That Time of Year thou mayst in me Behold

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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.

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~ William Shakespeare

sonnet LXXIII

woman in red coat

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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.

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~ Jane Hirshfield 

from Of Gravity and Angels

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Let life happen

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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. 

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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.

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There are no classes in life for beginners; 

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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~ Rainer Maria Rilke

thanks to http://paulocoelhoblog.com/

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just now

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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

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~ W.S. Merwin
from The Pupil
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being separated

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Listen to the story told by the reed, 

of being separated. 

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"Since I was cut from the reedbed, 

I have made this crying sound. 

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Anyone apart from someone he loves 

understands what I say. 

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Anyone pulled from a source 

longs to go back. 

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At any gathering I am there, 

mingling in the laughing and grieving, 

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a friend to each, but few 

will hear the secrets hidden 

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within the notes. No ears for that. 

Body flowing out of spirit, 

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spirit up from body: no concealing 

that mixing. But it's not given us 

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to see the soul. The reed flute 

is fire, not wind. Be that empty." 

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Hear the love fire tangled 

in the reed notes, as bewilderment 

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melts into wine. The reed is a friend 

to all who want the fabric torn 

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and drawn away. The reed is hurt 

and salve combining. Intimacy 

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and longing for intimacy, one 

song. A disastrous surrender 

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and a fine love, together. The one 

who secretly hears this is senseless. 

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A tongue has one customer, the ear. 

A sugarcane flute has such effect 

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because it was able to make sugar 

in the reedbed. The sound it makes 

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is for everyone. Days full of wanting, 

let them go by without worrying 

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that they do. Stay where you are 

inside such a pure, hollow note. 

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Every thirst gets satisfied except 

that of these fish, the mystics, 

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who swim a vast ocean of grace 

still somehow longing for it! 

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No one lives in that without 

being nourished every day. 

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But if someone doesn't want to hear 

the song of the reed flute

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it's best to cut conversation 

short, say good-bye, and leave.

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~ Rumi

translation by Coleman Barks

from The essential Rumi

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a strange thing is loneliness

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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.

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J. Krishnamurti

from his Commentaries on Living Series I

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to waiting

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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

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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

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with whom as you

recall you were

never happy

to be left alone for long

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W.S. Merwin
from Present Company
art by Picasso

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to the happy few

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Do you know who you are

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O you forever listed

under some other heading

when you are listed at all

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You whose addresses

when you have them 

are never sold except

for another reason

something else that is

supposed to identify you

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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

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you with no secret handshake

no proof of membership

no way to prove such a thing

even to yourselves

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you without a word

of explanation

and only yourselves

as evidence

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~ W.S. Merwin

from Present Company

photo by edmund teske

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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.

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~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from The Book of Pilgrimage, II,19

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The ocean moves

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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.

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~ Wu Wei

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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

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

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~ J. Krishnamurti

taken from: From Darkness to Light

1929

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They dwell in lowly spots

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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. 

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~ Lao Tzu

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