the vast man

.

But sweeter still than laughter and greater than longing came to me.

It was the boundless in you;

The vast man in whom you are all but cells and sinews;

He in whose chant all your singing is but a soundless throbbing.

It is in the vast man that you are vast,

And in beholding him that I beheld you and loved you.

For what distances can love reach that are not in that vast sphere?

What visions, what expectations and what presumptions can outsoar that flight?

Like a giant oak tree covered with apple blossoms is the vast man in you.

His might binds you to the earth, his fragrance lifts you into space, and in his durability you are deathless.

~ Kahlil Gibran

from The Prophet

photo by Jack Spenser

the beginning of terror

.

For beauty is nothing

but the beginning of terror, which we still are able to endure,

and we are so awed because it serenely disdains

to annihilate us.

~  Rainer Maria Rilke

from Duino Elegies, The First Elegy

puppet play

.

My body lives in the city,

But my essence dwells in the mountains.

The affairs of a puppet play

Are not to be taken too seriously.

When the polar mountain fits into a mustard seed,

All the words in the universe may as well be erased.

My mind is like a jade jar of ice,

Never invaded by even half a mote of dust.

Though the jade jar be obscured without,

I pay no mind at all -

On the terrace of Immortals,

I climb straight to the highest level.

~ Wu Cailuan (9th century)

from Immortal Sisters: Secret Teachings of Taoist Women

photo by Ansel Adams

quenched and still

.

I gave up my house

and set out into homelessness.

I gave up my child, my cattle,

and all that I loved.

I gave up desire and hate.

My ignorance was thrown out.

I pulled out craving

along with its root.

Now I am quenched and still.

~ Sangha (6th-5th centuries BCE)

translated by Susan Murcott

Her work is recorded in Pali in the Therigatha,

 the book of enlightenment poetry of Buddhist nuns.

the reed flute's song

.

Listen to the story told by the reed,

of being separated.

"Since I was cut from the reedbed,

I have made this crying sound.

Anyone apart from someone he loves

understands what I say.

Anyone pulled from the source

longs to go back.

At any gathering I am there,

mingling in the laughing and grieving,

a friend to each, but few

will hear the secrets hidden

within the notes.  No ears for that.

Body flowing out of spirit,

spirit up from body: no concealing

that mixing.  But it's not given us

to see the soul.  The reed flute

is fire, not wind.  Be that empty."

Hear the love fire tangled

in the reed notes, as bewilderment

melts into wine.  The reed is a friend

to all who want the fabric torn

and drawn away.  The reed is hurt

and salve combining.  Intimacy

and longing for intimacy, one

song.  A disastrous surrender

and a fine love, together.  The one

who secretly hears this is senseless.

A tongue has one customer, the ear.

A sugarcane flute has such effect

because it was able to make sugar

in the reedbed.  The sound it makes

is for everyone.  Days full of wanting,

let them go by without worrying

that they do.  Stay where you are

inside such a pure, hollow note.

Every thirst gets satisfied except

that of these fish, the mystics,

who swim a vast ocean of grace

still somehow longing for it!

No one lives in that without

being nourished every day.

But if someone doesn't want to hear

the song of the reed flute,

it's best to cut conversation

short, say good-bye, and leave.

~ Rumi

version by Coleman Barks

from The Essential Rumi

the remains

.

I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.

I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.

At night I turn back the clocks;

I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.

I say my own name. I say goodbye.

The words follow each other downwind.

I love my wife but send her away.

My parents rise out of their thrones

into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?

Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.

I empty myself of my life and my life remains.

~ Mark Strand

photo by Nancy Crampton

something that is neither yours nor from yourself

.

To belong to Allah

Is to see in your own existence

And in all that pertains to it

Something that is neither yours

Nor from yourself,

Something you have on loan;

To see your being in His Being,

Your subsistence in His Subsistence,

Your strength in His Strength:

Thus you will recognize in yourself

His title to possession of you

As Lord,

And your own title as servant:

Which is Nothingness. 

~ Thomas Merton

in response to writings of  Ibn Abbad

by technique?

.

All truly contemplatives souls have this in common: 

not that they gather exclusively in the desert, 

or that they shut themselves up in reclusion, 

but that where He is, there they are. 

And how do they find Him? By technique? 

There is no technique for finding Him. 

They find Him by His will. And His will, 

bringing them grace within and arranging their lives exteriorly, 

carries them infallibly to the precise place in which they can find Him. 

Even there they do not know how they have got there, 

or what they are really doing.

Thomas Merton

from  Thoughts in Solitude

sketch by the author

 

entrance

.

Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,

Out of the room that lets you feel secure.

Infinity is open to your sight.

Whoever you are.

With eyes that have forgotten how to see

From viewing things already too well-known,

Lift up into the dark a huge, black tree

And put it in the heavens: tall, alone.

And you have made the world and all you see.

It ripens like the words still in your mouth.

And when at last you comprehend its truth,

Then close your eyes and gently set it free.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

sitting together

.

We sit in this courtyard,

two forms, shadow outlines with one soul.

Birdsound, leaf moving, early evening star,

fragrant damp, and a sweet sickle curve of moon.

You and I in a round, unselved idling

in the garden-beauty detail.

The raucous parrots laugh,

and we laugh inside their laughter, 

the two of us on a bench in Konya, 

yet amazingly in Khorasan and Iraq as well.

Friends abiding this form,

yet also in another, outside of time, you and I.

~ Rumi

translation by Coleman Barks

from The Big Red Book

the angel standing in the sun

.

by J.M.W. Turner

from the Tate Gallery, London

For those with eyes to see, the world is filled with the glory of God.

wine grapes for breakfast

.

Sweet

at first

on the tongue,

hours later

the red grapes

still sting,

as if trying 

to tell me something -

what the hook

tells the fish

perhaps,

or the wand

or stick hears

before conductor 

or mule driver

brings it down.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Lives of the Heart

counsel

.

It is possible 

that even the best counsel

cannot be processed

by the body.

All supplements to

our personal chemistry

are screened by tiny fanatical secret organs

that refuse much more than

they accept.  It is hard

to add even minerals.

Iron tablets, for example,

are not correct

and pass through us like

windowless alien crafts.

What the body wants is so exact.

~ Kay Ryan

from The Best of It

song of a man who has come through

.

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!

A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.

If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!

If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!

If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed

By the fine, fine, wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world

Like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;

If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge

Driven by invisible blows,

The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides.

Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,

I would be a good fountain, a good well-head,

Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

What is the knocking?

What is the knocking at the door in the night?

It is somebody wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.

Admit them, admit them.

~ D.H. Lawrence

from The Complete Poems of  D.H. Lawrence

many thanks to poetry chaikhana

a cedary fragrance

.

Even now,

decades after,

I wash my face with cold water –

Not for discipline,

nor memory,

nor the icy, awakening slap,

but to practice

choosing

to make the unwanted wanted.

~ Jane Hirshfield

 from Given Sugar, Given Salt

art by Cecile Chalouni