multiplicity in properties

He who has lifted the veil sees multiplicity in properties, 
not in Essence; hence he knows that changes in properties 
cannot touch Essence, which owns a perfection subject to no mutability. 
Light merely seems to change as it shines through colored glass, but

light has no color.

Its rays shine through the glass

and only then 

do hues and tints appear.

Don't you understand?

Come then into my eyes

and...look!

and you will see

a sun shining

through a thousand bits of glass

beaming to plain sight through each

a ray of color

Why should any difference appear

between this one and that?

All light is one

but colors a thousandfold.

~ Fakhruddin 'Iraqi
from Divine Flashes

the lips of insanity

~ Coleman Barks

~ Rumi

wait for the hour

Always trust yourself and your own feeling, 

as opposed to argumentations, discussion, 

or introductions of that sort; if it turns out that you are wrong, 

then the natural growth of your inner life will eventually guide you to other insights. 

Allow your judgments their own silent, undisturbed development, 

which, like all progress, must come from deep within 

and cannot be forced or hastened. 

Everything is gestation and then birthing. 

To let each impression and each embryo of a feeling come to completion,

 entirely in itself, in the dark, in the unsayable, the unconscious, 

beyond the reach of one’s own understanding, and with deep humility 

and patience to wait for the hour when a new clarity is born: 

this alone is what it means to live as an artist: in understanding as in creating.

~Rainer Maria Rilke

from Letters to a young poet, letter 3

translation by Stephen Mitchell
image found at art42

many waves

each image painted

on the canvas of existence

is the form

of the artist himself.

Eternal Ocean

spews forth new waves,

"Waves" we call them;

but there is only the Sea.

Many and disparate waves do not make the sea a multiplicity;

no more do the Names make the Named more than One.

When the sea breathes they call it mist;

when mist piles up they call it clouds.

It falls again,

they name it rain;

it gathers itself and rejoins the sea.

And it is now the same sea it ever was.

~ Fakhruddin 'Iraqi

from Divine Flashes

meditation

~ Jiddu Krishnamurti, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche

utterance

Sitting over words

very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing

not far

like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark

the echo of everything that has ever

been spoken

still spinning its one syllable

between the earth and silence

~ W. S. Merwin

 from The Rain in the Trees

the conditional

Say tomorrow doesn't come. 

Say the moon becomes an icy pit. 

Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified. 

Say the sun's a foul black tire fire. 

Say the owl's eyes are pinpricks. 

Say the raccoon's a hot tar stain. 

Say the shirt's plastic ditch-litter. 

Say the kitchen's a cow's corpse. 

Say we never get to see it: bright 

future, stuck like a bum star, never 

coming close, never dazzling. 

Say we never meet her. Never him. 

Say we spend our last moments staring 

at each other, hands knotted together,

clutching the dog, watching the sky burn. 

Say, It doesn't matter. Say, That would be 

enough. Say you'd still want this: us alive, 

right here, feeling lucky.

~ Ada Limón

with thanks again to Lisa

about this poem the author said,

"There is so much to worry about. 
All the time, so much worry. 
Here, I wanted to take all the worry as far out as I could 
and then stamp it out 
under the heavy black boot of love." 

the wealth of poverty

I have seen that the lane of piety stretches out,

far, far into the distance;

My dearest friends, can you not show me then

the way of the madman?

Bring me a glass of Magian wine

that I may drink deep

for I have given up all thought

of ascetic piety;

or if the pure wine has all been downed

bring me the cloudy dregs

for thick residue lights up the heart 

and illuminates the eyes.

Tuppence for the Sufi meeting house!

I flee the company of the righteous;

fill up a row of glasses with wine

and bring me the first.

I have no rules or regulations,

nor heart nor religion -

only I remain, and you, sitting in the corner

and the wealth of Poverty.

All fear of God, all self-denial I deny;

bring wine, nothing but wine

for in all sincerity I repent

my worship which is but hypocrisy.

Yes, bring me wine, for I have renounced all renunciation

and all my vaunted self-righteousness

seems to me but swagger and self-display.

Now for a time let my proof be wine

against the sorrow of Time

for only in drunkenness can one be free

of the hour's grief.

Once I am thoroughly drunk, what difference

if I end up in a church or in Mecca?

Once I've abandoned myself, what matter

if I win Union - or separation?

I've been to the gambling house and seen 

that the losers there are pure;

I've been to the monastery and have found

no one but hypocrites.

Now I've broken my repentance, at least

do not break our covenant:

at least welcome this broken heart and say

"How are you? Where have you been?"

I've been to Mecca, to circle the Kaaba

but they refused me entrance

saying "Off with you!  What merit have you earned

outside, that we should admit you within?"

Then, last night, I knocked

at the tavern door;

from within came a voice: "'Iraqi! Come in!

for you are one of the chosen!"

~ Fakhruddin 'Iraqi

from the introduction to Divine Flashes

translation by William Chittick and Peter Wilson

three times my life has opened

.

Three times my life has opened.

Once, into darkness and rain.

Once, into what the body carries at all times within it and starts

to remember each time it enters the act of love.

Once, to the fire that holds all.

These three are not different.

You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.

But outside my window all day a maple has stepped from her leaves

like a woman in love with winter, dropping the colored silks.

Neither are we different in what we know.

There is a door.  It opens.  Then it is closed.  But a slip of light

stays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor,

or the one red leaf the snow releases in March.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from The Lives of the Heart

a wind-swept spirit

In this mortal frame of mine, which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices, there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit, for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind.  

This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business.  It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering  between doubts of one kind and another. 

At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its unquenchable love of poetry.  The fact is, it knows no other art than writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more of less blindly.

~ Matsuo Basho

from Journal of a Travel-Worn Satchel

translated by Nobuyuki Yuasa

A wanderer all his life both in body and spirit, Basho concerned himself less with destination than with the quality of the traveler's attention.  A poem, he said, only exists while it's on the writing desk; by the time its ink has dried, it should be recognized as just a scrap of paper.  In poetry as in life, he saw each moment as gate-latch.  Permeability mattered more in this process than product or will:  "If we were to gain mastery over things, we would find their lives would vanish under us without a trace."

~ Jane Hirshfield 

from The Heart of Haiku

this was once a love poem

This was once a love poem,

before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short,

before it found itself sitting,

perplexed and a little embarrassed,

on the fender of a parked car,

while many people passed by without turning their heads.

It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement.

It remembers choosing these shoes,

this scarf or tie. Once, it drank beer for breakfast,

drifted its feet

in a river side by side with the feet of another.

Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy,

dropping its head so the hair would fall forward,

so the eyes would not be seen. It spoke with passion of history, of art.

It was lovely then, this poem.

Under its chin, no fold of skin softened.

Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat.

What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.

An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks.

The longing has not diminished.

Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat,

the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus. Yes, it decides:

many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots.

When it finds itself disquieted

by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life,

it will touch them-one, then another-

with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Given Sugar Given Salt

with thanks to writers almanac