simply

 

I'm too alone in the world, yet not alone enough

to make each hour holy

I'm too small in the world, yet not small enough

to be simply in your presence, like a thing-

just as it is.

I want to know my own will

 and to move with it.

And I want, in the hushed moments

when the nameless draws near,

to be among the wise ones-

or alone.

I want to mirror your immensity.

I want never to be too weak or too old

to bear the heavy, lurching image of you.

I want to unfold.

Let no place in me hold itself closed,

for where I am closed, I am false.

I want to stay clear in your sight.

~ Rilke's Book of Hours

The Book of Monastic Life

the way it is with children

.

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.

I want to free what waits within me

so that what no one has dared to wish for

.

may for once spring clear

without my contriving.

.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,

but this is what I need to say.

May what I do flow from me like a river,

no forcing and no holding back,

the way it is with children.

.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,

these deepening tides moving out, returning,

I will sing you as no one ever has,

.

streaming through widening channels

into the open sea.

.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from Rilke's Book of Hours

translation by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

.

from a place of gratefulness

It is only from such a place of gratefulness that we can perform beautiful acts — 

from a place of absolute, ravishing appreciation for the sheer wonder of being alive at all, 

each of us an improbable and temporary triumph over the staggering odds 

of nonbeing and nothingness inking the ledger of spacetime.

 But because we are human, because we are batted about by the violent immediacies of everyday life, 

such gratitude eludes us as a continuous state of being. We access it only at moments, 

only when the trance of busyness lifts and the blackout curtain of daily demands

 parts to let the radiance in, those delicious moments when we find ourselves 

awash in nonspecific gladness, grateful not to this person, grateful not for this turn of events,

 but grateful at life — a diffuse gratitude that irradiates every aspect and atom 

of the world, however small, however unremarkable, however coated 

with the dull patina of habit. In those moments, everything sings, 

everything shimmers. 

In those moments, we are most alive.

~ Seneca

from Letters from a Stoic

as if to demonstrate an eclipse

 

I pick an orange from a wicker basket

and place it on the table

to represent the sun.

Then down at the other end

a blue and white marble

becomes the earth

and nearby I lay the little moon of an aspirin.

I get a glass from a cabinet,

open a bottle of wine,

then I sit in a ladder-back chair,

a benevolent god presiding

over a miniature creation myth,

and I begin to sing

a homemade canticle of thanks

for this perfect little arrangement,

for not making the earth too hot or cold

not making it spin too fast or slow

so that the grove of orange trees

and the owl become possible,

not to mention the rolling wave,

the play of clouds, geese in flight,

and the Z of lightning on a dark lake.

Then I fill my glass again

and give thanks for the trout,

the oak, and the yellow feather,

singing the room full of shadows,

as sun and earth and moon

circle one another in their impeccable orbits

and I get more and more cockeyed with gratitude.

~ Billy Collins

from Nine Horses

with thanks to The Marginalian by Maria Popova

image by James McCue/The Virtual Telescope

a great light

 

I saw a great light come down over London,

And buildings and cars and people were still

They were held wherever they were under the sky’s

Clear humming radiance as it descended --

Everywhere, in shops, behind desks and on trains

Everything stopped as the stillness came down

And touched the crown of our heads

As our eyes closed, and the sky filled us

And our minds became the sky --

And everyone, regardless of crime class or creed

Was touched; as slowly we began to stir

Out of this penetrated light-filled sleep

Dizzily as the hand completed its dialing,

And the train lurched forward

And I saw faces looking at one another questioning,

I saw people meeting eye to eye and standing

Half amazed by each other’s presence

I saw their mouths silently shaping the word why

Why didn’t we know this? and yet knowing

They already knew, and without words

We all stood searching for the gesture

That would say it --

As the lights went green, and we drove on.

~ Jay Ramsay

from The Longing in Between: Sacred Poetry from Around the World

(A Poetry Chaikhana Anthology) Edited by Ivan M. Granger

Yes! No!

How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout
lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I
think serenity is not something you just find in the world,
like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.

The violets, along the river, are opening their blue faces, like
small dark lanterns.

The green mosses, being so many, are as good as brawny.

How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out

Yes! No! The

swan, for all his pomp, his robes of grass and petals, wants
only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier
is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy
rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better
than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless
and proper work.

 

 

 ~ Mary Oliver

from White Pine: Poems and Prose Poems

with thanks to Poetry Chaikhana

 

 

no word for “war”

Trying to explain it to them

Leaves one feeling ridiculous and obscene.

Their houses, like white bowls,

Sit on a prairie of ancient snowfalls

Caught beyond thaw or the swift changes

Of night and day.

They listen politely, and stride away.

With spears and sleds and barking dogs

To hunt for food. The women wait

Chewing on skins or singing songs,

Knowing that they have hours to spend,

That the luck of the hunter is often late.

Later, by fires and boiling bones

In streaming kettles, they welcome me,

Far kin, pale brother,

To share what they have in a hungry time

In a difficult land. While I talk on

Of the southern kingdoms, cannon, armies,

Shifting alliances, airplanes, power,

They chew their bones, and smile at one another.

~ Mary Oliver

the hurt you embrace

The hurt you embrace becomes joy.

Call it to your arms where it can

change.  A silkworm eating leaves

makes a cocoon.  Each of us weaves

a chamber of leaves and sticks.

Silkworms begin to truly exist

as they disappear inside that room.

Without legs, we fly.  When I stop

speaking, this poem will close,

and open its silent wings...

~ Rumi

blessing for the interim time

 

When near the end of day, life has drained

Out of light, and it is too soon

For the mind of night to have darkened things,

No place looks like itself, loss of outline

Makes everything look strangely in-between,

Unsure of what has been, or what might come.

In this wan light, even trees seem groundless.

In a while it will be night, but nothing

Here seems to believe the relief of darkness.

You are in this time of the interim

Where everything seems withheld.

The path you took to get here has washed out;

The way forward is still concealed from you.

The old is not old enough to have died away;

The new is still too young to be born.”

You cannot lay claim to anything;

In this place of dusk,

Your eyes are blurred;

And there is no mirror.

Everyone else has lost sight of your heart

And you can see nowhere to put your trust;

You know you have to make your own way through.

As far as you can, hold your confidence.

Do not allow confusion to squander

This call which is loosening

Your roots in false ground,

That you might come free

From all you have outgrown.

What is being transfigured here in your mind,

And it is difficult and slow to become new.

The more faithfully you can endure here,

The more refined your heart will become

For your arrival in the new dawn.

~ John O’Donohue

from To Bless the Space Between Us