the tombs of the resurrected

.

.

This was the time which began with his feeling as general and anonymous as a slowly recovering convalescent.  He didn't love anything, unless it could be said that he loved existing.  The humble love that his sheep felt for him was no burden;  like sunlight falling through clouds, it dispersed around him and softly shimmered upon the meadows.  On the innocent trail of their hunger, he walked silently over pastures of the world.  Strangers saw him on the Acropolis, and perhaps for many years he was one of the shepherds in Les Baux, and saw petrified time outlast that noble family which, in spite of all their conquests under the holy numbers seven and three, could not overcome the fatal sixteen-rayed star on their own coat-of-arms.  Or should I imagine him at Orange, resting against the rustic triumphal arch?  Should I see him in the soul-inhabited shade of Alyscamps, where, among the tombs that lie open as the tombs of the resurrected, his glance chases a dragonfly?

.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

translated by Stephen Mitchell

a desire to set himself adrift

.

A river tugs at whatever is within reach, trying to set it afloat and carry it downstream.  Living trees are undermined and washed away.  No piece of driftwood is safe, though stranded high up the bank; the river will rise to it, and away it will go.

The river extends this power of drawing all things with it even to the imagination of those who live on its banks.  Who can long watch the ceaseless lapsing of a river's current without conceiving a desire to set himself adrift, and, like the driftwood which glides past, float with the stream clear to the final ocean.

~ Harlan Hubbard

from Shantyboat - A River Way of Life

reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night,

massive congregations of greenish phytoplankton 

swirl in dark water around Sweden’s Gotland island 

in a satellite picture by the U.S. Geological Survey

to a child dancing in the wind

.

Dance there upon the shore;

What need have you to care

For wind or water’s roar?

And tumble out your hair

That the salt drops have wet;

Being young you have not known

The fool’s triumph, nor yet

Love lost as soon as won,

Nor the best labourer dead

And all the sheaves to bind.

What need have you to dread

The monstrous crying of wind?

II

Has no one said those daring

Kind eyes should be more learn’d?

Or warned you how despairing

The moths are when they are burned,

I could have warned you, but you are young,

So we speak a different tongue.

O you will take whatever’s offered

And dream that all the world’s a friend,

Suffer as your mother suffered,

Be as broken in the end.

But I am old and you are young,

And I speak a barbarous tongue.

~ William Butler Yeats

(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)

from Responsibilities and Other Poems, 1916

thanks to woods lot

courting forgetfulness

.

It's hard to know what sort of rough music

Could send our forgetfulness back into the ground,

From which the gravediggers pulled it years ago.

The first moment of the day we court forgetfulness.

Even when we are fully awake, a century can

Go by in the space of a single heartbeat.

The life we lose through forgetfulness resembles

The earth that sticks to the sides of plowshares

And the eggs the hen has abandoned in the woods.

A thousand gifts were given to us in the womb.

We lost hundreds during the forgetfulness of birth,

And we lost the old heaven on the first day of school.

Forgetfulness resembles the snow that weighs down

The fir boughs; behind our house you'll find

A forest going on for hundreds of miles.

It's to our credit that we can remember

So many lines of Rilke, but the purpose of forgetfulness

Is to remember the last time we left this world.

~ Robert Bly

from Talking into the Ear of a Donkey

for Japan

.

to the present visitors

Now we come to the famous classroom 

where every year a fortunate few

in the days of their youth study

autumn forgetting the numbers beforehand

as they have been doing since the words 

were all in Latin no cameras

allowed in here notice the slight breeze 

from the windows here among the trees

and the fragrance at the end of spring

notice the leaves outside the window frames

the new grass in the light of morning

notice the charts of colors on the walls

set in order and the moons in the calendars

the constellations the dark dials

the portraits of flowers still as the tables

here they study what is too far away

ever to grasp and too near to recognize

notice the leaves changing as we watch

then it will be summer and these studies

will be over and then it will be autumn

and most of them will be forgotten

notice the bell in place outside the door

and the dog lying near the foot of the stairs

waiting for a time that she remembers

~ W.S. Merwin

from Present Company

art by van gogh

stranger (excerpt)

.

Closer and clearer

Than any wordy master

Thou inward Stranger

Whom I have never seen,

Deeper and cleaner

Than the clamorous ocean,

Seize up my silence

Hold me in Thy Hand!

Now act is waste

And suffering undone

Laws become prodigals

Limits are torn down

For envy has no property

And passion is none.

Look, the vast Light stands still

Our cleanest Light is One!

.

~ Thomas Merton

from The Collected Poems of Thomas Merton

art by picasso

get your living by loving

.

The great art of life is how to turn the surplus life of the soul into life for the body - 

so that life be not a failure... 

If I should sell both my forenoons and afternoons to society, 

as most appear to do, 

I am sure that for me there would be nothing left worth living for.  

I trust that I shall never thus sell my birthright for a mess of pottage.  

I wish to suggest that a man may be very industrious, and yet not spend his time well.  

There is no more fatal blunderer than he who consumes the greater part of his life getting his living.  

All great enterprises are self-supporting.  

The poet, for instance, must sustain his body by his poetry, 

as a steam planing mill feeds its boiler with the shavings it makes.  

You must get your living by loving.

.

~ Henry David Thoreau

from his journal, March 13, 1853

art by roderick maclver

the active life -

.

to the present tense

.

By the time you are

by the time you come to be

by the time you read this

by the time you are written

by the time you forget

by the time you are water through fingers

by the time you are taken for granted

by the time it hurts 

by the time it goes on hurting

by the time there are no words for you

by the time you remember

but without names

by the time you are in the papers

and on the telephone

passing unnoticed there too

who is it

to whom you come 

before whose very eyes

you are disappearing

without making yourself known

.

~ W.S. Merwin

from Present Company

respite

Day after quiet day passes.

I speak to no one besides the dog.

To her,

I murmur much I would not otherwise say.

We make plans

then break them on a moment's whim.

She agrees;

though sometimes bringing

to my attention a small blue ball.

Passing the fig tree

I see it is

 suddenly huge with green fruit,

which may ripen or not.

Near the gate,

I stop to watch

the sugar ants climb the top bar

and cross at the latch,

as they have now in summer for years.

In this way I study my life.

It is,

I think today,

like a dusty glass vase.

A little water, 

a few flowers would be good,

I think;

but do nothing. Love is far away.

Incomprehensible sunlight falls on my hand.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from The Lives of the Heart

where does the dance begin, where does it end?

.

.

Don't call the world adorable, or useful, that's not it.

It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.

The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.

The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.

But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white feet of the trees

whose mouths open.

Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?

Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe, until at last, now, the shine

in your own yard?

Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.

When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking

outward, to the mountains so solidly there

in a white-capped ring, or was he looking

to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea

that was also there,

beautiful as a thumb

curved and touching the finger, tenderly,

little love-ring,

as he whirled,

oh jug of breath,

in the garden of dust?

.

~ Mary Oliver

from Why I wake Early

each separate fragment

.

Love all that has been created by God,

 both the whole and every grain of sand. 

Love every leaf and every ray of light. 

Love the beasts and the birds, love the plants, 

love every separate fragment. 

If you love each separate fragment, 

you will understand the mystery of the whole resting in God. 

~ Dostoyevsky

dog and bear

The air this morning,

blowing between fog and drizzle,

is like a white dog in the snow

who scents a white bear in the snow

who is not there.

Deeper than seeing,

deeper than hearing,

they stand and glare, one at the other.

So many listen lost, in every weather.

The mind has mountains,

Hopkins wrote, against his sadness.

The dog held the bear at bay, that day.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from After

photo by  Kathleen Connally

to be admired

.

They are to be admired those survivors

of solitude who have gone with no maps

into the room without feature,

where no wilderness awaits a footstep trace,

no path of dance to a cold summit

to look back on and feel exuberant,

no clarity of territories yet untouched

that tremble near the human breath,

no thickets of undergrowth with deep pores

to nest the litanies of wind addicted birds,

no friendship of other explorers

drawn into the dawn of the unknown.

No. They do not belong to the outside worship

of the earth, but risk themselves in the interior

space where the senses have nothing to celebrate,

where the air intensifies the intrusion of the human

and a poultice of silence pulls every sound

out of a circulation down into the ground,

where in the panic of being each breath unravels

an ever deeper strand in the web of weaving mind,

shawls of though fall off, empty and lost,

where the only red scream of blood continues unheard

within anonymous skin, and the end of all exploring

is the relentless arrival at an ever novel nowhere. 

~ John O'Donohue

from Echoes of Memory