Wednesday, March 17, 2010

a voice inside the body


.



There is a voice inside the body.

There is a voice and a music,
a throbbing, four-chambered pear
that wants to be heard, that sits 
alone by the river with its mandolin
and its torn coat, and sings
for whomever will listen
a song that no one wants to hear.

But sometimes, lost,
on his way to somewhere significant,
a man in a long coat, carrying
a briefcase, wanders into the forest.

He hears the voice and the mandolin, 
he sees the thrush and the dandelion,
and he feels the mist rise over the river.

And his life is never the same,
for having been lost –
for having strayed from the path of his routine,
for no good reason.



~ Michael Blumenthal
.

experiences which helped me along the way


.
.
To the few experiences which helped me along the way
toward my life’s true goal I added this new one: the
observation of such configurations [staring at a fire,
tree roots, veins in rock, smoke, clouds, water,
reflections, light, dust, swirling specks of light when
eyes are closed].
The surrender to Nature’s irrational, strangely confused
formations produces in us a feeling of inner harmony with
the force responsible for these phenomena. We soon fall
prey to the temptation of thinking of them as being our
own moods, our own creations, and see the boundaries
seperating us from Nature begin to quiver and dissolve.
We become acquainted with that state of mind in which
we are unable to decide whether the images on our retina
are the result of impressions coming from without or
from within. Nowhere as in this exercise can we discover
so easily and simply to what extent we are creative, to what
extent our soul partakes of the constant creation of
the world. For it is the same indivisible divinity
that is active through us and in Nature, and if the
outside world were to be destroyed, a single one of us
would be capable of rebuilding it: mountain and stream,
tree and leaf, root and flower, yes, every natural
form is latent within us, originates in the soul whose
essence is eternity, whose essence we cannot know but
which most often intimates itself to us as the power
to love and create.
The next time we were together, the organist gave me
an explanation: “We always define the limits of our
personality too narrowly. In general, we count as part
of our personality only that which we can recognise as
being an individual trait or as diverging from the norm.
But we consist of everything the world consists of, each
of us, and just as our body contains the genealogical table
of evolution as far back as the fish and even much further,
so we bear everything in our soul that once was alive in
the soul of men. Every god and devil that ever existed,
be it among the Greeks, Chinese, or Zulus, are within us,
exist as latent possibilities, as wishes, as alternatives.
If the human race were to vanish from the face of the earth
save for one halfway talented child that had received no
education, this child would rediscover the entire course
of evolution, it would be capable of producing everything
once more, gods and demons, paradises, commandments, the
Old and New Testament.”
“Yes, fine,” I replied. “But what is the value of the
individual in that case? Why do we continue striving if
everything has been completed within us?”
“Stop!” exclaimed Pistorius. “There’s an immense
difference between simply carrying the world within us
and being aware of it. A madman can spout ideas that
remind you of Plato, and a pious little seminary student
rethinks deep mythological correspondences found among
the Gnostics or in Zoroaster. But he isn’t aware of them.
He is a tree or stone, at best an animal, as long as he is not
conscious. But as soon as the first spark of recognition
dawns within him he is a human being. You wouldn’t
consider all the bipeds you pass on the street human
beings simply because they walk upright and carry their
young in their bellies nine months! It is obvious how
many of them are fish or sheep, worms or angels, how
many are ants, how many are bees! Well, each one of
them contains the possibility of becoming human, but
only by having an intimation of these possibilities,
partially even by learning to make himself conscious
of them; only in this respect are these possibilities his.
.

~ Herman Hesse
.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

You cannot depend upon anybody


.
.
You cannot depend upon anybody. 
There is no guide, no teacher, no authority. 
There is only you
 - your relationship with others 
and with the world 
- there is nothing else. 
When you realize this,
 it either brings great despair, 
from which comes cynicism and bitterness, 
or, in facing the fact that you and nobody else
 is responsible for the world and for yourself,
 for what you think, 
what you feel,
 how you act, 
all self-pity goes.
.
~  Jiddu Krishnamurti
.

Heaven and Earth give themselves


.
.

Heaven and Earth give themselves. 
Air, water, plants, animals, and humans 
give themselves to each other.
 It is in this giving-themselves-to-each-other that we actually live. 
Whether you appreciate it or not, it is true.

.
~ Kodo Sawaki

.

Monday, March 15, 2010


.
.
There's a space at the bottom of an exhale,
 a little hitch 
between taking in and letting out 
that's a perfect zero you can go into. 
There's a rest point between
 the heart's muscle's close and open 
- an instant of keenest living 
when you're momentarily dead. 
You can rest there.
.
~  Mary Karr
.

gaps






The gaps are the thing. 
The gaps are the spirit's one home,
 the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that 
the spirit can discover itself like a once-blind man unbound. 
The gaps are the clefts in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; 
they are the fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through,
 the icy narrowing fords splitting the cliffs of mystery. 
Go up into the gaps.
 If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. 
Stalk the gaps. 
Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock -
 more than a maple - a universe.




~ Annie Dillard



Sunday, March 14, 2010

Early in the morning


.
.
Early in the morning, walking
in a garden in Vancouver
three thousand miles from your grave,
the sky dripping, song
sparrows singing in the borders,
I come suddenly upon 
a Japanese dogwood, a tree
you loved, bowed down with bloom.
By what blessedness do I weep?
.
~ Wendell Berry
.

Honey


.
.


Luxury itself, thick as a Persian carpet,
honey fills the jar
with the concentrated sweetness
of countless thefts,
the blossoms bereft, the hive destitute.
.
Though my debts are heavy
honey would pay them all.
Honey heals, honey mends.
A spoon takes more than it can hold
without reproach. A knife plunges deep,
but does no injury.
.
Honey moves with intense deliberation.
Between one drop and the next
forty lean years pass in a distant desert.
What one generation labored for
another receives,
and yet another gives thanks.
.
~ Connie Wanek, from 'On Speaking Terms'
.
.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Beautiful face







Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.
Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell,
Oh, beauty of a magazine.
 .
How many poems have been written to you?
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
To your obsessive illusion
To your manufactured fantasy.
 .
But today I won't make one more Cliché
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés.
This poem is dedicated to those women
Whose beauty is in their charm,
In their intelligence,
In their character,
Not on their fabricated looks.
This poem is to you women,
That like a Shahrazade wake up
Everyday with a new story to tell,
A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles:
Battles for the love of the united flesh
Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battles for the neglected rights
Or just battles to survive one more night.
 .
Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
To you, friend of my heart.
 .
From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
And its bright stars,
And so, no more clichés. 


~ Octavio Paz 

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Man is a machine


.
.



Man is a machine which reacts blindly to external forces and, this being so, he has no will, and very little control of himself, if any at all. What we have to study, therefore, is not psychology - for that applies only to a developed man - but mechanics. Man is not only a machine but a machine which works very much below the standard it would be capable of maintaining if it were working properly.
.
Man is a machine, but a very peculiar machine. He is a machine which, in right circumstances, and with right treatment, can know that he is a machine, and having fully realized this, he may find the ways to cease to be a machine.
.
First of all, what man must know is that he is not one; he is many. He has not one permanent and unchangeable "I" or Ego. He is always different. One moment he is one, another moment he is another, the third moment he is a third, and so on, almost without end.

.
~ P.D. Ouspensky
.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

To see myself and my life


.
.
To see myself and my life as they truly are is joy. 
After all the struggle and avoiding and denying and going the other way,
 it is deeply satisfying for a second to be there with life as it is. 
The satisfaction is the very core of ourselves.
 Who we are is beyond words -
 just that open power of life, 
manifesting constantly in all sorts of interesting things,
 even in our own misery and struggles. 
The hassle is both horrendous and wholesome.
. 
~ Charlotte Joko Beck
.
.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

restlessness


.
.
 
 

If you could only keep quiet,
 clear of memories and expectations, 
you would be able to discern the beautiful pattern of events. 
Its your restlessness that causes chaos.
.
 
 
~ Nisargadatta Maharaj
.

I love the dark hours of my being



.


I love the dark hours of my being.
My mind deepens into them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood
Then the knowing comes: I can open
to another life that’s wide and timeless.

So I am sometimes like a tree
rustling over a graveside
and making real the dream
of the one its living roots
     embrace:

a dream once lost
among sorrows and songs.
.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
.
.

Friday, March 5, 2010

The 10 Bulls



.

.
The 10 Bulls
By Kakuan
Illustrated by Tomikichiro Tokuriki
Transcribed by Nyogen Senzaki and Paul Reps




 
 
The bull is the eternal principle of life, truth in action.
The ten bulls represent sequent steps in the realization of one’s true nature.
 

The 10 Bulls is more than poetry, more than pictures.  It is a revelation of spiritual unfoldment paralleled in every bible of human experience.
 

In the twelfth century the Chinese master Kakuan drew the pictures of the ten bulls,
 basing them on earlier Taoist bulls, and wrote the comments in prose and verse translated here. 
 
 His version was pure Zen, going deeper than earlier versions, 
which had ended with the nothingness of the eighth picture.
 
 

I. The Search for the Bull



.
.

.

 .
I.                    The Search for the Bull

In the pastures of this world, I endlessly push aside the tall grasses in search of the bull.

Following unnamed rivers, lost upon the interpenetrating paths of distant mountains,

My strength failing and my vitality exhausted, I cannot find the bull.

I only hear the locusts chirring through the forest at night.
 
 
 
 

Comment: 
 
 The bull never has been lost.  What need is there to search?  
Only because of separation from my true nature, I fail to find him. 
 In the confusion of the senses I lose even his tracks. 
 Far from home, I see many crossroads,
 but which way is the right one I know not. 
 Greed and fear, good and bad, entangle me.
.

 ~ Kakuan
from 10 BULLS
Transcribed by. Nyogen Senzaki and Paul Reps 
 Illustrated by Tomikichiro Tokuriki