sawing firewood

.

.

Probably no moon has furnished me with as much light as this one,  in this clear weather.  Now it is past full, and I can arise before daybreak and see my way about, sawing firewood.  One feels alone on the earth, no sounds, no lights, anywhere, unless a boat passes.  In a light fog, as this morning, the isolation is even more strongly felt.  It brings peace, contentment and a sure faith that all is well.

.

~ Harlan Hubbard

from his journal, Dec. 28th, 1958

woodcut by the author

.

the monk stood beside a wheelbarrow

.

.

The monk stood beside a wheelbarrow, weeping.

God or Buddha nowhere to be seen-

these tears were fully human,

bitter, broken,

falling onto the wheel barrow's rusty side.

They gathered at its bottom,

where the metal drank them in to make more rust.

You cannot know what you do in this life, what you have done.

The monk stood weeping.

I knew I also had a place on this hard earth.

.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from After

when you see

When you see yourself

and someone else

as one being,

when you know the most joyful day

and the most terrible night

as one moment, then

awareness is alone

with its Lord.

~ Lalla

art by Klimt

what is precious

.

.

What is precious

inside us does not

care to be known

by the mind

in ways that diminish

its presence.

What we strive for

in perfection

is not what turns us

into the lit angel

we desire.

what disturbs

and then nourishes

has everything

we need.

What we hate in ourselves

is what we cannot know

in ourselves but

what is true to the pattern

does not need

to be explained.

Inside everyone

is a great shout of joy

waiting to be born.




.
~ David Whyte
from the house of belonging
art by Klimt
thanks to  moment by moment

the new silence

There are times

when the heart closes down,

the metal grate drawn

and padlocked,

the owner's footprints covered by snow.

Someone may come to peer through the glass,

but soon leaves.

Someone may come to clean, but turns away.

What is still inside

settles down for the darkness: clocks stop,

newspapers pass out of date.

The new silence goes unheard

under so many grindings of engines,

so many sounds of construction.

Only three pigeons, 

refusing to eat,

lower their heads and grieve.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Lives of the Heart

Names

.

Mondays are meshed with Tuesdays
and the week with the whole year.
Time cannot be cut
with your weary scissors,
and all the names of the day
are washed out by the waters of night.
.
No one can claim the name of Pedro,
nobody is Rosa or Maria,
all of us are dust or sand,
all of us are rain under rain.
They have spoken to me of Venezuelas,
of Chiles and of Paraguays;
I have no idea what they are saying.
I know only the skin of the earth
and I know it is without a name.
.
When I lived amongst the roots
they pleased me more than flowers did,
and when I spoke to a stone
it rang like a bell.
.
It is so long, the spring
which goes on all winter.
Time lost its shoes.
A year is four centuries.
.
When I sleep every night,
what am I called or not called?
And when I wake, who am I
if I was not while I slept?
.
This means to say that scarcely
have we landed into life
than we come as if new-born;
let us not fill our mouths
with so many faltering names,
with so many sad formalities,
with so many pompous letters,
with so much of yours and mine,
with so much of signing of papers.
.
I have a mind to confuse things,
unite them, bring them to birth,
mix them up, undress them,
until the light of the world
has the oneness of the ocean,
a generous, vast wholeness,
a crepitant fragrance. 
. 
~ Pablo Neruda

.

122nd birthday

.

Charles Spencer Chaplin was born in London, England, on April 16th 1889. His father was a versatile vocalist and actor; and his mother, known under the stage name of Lily Harley, was an attractive actress and singer, who gained a reputation for her work in the light opera field.

Charlie was thrown on his own resources before he reached the age of ten as the early death of his father and the subsequent illness of his mother made it necessary for Charlie and his brother, Sydney, to fend for themselves.

Having inherited natural talents from their parents, the youngsters took to the stage as the best opportunity for a career. Charlie made his professional debut as a member of a juvenile group called "The Eight Lancashire Lads" and rapidly won popular favor as an outstanding tap dancer.

.

.

Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself.

~ Charlie Chaplin

thanks to  charlie chaplin

.

scarecrow on fire

.

.

We all think about suddenly disappearing.

The train tracks lead there, into the woods.

Even in the financial district: wooden doors

in alleyways. First I want to put something small

into your hand, a button or river stone or

key I don’t know to what. I don’t

have that house anymore across from the graveyard

and its black angel. What counts as a proper

goodbye? My last winter in Iowa there was always

a ladybug or two in the kitchen for cheer

even when it was ten below. We all feel

suspended over a drop into nothingness.

Once you get close enough, you see what

one is stitching is a human heart. Another

is vomiting wings. Hell, even now I love life.

Whenever you put your feet on the floor

in the morning, whatever the nightmare,

it’s a miracle or fantastic illusion:

the solidity of the boards, the steadiness

coming into the legs. Where did we get

the idea when we were kids to rub dirt

into the wound or was that just in Pennsylvania?

Maybe poems are made of breath, the way water,

cajoled to boil, says, This is my soul, freed.

.

~ Dean Young

from Fall Higher

Word comes that a heart has been found for Dean Young and surgery is proceeding. 

The heart is beating. Gratitude to the donor whose gift is making such a difference.

thanks to rebel girl for the update!

.

only that breath

.

.

not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu

Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion

or cultural system. I am not from the East

or the West, not out of the ocean or up

from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not

composed of elements at all. I do not exist,

am not an entity in this world or in the next,

did not descend from Adam and Eve or any

origin story. My place is placeless, a trace

of the traceless. Neither body or soul.

I belong to the beloved, have seen the two

worlds as one and that one call to and know,

first, last, outer, inner, only that

breath breathing human being.

*

There is a way between voice and presence

where information flows.

In disciplined silence it opens.

With wandering talk it closes.

.

~ Rumi

translation by Coleman Barks

.

gazed--and gazed--but little thought

.

.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

~ William Wordsworth

thanks to writers almanac

.

Leonardo da Vinci

.

.

Leonardo da Vinci

Born: 15 April 1452 in Anchiano in Vinci,

Died:  2 May 1519 at Schloss Clos Lucé Amboise,

Leonardo di ser Piero actually,  

Leonardo, was a painter, sculptor, architect, anatomist, mechanic, engineer and natural philosopher. 

His name suffix "da Vinci" is not a family name, but means from Vinci. 

The birthplace Vinci is a fort or fortified hilltop village,

 located in the Florentine territory, about 30 km west of Florence, near Empoli.

He learned painting from the painter and sculptor Andrea del Verrocchio in Florence where da Vinci later worked independently, before he entered the service in 1482 the Count of Milan. In his time in Milan, da Vinci painted a mural of the Last Supper, and also accomplished much of his scientific work. He returned to Florence in 1503, here he painted the portrait of "Mona Lisa".   His "Last Supper" and "Mona Lisa" are among the most famous and influential paintings of the Renaissance. 

.

.

.

.

more on Leonardo: http://www.mos.org/leonardo/

thanks to Semsakrebsler

.

annulment of all laws

.

.

The infinite bustle of Nature on a summer's noon,  

or her infinite silence of a summer's night, 

gives utterance to no dogma.  

They do not say to us even with a seer's assurance, 

that this or that law is immutable and so ever and only can the universe exist.  

But they are the indifferent occasion for all things and the annulment of all laws.

.

~ Henry David Thoreau

from his journal, 1840

art by roderick maclver

.

film by an Afghan - American woman

.

.

The Black Tulip (2010) [ behind the scene promo ]

The film depicts the fictional Mansouri family who start a restaurant in Kabul named The Poet’s Corner, where artists and writers meet.The story centers on Farishta (Cole), a woman who runs the cafe, where they serve wine in teapots and have poetry readings by locals and members of the U.S. military. This ultimately angers the Taliban who begin kidnapping and assassinating family and friends of the cafe

.

with thanks to everything Afghanistan

.

the best

.

.

When Banzan was walking through a market he over heard a conversation between a butcher and his customer.

"Give me the best piece of meat you have," said the customer.

"Everything in my shop is the best," replied the butcher. 

 "You cannot find here any piece of meat that is not the best."

At these words Banzan became enlightened.

.

from Zen Flesh Zen Bones

compiled by Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki

.

faces

.

.

Have I said it before?  I am learning to see.  Yes, I am beginning. 

 It's still going badly.  But I intend to make the most of my time.

For example, it never occurred to me before how many faces there are.

  There are multitudes of people, but there are many more faces,

 because each person has several of them.  There are people 

who wear the same face for years; naturally it wears out,

 gets dirty, splits at the seams, stretches like gloves worn

 during a long journey.  They are thrifty, uncomplicated people; 

they never change it, never even have it cleaned.  It's good enough,

 they say, and who can convince them of the contrary? Of course, 

since they have several faces, you might wonder what they do

 with the other ones.   They keep them in storage.  Their children will wear them. 

 But sometimes it also happens that their dogs go out wearing them.  

And why not? A face is a face.

Other people change faces incredibly fast, put on one after another,

 and wear them out. At first, they think they have an unlimited supply;

 but when they are barely forty years old they come to their last one.

 There is, to be sure, something tragic about this.  They are not accustomed

 to taking care of faces; their last one is worn through in a week,

 has holes in it, is in many places a thin as paper, and then, little by little,

 the lining shows through, the non-face, and they walk around with that on.

But the woman, the woman: she had completely fallen into herself,

 forward into her hands.  It was on the corner of rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. 

 I began to walk quietly as soon as I saw her.  When poor people 

are thinking, they shouldn't be disturbed.  Perhaps their idea 

will still occur to them.

The street was too empty; its emptiness had gotten bored and pulled my steps

 out from under my feet and clattered around in them, all over the street,

 as if they were wooden clogs.  The woman sat up, frightened, she pulled out

 of herself, too quickly, too violently, so that her face was left in her two hands. 

 I could see it lying there: its hollow form.  It cost me an indescribable effort

 to stay with those two hands, not to look at what had been torn out of them.

  I shuddered to see a face from the inside, but I was much more afraid 

of that bare flayed head waiting there, faceless.

.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke

edited and translated by Stephen Mitchell

art by michael d. edens

.