Spring," 1854

photo above by Kathleen Connally

.

True freedom

.

.

True freedom and the end of suffering is living in such

a way as if you had completely chosen whatever

you feel or experience at this moment.

This inner alignment with Now is the end of suffering.

Is suffering really necessary? Yes and no.

If you had not suffered as you have, 

there would be no depth to you as a human being, 

no humility, no compassion.

You would not be reading this now. 

Suffering cracks open the shell of ego, 

and then comes a point when it has served its purpose.

Suffering is necessary until you realize it is unnecessary.

.

~ Eckhart Tolle

.

I am fishing with the one who made the river

.

.

When I go out on the water at night, and as I bait hooks, watch Cassiopeia, rising in the eastern sky, draw up her fishingline, Perseus with the misty Pleiads as bait and bright Venus caught, and then all grow dim in the faint beginning light of dawn, then I feel that I am fishing with the one who made the river and set her flowing.  I feel its length and sinuous flowing, fed by swift streams in the wooded eastern mountains; and somewhere, through a country unknown to me except by hearsay, past the mouths of new rivers and towns known only by name, it will at last enter an ocean and lose its identity, as I will too, at the end of my devious flowing.

.

~ Harlan Hubbard

from Shantyboat Journal

edited by Don Wallis

dog still barking at midnight

.

.

It has come to this:

three ants, seemingly separate, seemingly aimless,

wandering on a shelf.

.

They've appeared and disappeared for days between jars and bottles.

Luckless, they move without pausing.

.

A single breath-puff could send any one to the floor.

How distant they must be from the nest -

yet none consults with another,

none turns to the others for reassurance or warmth.

.

In their cold bodies: calcium, carbons, a trace of nickel.

.

Inexhaustible solitude, how did you come so far

to waver on the slim antennae of these my sisters?

.

~ Jane Hirshfield

.

the promise

.

.

Mysteriously they entered, those few minutes.

Mysteriously, they left.

As if the great dog of confusion guarding my heart,

who is always sleepless, suddenly slept.

It was not any awakening of the large, not so much as that,

only a stepping back from the petty.

I gazed at the range of blue mountains,

I drank from the stream.  Tossed in a small stone from the bank.

Whatever direction the fates of my life might travel, I trusted.

Even the greedy direction, even the grieving, trusted.

There was nothing left to be saved from, bliss nor danger.

The dogs tail wagged a little in his dream.

.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from After

photo by shreve stockton

.

That Time of Year thou mayst in me Behold

.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold 

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 

As after sunset fadeth in the west, 

Which by and by black night doth take away, 

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire 

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 

As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. 

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, 

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

.

~ William Shakespeare

sonnet LXXIII

woman in red coat

.

Some questions cannot be answered.

They become familiar weights in the hand,

round stones pulled from the pocket,

unyielding and cool.

Your fingers travel their surfaces,

lose themselves finally

in the braille of the durable world.

Look out of any window, it's the same --

the yellow leaves, the wintering light.

A truck passes, piled deep in cut wood.

A woman, in a red wool coat,

sees you watching and quickly looks away.

.

~ Jane Hirshfield 

from Of Gravity and Angels

.

Let life happen

.

For one human being to love another; 

that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, 

the ultimate, the last test and proof, 

the work for which all other work is but preparation. 

.

I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people: 

that each protects the solitude of the other. 

This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love: 

the more they give, the more they possess.

.

There are no classes in life for beginners; 

right away you are always asked to deal with what is most difficult.

.

Believe that with your feelings and your work you are taking part in the greatest; 

the more strongly you cultivate this belief, 

the more will reality and the world go forth from it. 

If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; 

blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; 

for the Creator, there is no poverty.

.

Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting 

to see us once beautiful and brave. 

Perhaps everything terrible 

is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us. 

The deepest experience of the creator is feminine, 

for it is experience of receiving and bearing.

.

The future enters into us, in order to transform itself in us, long before it happens. 

Let life happen to you. 

Believe me: life is in the right, always.

.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

thanks to http://paulocoelhoblog.com/

.

just now

.

In the morning as the storm begins to blow away

the clear sky appears for a moment and it seems to me

that there has been something simpler than I could ever believe

simpler than I could have begun to find words for

not patient not even waiting no more hidden

than the air itself that became part of me for a while

with every breath and remained with me unnoticed

something that was here unnamed unknown in the days

and the nights not separate from them

not separate from them as they came and were gone

it must have been here neither early nor late then

by what name can I address it now holding out my thanks

.

~ W.S. Merwin
from The Pupil
.

.

being separated

.

.

Listen to the story told by the reed, 

of being separated. 

.

"Since I was cut from the reedbed, 

I have made this crying sound. 

.

Anyone apart from someone he loves 

understands what I say. 

.

Anyone pulled from a source 

longs to go back. 

.

At any gathering I am there, 

mingling in the laughing and grieving, 

.

a friend to each, but few 

will hear the secrets hidden 

.

within the notes. No ears for that. 

Body flowing out of spirit, 

.

spirit up from body: no concealing 

that mixing. But it's not given us 

.

to see the soul. The reed flute 

is fire, not wind. Be that empty." 

.

Hear the love fire tangled 

in the reed notes, as bewilderment 

.

melts into wine. The reed is a friend 

to all who want the fabric torn 

.

and drawn away. The reed is hurt 

and salve combining. Intimacy 

.

and longing for intimacy, one 

song. A disastrous surrender 

.

and a fine love, together. The one 

who secretly hears this is senseless. 

.

A tongue has one customer, the ear. 

A sugarcane flute has such effect 

.

because it was able to make sugar 

in the reedbed. The sound it makes 

.

is for everyone. Days full of wanting, 

let them go by without worrying 

.

that they do. Stay where you are 

inside such a pure, hollow note. 

.

Every thirst gets satisfied except 

that of these fish, the mystics, 

.

who swim a vast ocean of grace 

still somehow longing for it! 

.

No one lives in that without 

being nourished every day. 

.

But if someone doesn't want to hear 

the song of the reed flute

.

it's best to cut conversation 

short, say good-bye, and leave.

.

~ Rumi

translation by Coleman Barks

from The essential Rumi

.

a strange thing is loneliness

.

.

What a strange thing is loneliness, and how frightening it is! We never allow ourselves to get too close to it; and if by chance we do, we quickly run away from it. We will do anything to escape from loneliness, to cover it up. Our conscious and unconscious preoccupation seems to be to avoid it or to overcome it. Avoiding and overcoming loneliness are equally futile; though suppressed or neglected, the pain, the problem, is still there. You may lose yourself in a crowd, and yet be utterly lonely; you may be intensely active, but loneliness silently creeps upon you; put the book down, and it is there. Amusements and drinks cannot drown loneliness; you may temporarily evade it, but when the laughter and the effects of alcohol are over, the fear of loneliness returns. You may be ambitious and successful, you may have vast power over others, you may be rich in knowledge, you may worship and forget yourself in the rigmarole of rituals; but do what you will, the ache of loneliness continues. You may exist only for your son, for the Master, for the expression of your talent; but like the darkness, loneliness covers you. You may love or hate, escape from it according to your temperament and psychological demands; but loneliness is there, waiting and watching, withdrawing only to approach again.

.

J. Krishnamurti

from his Commentaries on Living Series I

.

to waiting

.

.

You spend so much of your time

expecting to become

someone else

always someone 

who will be different 

someone to whom a moment

whatever moment it may be 

at last has come

and who has been

met and transformed

into no longer being you

and so has forgotten you

.

meanwhile in your life

you hardly notice

the world around you

lights changing

sirens dying along the buildings

your eyes intent

on a sight you do not see yet

not yet there

as long as you

are only yourself

.

with whom as you

recall you were

never happy

to be left alone for long

.

W.S. Merwin
from Present Company
art by Picasso

.

to the happy few

.

.

Do you know who you are

.

O you forever listed

under some other heading

when you are listed at all

.

You whose addresses

when you have them 

are never sold except

for another reason

something else that is

supposed to identify you

.

who carry no card

stating that you are -

what would it say you were

to someone turning it over

looking perhaps for

a date or for

anything to go by

.

you with no secret handshake

no proof of membership

no way to prove such a thing

even to yourselves

.

you without a word

of explanation

and only yourselves

as evidence

.

~ W.S. Merwin

from Present Company

photo by edmund teske

.

Where is he now

Where is he now, who leaving wealth behind

grew so bold in poverty

that he threw off his clothes before the bishop

and stood naked in the square?

The most inward and loving of all,

he came forth like a new beginning,

the brown-robed brother of your nightingales,

with his wonder and goodwill

and delight in Earth...

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

III,33, The book of Poverty and Death

translation by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows

.

each our own death

God, give us each our own death,

the dying that proceeds

from each of our lives:

the way we loved,

the meanings we made,

our need.

III,6

For we are only the rind and the leaf,

The great death, that each of us carries inside,

is the fruit.

Everything enfolds it.

III,7

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

  The Book of Poverty and Death

translated by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows

can't see the path or any distance

.

It feels as though I make my way 

through massive rock

like a vain of ore

alone, encased.

I am so deep inside it

I can't see the path or any distance:

everything us close

and everything closing in on me

has turned to stone.

Since I still don't know enough about pain,

this terrible darkness makes me small.

If it's you, though -

press down hard on me, break in

that I may know the weight of your hand,

and you, the fullness of my cry.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

The Book of Poverty and Death III,1
translated by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows
(See interview with Joanna Macy)

he keeps on going

.

.

Sometimes a man rises from the supper table

and goes outside.  And he keeps on going

because somewhere to the east there's a church.

His children bless his name as if he were dead.

.

Another man stays at home until he dies,

stays with plates and glasses.

So then it is his children who go out

into the world, seeking the church that he forgot.

.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from The Book of Pilgrimage, II,19

.

The ocean moves

.

.

The ocean moves, not because it wishes to move 

or because it knows that it is wise or good: 

it moves involuntarily, unconscious of movement.  

It is thus that you also will return to Tao, 

and when you have returned, you will not know it, 

because you yourself would have become Tao.

.

~ Wu Wei

.

The past, the future... sands blown by the wind

.

Neither time nor space exists for the man who knows the eternal.

Space and time are real for the man who is yet imperfect and space is divided for him into dimensions, time into past, present and future. He looks behind him and sees his birth, his acquisitions, all that he has rejected. That past is being continually modified by the future which is ever being added to it. From the past man turns his eyes to the future where death, the unknown, the darkness, the mystery, await him.

.

Fascinated by these he can no longer detach himself from them. The mystery of the future holds for him the fulfillment of all his desires, which the past has denied to him, and in his dreams he flies to that brilliant horizon where happiness must exist, where he must seek it.

.

No one will ever pierce the infinite mystery of the future - impenetrable in its evanescent illusion - neither magician, prophet nor God! But on the contrary it will be the mystery which will engulf man, which will not let him escape, which will break the mainspring of his life.

.

Life is not to be approached through the past, nor through the mirage of the future. Life cannot be approached through intermediaries, nor conquered for another.

.

That discovery can only be made in the immediate present - by the individual for himself and not for others - by the individual who has become the eternal "I". That eternal "I" is created by the perfection of the self - perfection in which all things are contained, even human imperfections. Man, not yet having achieved that condition of life in the present, lives in the past which he regrets, lives in the future where he

hopes, but never in the present which he ignores. This is the case with all men.

.

Balanced between the past and the future, the "I" is poised as a tiger ready to spring, as an eagle ready to fly, as the bow at the moment of releasing the arrow.

.

This moment of equilibrium, of high tension, is "creation." It is the fullness of all life, it is immortality.

.

The wind of the desert sweeps away all trace of the traveller.

.

The sole imprint is the footstep of the present. The past, the future... sands blown by the wind.

.

~ J. Krishnamurti

taken from: From Darkness to Light

1929

.

They dwell in lowly spots

.

The best, like water, 

Benefit all and do not compete. 

They dwell in lowly spots that everyone else scorns. 

Putting others before themselves, 

They find themselves in the foremost place 

And come very near to the Tao. 

.

~ Lao Tzu

.

A day comes

.

A day comes

when the mouth grows tired

of saying "I."

.

Yet it is occupied

still by a self which must speak.

Which still desires,

is curious.

Which believes it has also a right.

.

What to do?

The tongue consults with the teeth

it knows will survive

both mouth and self,

.

which grin - it is their natural pose -

and say nothing.

.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from "After"

.

Time became as smooth and even as the current

.

.

I worked too hard and furiously about the boat last week, trying to get the interior more or less complete, so as to get at the construction of a johnboat.  But I suddenly came to myself, realizing that none of it mattered a great deal, and I was losing much by my absorption in it.  We are really comfortable here, with the chores inside and out easy enough to do.  All that we plan to do will make for added comfort, convenience and neatness, but will come in time, and leisure must be had for other activities and for just living, or we will miss our way.

.

Time became as smooth and even as the current outside our windows, and we began to realize our true aims in coming to the river... 
I had no theories to prove.

.

~ Harlan Hubbard 

bookcover art by the author

.

Tear: An Assay

A great philosopher is born, walks his lifetime's allotment of footsteps, and dies, but while he is living he has the demeanor and body and voice of a great clown.   Each of his propositions is heard, but met with snorts, guffaws, and the wiping of tears of laughter from the eyes.  Or perhaps it is the reverse: A great comic is born, walks the earth, and dies.  But her demeanor and body and voice are such that people listen gravely, they nod in silence at her words, are moved to weeping by the feelings her thoughts cause to rise.  The composition to tears of laughter and tears of grief is not, it seems, the same, though the tongue cannot tell this.  Different still the tears of outrage, or the tears that come from a misplace dust mote, errant eyelash, of flake of soot.  Each brought to the earth a great if different pleasure.  Each died unsatisfied and angry, though this too is not perceived.   And where does the mistake lie, if a mistake is granted at all?  In the person who refuses an inescapable fate, or in those who shed at his works their tears of subtly erroneous composition?

~ Jane Hirshfield
art by aiden-ivanov

.