ten to fifteen years of the laborer's life

In the savage state, every family owns a shelter as good as the best, and sufficient for its coarser and simpler wants; though the birds of the air have their nests, and the foxes their holes, and the savages their wigwams, in modern civilized society not more than one half the families own a shelter.  In the large towns and cities, where civilization especially prevails, the number of those who own a shelter is a very small fraction of a whole.  The rest pay an annual tax for this outside garment of all, become indispensable summer and winter, which would buy a village of Indian wigwams, but now helps to keep them poor as long as they live.  I do not mean to insist here on the disadvantage of hiring compared with owning, but it is evident that the savage owns his shelter because it costs little, while the civilized man hires his commonly because he cannot afford to own it; nor can he, in the long run, any better afford to hire....An average house ... will take a man ten to fifteen years of the laborer's life.

~ Henry David Thoreau

from Walden, "Economy,"  1854

contemplation

Contemplation cannot construct a new world by itself. 

Contemplation does not feed the hungry; it does not clothe the naked… 

and it does not return the sinner to peace, truth, and union with God. 

But without contemplation we cannot see what we do… 

Without contemplation we cannot understand 

the significance of the world in which we must act. 

Without contemplation we remain small, limited, divided, partial; 

we adhere to the insufficient, 

permanently united to our narrow group and its interests, 

losing sight of justice and charity, 

seized by the passions of the moments… 

Without contemplation, 

without the intimate, silent, 

secret pursuit of truth through love, 

our action loses itself in the world and becomes dangerous.

~ Thomas Merton

sketch by the author

in church

Often I try

To analyse the quality

Of its silences.  Is this where God hides

From my searching?  I  have stopped

to listen,

After the few people have gone,

To the air recomposing itself

For vigil.  It has waited like this

Since the stones grouped themselves

about it.

These are the hard ribs

Of a body that our prayers have failed

To animate.  Shadows advance

From their corners to take possession

Of places the light held

For an hour.  The bats resume

Their business.  The uneasiness of the pews

Ceases.  There is no other sound

In the darkness but the sound of a man 

Breathing, testing his faith

On emptiness, nailing his questions 

One by one to an untenanted cross.

~ R. S. Thomas

from Parabola (winter 2011-2012)

the way appears

As you start out on the way,

the way appears.

As you cease to be,

true life begins.

As you grow smaller,

the world cannot contain you.

You will be shown a being

that has no you inside it.

~ Rumi

translation by Coleman Barks

from The Big Red Book

Joyeux anniversaire, Monsieur Rilke

I would like to sing someone to sleep,

to sit beside someone and be there.

I would like to rock you and sing softly

and go with you to and from sleep.

I would like to be the one in the house

who knew: The night was cold.

And I would like to listen in and listen out

into you, into the world, into the woods.

The clocks shout to one another striking,

and one sees to the bottom of time.

And down below one last, strange man walks by

and rouses a strange dog.

And after that comes silence.

I have laid my eyes upon you wide;

and they hold you gently and let you go

when something stirs in the dark.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from The Book of Images

translated by Edward Snow

passport picture 1919

ravens hiding in a shoe

There is something men and women living in houses

Don’t understand. The old alchemists standing

Near their stoves hinted at it a thousand times.

Ravens at night hide in an old woman’s shoe.

A four-year-old speaks some ancient language.

We have lived our own death a thousand times.

Each sentence we speak to friends means the opposite

As well. Each time we say, “I trust in God,” it means

God has already abandoned us a thousand times.

Mothers again and again have knelt in church

In wartime asking God to protect their sons,

And their prayers were refused a thousand times.

The baby loon follows the mother’s sleek

Body for months. By the end of summer, she

Has dipped her head into Rainy Lake a thousand times.

Robert, you've wasted so much of your life

Sitting indoors to write poems. Would you

Do that again? I would, a thousand times.

~ Robert Bly

from Poetry (February 2010)

the sympathies of the long married

Oh well, let's go on eating the grains of eternity.

What do we care about improvements in travel?

Angels sometimes cross the river on old turtles.

Shall we worry about who gets left behind?

That one bird flying through the clouds is enough.

Your sweet face at the door of the house is enough.

The two farm horses stubbornly pull the wagon.

The mad crows carry away the tablecloth.

Most of the time, we live through the night.

Let's not drive the wild angels from our door.

Maybe the mad fields of grain will move.

Maybe the troubled rocks will learn to walk.

It's all right if we're troubled by the night.

It's all right if we can't recall our own name.

It's all right if this rough music keeps on playing.

I've given up worrying about men living alone.

I do worry about the couple who live next door.

Some words heard through the screen door are enough.

~ Robert Bly

art by van gogh

Vermeer

It’s not a sheltered world. The noise begins over there, on the other side of the wall

where the alehouse is

with its laughter and quarrels, its rows of teeth, its tears, its chiming of clocks,

and the psychotic brother-in-law, the murderer, in whose presence

everyone feels fear.

The huge explosion and the emergency crew arriving late,

boats showing off on the canals, money slipping down into pockets

– the wrong man’s –

ultimatum piled on the ultimatum,

widemouthed red flowers whose sweat reminds us of approaching war.

And then straight through the wall — from there — straight into the airy studio

in the seconds that have got permission to live for centuries.

Paintings that choose the name: “The Music Lesson”

or ” A Woman in Blue Reading a Letter.”

She is eight months pregnant, two hearts beating inside her.

The wall behind her holds a crinkly map of Terra Incognita.

Just breathe. An unidentifiable blue fabric has been tacked to the chairs.

Gold-headed tacks flew in with astronomical speed

and stopped smack there

as if there had always been stillness and nothing else.

The ears experience a buzz, perhaps it’s depth or perhaps height.

It’s the pressure from the other side of the wall,

the pressure that makes each fact float

and makes the brushstroke firm.

Passing through walls hurts human beings, they get sick from it,

but we have no choice.

It’s all one world. Now to the walls.

The walls are a part of you.

One either knows that, or one doesn't; but it’s the same for everyone

except for small children. There aren't any walls for them.

The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.

It is like a prayer to what is empty.

And what is empty turns its face to us

and whispers:

“I am not empty, I am open.”

~ Tomas Tranströmer

translation by Robert Bly

from The Winged Energy of Desire

art by Vermeer

the november angels

.

Late dazzle

of yellow

flooding

the simplified woods, 

spare chipping away

of the afternoon-stone

by a small brown finch—

there is little

for them to do,

and so their gossip is

idle, modest:

low-growing,

tiny-white-flowered.

Below,

the Earth-pelt 

dapples and flows 

with slow bees 

that spin

the thick, deep jute

of the gold time’s going,

the pollen’s

traceless retreat; 

kingfishers

enter their kingdom,

their blue crowns on fire,

and feast on

the still-wealthy world.

A single, cold blossom 

tumbles, fledged

from the sky’s white branch.

And the angels

look on,

observing what falls: 

all of it falls.

Their hands hold

no blessings,

no word

for those who walk

in the tall black pines,

who do not

feel themselves falling—

the ones who believe

the loved companion

will hold them forever,

the ones who cross through 

alone and ask for no sign.

The afternoon 

lengthens, steepens,

flares out—

no matter for them.

It is assenting

that makes them angels,

neither increased 

nor decreased

by the clamorous heart:

their only work 

to shine back,

however the passing brightness 

hurts their eyes.

~ Jane Hirshfield

 from Of Gravity and Angels

a morning offering

I bless the night that nourished my heart

To set the ghosts of longing free

Into the flow and figure of dream

That went to harvest from the dark

Bread for the hunger no one sees.

All that is eternal in me

Welcome the wonder of this day,

The field of brightness it creates

Offering time for each thing

To arise and illuminate.

I place on the altar of dawn:

The quiet loyalty of breath,

The tent of thought where I shelter,

Wave of desire I am shore to

And all beauty drawn to the eye.

May my mind come alive today

To the invisible geography

That invites me to new frontiers,

To break the dead shell of yesterdays,

To risk being disturbed and changed.

May I have the courage today

To live the life that I would love,

To postpone my dream no longer

But do at last what I came here for

And waste my heart on fear no more.

~ John O'Donohue

notice to quit

John had a disreputable old uncle who was the tenant of a poor little farm beside his father's.  One day when John came in from the garden, he found a great hubbub in the house.  His uncle was sitting there with his cheeks the colour of ashes.  His mother was crying.  His father was sitting very still with a solemn face.  And there, in the midst of them, was the Steward with his mask on,  John crept round to his mother and asked her what the matter was.

'Poor Uncle George has had notice to quit,' she said.

'Why?' said John.

'His lease is up.  The Landlord has sent him notice to quit.'

'But didn't you know how long the lease was for?'

'Oh, no, indeed we did not.  We thought it was for years and years more.  I am sure the Landlord never gave us any idea he was going to turn him out at a moment's notice like this.'
'Ah, but it doesn't need any notice,' broke in the Steward. 'You know he always retains the right to turn anyone out whenever he chooses.  It is very good of him to let any of us stay here at all.'

'To be sure, to be sure,' said the mother.
'That goes without saying,' said the father.
'I'm not complaining,' said Uncle George.  'But it seems cruelly hard.'
'Not at all, ' said the Steward.  'You've only got to go to the Castle and knock at the gate and see the Landlord himself.  You know that he's only turning you out of here to make you much more comfortable somewhere else.  Don't you?'
Uncle George nodded. He did not seem able to get his voice.


...


'Mother.'
'Well, dear?'
'Could any of us be turned out without notice like that any day?'
'Well, yes.  But it is very unlikely.'
But we might be?'
'You oughtn't to be thinking of that sort of thing at your age.'
'Why oughtn't I?'
'It's not healthy.  A boy like you.'
'Mother.'
'Yes?'
'Can we break off the lease without notice too?'
'How do you mean?'
Well, the Landlord can turn us out of the farm whenever he likes.  Can we leave the farm whenever we like?'
'No, certainly not.'
Why not?'
'That's in the lease.  We must go when he likes, and stay as long as he likes.'
'Why?'
'I suppose because he makes the leases.'
'What would happen if we did leave?'
'He would be very angry.'
'Would he put us in the black hole?'
'Perhaps.'
'Mother.'
'Well, dear?'
'Will the Landlord put Uncle George in the black hole?'
'How dare you say such a thing about your poor uncle? Of course he won't.'
'But hasn't Uncle George broken all the rules?'
'Broken all the rules? Your Uncle George was a very good man.'
'You never told me that before,' said John.




~ C. S. Lewis
from The Pilgrim's Regress

legs and super powers

~ Aimee Mullins

with thanks to Chemin faisant

the voices

.

It's OK for the rich and the lucky to keep still,

no one wants to know about them anyway,

But those in need have to step forward,

have to say: I am blind,

or: I'm about to go blind,

or: nothing is going well with me,

or: I have a child who is sick,

or: right there I'm sort of glued together...

And probably that doesn't do anything either.

They have to sing; if they didn't sing, everyone

would walk past, as if they were fences or trees.

That's where you can hear good singing.

People really are strange: they prefer

to hear castratos in boychoirs.

But God himself comes and stays a long time

when the world of half-people start to bore him.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

translation by Robert Bly

art by van gogh

for the senses

May the touch of your skin 

Register the beauty

Of the otherness

That surrounds you.

May your listening be attuned

To the deeper silence

Where sound is honed

To bring distance home.

May the fragrance

Of a breathing meadow

Refresh your heart

And remind you you are

A child of the earth.

And when you partake

Of food and drink,

May your taste quicken 

To the gift and sweetness

That flows from the earth.

May your inner eye

See through the surfaces

And glean the real presence

Of everything that meets you.

May your soul beautify

The desire of your eyes 

That you might glimpse

The infinity that hides

In the simple sights 

That seem worn

To your usual eyes.

~ John O'Donohue

from To Bless the Space Between Us

the fleeting quality of the light

I would like to paint the way a bird sings

~ Claude Monet

 born in Paris in 1840

He met Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Alfred Sisley, and Frédéric Bazille; the four young artists became disillusioned with the meticulous detail that was fashionable in academic circles, and they began experimenting with a new style of landscape painting, producing rapid "sketches" using short, broken brushstrokes and trying to capture, above all, the fleeting quality of the light.