Thursday, September 15, 2011

philosophy and religion





.

...he who defines his conduct by ethics
imprisons his song-bird in a cage.
The freest song comes not through bars and wires. 

...he to whom worshiping is a window, to open but also to shut, 
has not yet visited the house of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn.

...if you would know God be not a solver of riddles.
Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children.

...look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, 
outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain.

...see Him smiling in flowers, and then rising and waving His hands in trees.






~ Kahlil Gibran
from The Prophet








Wednesday, September 14, 2011

solitude






.



Let us look for secret things
somewhere in the world,
on the blue shore of silence
or where the storm has passed,
rampaging like a train.
There the faint signs are left,
coins of time and water,
debris, celestial ash
and the irreplaceable rapture
of sharing in the labour
of solitude and the sand.








~ Pablo Neruda
excerpt from On the Blue Shores of Silence






Tuesday, September 13, 2011

alzheimer's








.

When a fine old carpet
is eaten by mice,
the colors and patterns
of what’s left behind
do not change.
As bedrock, tilted,
stays bedrock,
its purple and red striations unbroken.
Unstrippable birthright grandeur.
“How are you,” I asked,
not knowing what to expect.
“Contrary to Keatsian joy,” he replied.






~ Jane Hirshfield
from Come, Thief
art by Camille Pissarro, 1877






the cloudy vase





.

Past time,
I threw the flowers out,
washed out
the cloudy vase.

How easily
the old clearness
leapt,
like a practiced tiger,
back inside it.




~ Jane Hirshfield
art by leonardo da vinci, 
 Galleria Nazionale, Parma, Italy.






Monday, September 12, 2011

the boundaries of my being had disappeared









I looked for my self, but my self was gone.
The boundaries of my being
had disappeared in the sea.
Waves broke. Awareness rose again.
And a voice returned me to myself.
It always happens like this.
Sea turns on itself and foams,
and with every foaming bit
another body, another being takes form.
And when the sea sends word,
each foaming body
melts back to ocean-breath.




 ~ Rumi 
translation by Coleman Barks
art by van gogh







call and answer






.

Tell me why it is we don’t lift our voices these days
And cry over what is happening. Have you noticed
The plans are made for Iraq and the ice cap is melting?

I say to myself: “Go on, cry. What’s the sense
Of being an adult and having no voice? Cry out!
See who will answer! This is Call and Answer!”

We will have to call especially loud to reach
Our angels, who are hard of hearing; they are hiding
In the jugs of silence filled during our wars.

Have we agreed to so many wars that we can’t
Escape from silence? If we don’t lift our voices, we allow
Others (who are ourselves) to rob the house.

How come we've listened to the great criers—Neruda,
Akhmatova, Thoreau, Frederick Douglass—and now
We’re silent as sparrows in the little bushes?

Some masters say our life lasts only seven days.
Where are we in the week? Is it Thursday yet?
Hurry, cry now! Soon Sunday night will come.







~ Robert Bly





Saturday, September 10, 2011

opening the hands between here and here




.
On the dark road, only the weight of the rope.
Yet the horse is there.





~ Jane Hirshfield




Thursday, September 8, 2011

A Suite of Appearances









.

In another time, we will want to know how the earth looked
then, and were people the way we are now. In another time,
the records they left will convince us that we are unchanged
and could be at ease in the past, and not alone in the present.
And we shall be pleased. But beyond all that, what cannot
be seen or explained will always be elsewhere, always supposed,
invisible even beneath the signs – the beautiful surface,
the uncommon knowledge – that point its way. In another time,
what cannot be seen will define us, and we shall be prompted
to say that language is error, and all things are wronged
by representation. The self, we shall say, can never be
seen with a disguise, and never be seen without one.




~ Mark Strand
with thanks to whiskey river



birds nest




.
Birds nest in my arms,
on my shoulders, behind my knees,
between my breasts there are quails,
they must think I'm a tree.
The swans think I'm a fountain,
they all come down and drink when I talk.
When sheep pass, they pass over me,
and perched on my fingers, the sparrows eat,
the ants think I'm earth,
and men think I'm nothing.




~ Gloria Fuertes
translated by Philip Levine
sketch by van gogh



Wednesday, September 7, 2011

the holy longing








Tell a wise person, or else keep silent,
because the massman will mock it right away.
I  praise what is truly alive,
what longs to flame to death.

In the calm water of the love-nights
where you were begotten,  where you have begotten,
a strange feeling comes over you
when you see the silent candle burning..

Now you are no longer caught
in the obsession with darkness,
and a desire for higher love-making
sweeps you upward.

Distance does not make you falter,
now, arriving in magic, flying,
and finally, insane for the light
you are the butterfly and you are gone.

And so long as you haven't experienced
this: to die and so to grow,
you are only a troubled guest
on the dark earth.











~ Goethe
translation by Robert Bly
art by van gogh



.

names





.
You should try to hear the name the Holy One has for things.
There is something in the phrase: "The Holy One taught him names."
We name everything according to the number of legs it has;
The holy one names it according to what is inside.
Moses waved his stick; he thought it was a "rod."
But inside its name was "dragonish snake."
We thought the name of Umar meant: "agitator against priests;"
But in eternity his name is "the one who believes."
No one knows our name until our last breath goes out.





~ Rumi
version by Robert Bly



the teaching









Enlightenment absorbs this universe of qualities.
When that merging occurs, there is nothing
but God. This is the only doctrine. 

There is no word for it, no mind
to understand it with, no categories
of transcendence or non-transcendence,
no vow of silence, no mystical attitude. 

There is no Shiva and no Shakti
in enlightenment, and if there is something
that remains, that whatever-it-is
is the only teaching. 




~ Lalla


Tuesday, September 6, 2011

across the swamp






.
It is the roots from all the trees that have died
out here, that's how you can walk
safely over the soft places.
Roots like these keep their firmness, it's possible
they've lain here centuries.
And there is still some dark remains
of them under the moss.
They are still in the world and hold
you up so you can make it over.
And when you push out into the mountain lake, high
up, you feel how the memory
of that cold person
who drowned himself here once
helps hold up your frail boat.
He, really crazy, trusted his life
to water and eternity.





~ Olav H. Hauge
translated by Robert Bly
photo by Jay Sturdevant








knowing nothing






.
Knowing nothing shuts the iron gates;
the new love opens them.

The sound of the gates opening wakes the beautiful woman asleep.

Kabir says:   Fantastic!  Don't let a chance like this go by!






~ Kabir
version by Robert Bly



Friday, September 2, 2011

the threshers





.
There's no use whining over lost worlds.
The old chicken never picks up the last grains,
And the threshers usually go home when night comes.

Have we thanked the sun for shining so well?
Have we blessed the clouds for their thoughtfulness?
Have we thanked the rain that falls on the fields?

It would be good to go back a hundred years,
And recite some of Wordsworth's sonnets to him.
But it's probable best to let him go on walking.

Let's just agree we're on our own now,
And that we have to wash our own pajamas,
And figure out some way to get home.

We can still tell stories about the Dillinger boys,
And we can still buy balloons for our children,
But it will be hard to make up The Book of Hours.

We know that most lost fathers never return,
And the clocks run only one way,
And the threshers always go home when night comes.




~ Robert Bly
from Talking into the Ear of a Donkey
art by van gogh