5 Japanese songs

~ Kathleen Battle

clarity and confusion

VII. 

There are, in fact, moments when a person stands out from his grandeur in clarity and silence before you. These are rare festive pleasures that you never forget. You love this person from then on. In other words, you work to retrace with your own tender hands the outlines of the personality that you came to know in this hour.

VII. 

Art does the same thing. For art is a farther reaching, more immodest love. It is God’s love. It cannot stop with an individual, who is only the portal of life itself: it must move through that individual. It cannot tire. To fulfill its destiny, it has to appear where everyone is — a someone. Then it bestows its gifts on this someone, and boundless riches come over everyone.

XI. 

Art has accomplished nothing, except to show us the confusion in which we already find ourselves most of the time. It has frightened us, rather than making us quiet and peaceful. It has shown us that we all live on different islands, only the islands are not far enough apart for us to stay solitary and untroubled. Someone on one island can pester someone on another, or terrorize him, or hunt him with spears — the only thing no one can do to anyone else is help him.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from Notes on the Melody of Things 

found in The Inner Sky 

translated by Damion Searls

photo by ansel adams

transformed into love

~ Franz Peter Schubert

performed by Andrea Bocelli

Schubert at the piano - by Gustav Klimt

When I wished to sing of love,

 it turned to sorrow. 

And when I wished to sing of sorrow, 

it was transformed for me into love.

~ Schubert

heaven kicks away the blankets and sheets

that because of the wine's pureness

and the crystal clarity of the glass

the color of glass and wine were confused.

All is glass - or, no, all is wine.

All is wine - or, no, all is glass.

When the sky is tainted

with the colors of the sun

heaven kicks away the blankets and sheets,

the shadows of nothingness.  Day and Night

make peace with each other:

thus have the world's affairs been ordered.

~ Fakhruddin 'Iraqi

from Divine Flashes

art by Lynda Lehmann

after the wedding

After the white balloons were swept away

on the wind that had swallowed

most of our vows, after the embraces

and tears, the flung rose petals,

after new friends and old friends and aunts

from all over, after you tossed

the bouquet, and the cries of the children

raised coyote cries on the rim,

after chicken grilled on juniper coals,

cold beer from the cattle trough

and hours of hot dancing to Beatles and Stones,

the last of us swaying arms on shoulders,

singing ourselves hoarse,

how good it is

to find you now beyond all

the loud joy, driving north in rain

and the lovely ease of our silence.

~ John Daniel

with thanks to writers almanac

three stanzas

1.

The knight and his lady

turned to stone but happy

on a flying coffin lid

outside time.

2.

Jesus held up a coin

with Tiberius in profile

a profile without love

power in circulation.

3.

A streaming sword

wipes out the memories.

Trumpet and sword belts

rust in the ground.

~ Tomas Tranströmer

from The Sorrow Gondola

translation by Michael McGriff and Mikaela Grassl

photos of the tomb of Sir John and Lady Isobel de Sully
Sir John died in 1387 at the age of 106

gleninagh

The dark inside us is sistered outside

in night which dislikes the light of the face

and the colours the eye longs to embrace.

Night adores the mountain, wrapped to itself,

a giant heart beating beneath rock and grass

and a mind stilled inside one, sure thought.

Something has broken inside this Spring night,

unconsolably its rain teems unseen

onto Gleninagh Mountain's listening depth.

Next morning the light is cleansed to behold

the glad milk of thirty streams pulse and spurt

out of unknown pores in the mountain's hold.

~ John O'Donohue

from Echoes of Memory

you can smell it and that is all

To acquire the habit of reading 

is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the miseries of life.

His father was in Paris as a lawyer for the British Embassy. At eight years old, his mother died from tuberculosis. His father died of cancer two years later. He was sent back to England into the care of a cold and distant uncle, a vicar.  Miserable at his school. He said later: "I wasn't even likable as a boy. I was withdrawn and unhappy, and rejected most overtures of sympathy over my stuttering and shyness." He became a doctor and practiced in the London slums. He was particularly moved by the women he encountered in the hospital, where he delivered babies; and he was shocked by his fellow doctors' callous approach to the poor. He wrote: "I saw how men died. I saw how they bore pain. I saw what hope looked like, fear and relief; I saw the dark lines that despair drew on a face; I saw courage and steadfastness. I saw faith shine in the eyes of those who trusted in what I could only think was an illusion and I saw the gallantry that made a man greet the prognosis of death with an ironic joke because he was too proud to let those about him see the terror of his soul."

Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. 

There is really nothing to be said about it.

It is like the perfume of a rose: 

you can smell it and that is all.

~ Somerset Maugham

from writers almanac

exposed

November's hunger strips the fields, its thin light

rifles the web and warmth of every nest,

allows the cold day to invade each secret,

absolves the ghosts of leaf that outlast autumn.

Now I can depend less and less on the grace

of spontaneity, talk quickly tires,

words become contrived as the eyes of others

notice my mind unravel in this sallow light.

Intense with silence my room waits for me,

the paintings and open books grown distant,

its window one huge eye on the tree outside;

in the mirror the glimpse of my face draws tears.

~ John O'Donohue

from Echoes of Memory

photo by Christine de Grancy

taking the hands

Taking the hands of someone you love,

You see they are delicate cages . . .

Tiny birds are singing

In the secluded prairies

And in the deep valleys of the hand.

~ Robert Bly

why I write

I write because to write a new sentence, let alone a new poem, is to cross the threshold into both a larger existence and a profound mystery. A thought was not there, then it is. An image, a story, an idea about what it is to be human, did not exist, then it does. With every new poem, an emotion new to the heart, to the world, speaks itself into being. Any new metaphor is a telescope, a canoe in rapids, an MRI machine. And like that MRI machine, sometimes its looking is accompanied by an awful banging. To write can be frightening as well as magnetic. You don't know what will happen when you throw open your windows and doors.

To write a new sentence, let alone a new poem, is to cross the threshold into both a larger existence and a profound mystery.

Why write? You might as well ask a fish, why swim, ask an apple tree, why make apples? The eye wants to look, the ear wants to hear, the heart wants to feel more than it thought it could bear...

The writer, when she or he cannot write, is a person outside the gates of her own being. Not long ago, I stood like that for months, disbarred from myself. Then, one sentence arrived; another. And I? I was a woman in love. For that also is what writing is. Every sentence that comes for a writer when actually writing—however imperfect, however inadequate—every sentence is a love poem to this world and to our good luck at being here, alive, in it.

~ Jane Hirshfield

with thanks to national writing project

their lonely betters

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade

To all the noises that my garden made,

It seemed to me only proper that words

Should be withheld from vegetables and birds

A robin with no Christian name ran through

The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,

And rustling flowers for some third party waited

To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,

There was not one which knew that it was dying

Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme

Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters

Who count some days and long for certain letters;

We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:

Words are for those with promises to keep.

~ W. H. Auden

from Collected Poems

with thanks to writers almanac

when I am not present to myself

When I am not present to myself, 

then I am only aware of that half of me, 

that mode of my being which turns outward to created things. 

 And then it is possible for me to lose myself among them. 

 Then I no longer feel the deep secret pull 

of the gravitation of love which draws my inward self toward God. 

 My will and my intelligence lose their command of the other faculties. 

 My senses, my imagination, my emotions, 

scatter to pursue their various quarries all over the face of the earth. 

 Recollection brings them home. 

 It brings the outward self into line with the inward spirit, 

and makes my whole being answer the deep pull of love 
that reaches down into the mystery of God.

~ Thomas Merton

from No Man is an Island

to swallow back his love

Paul Cézanne in his studio Les Lauves, 1904. Photo by Émile Bernard

The love (in Cezanne's art) is so thoroughly used

up in the action of making that there is no residue.

It may be that this using up of love in anonymous

work, which produces such pure things, was 

never achieved as completely as in the work of this

old man; his inner nature, having grown 

mistrustful and sullen, helped him to do it. He 

would certainly not have shown this love to 

another human being, had he been forced

to conceive such a love; but with this disposition, 

which, thanks to his reclusive eccentricity, was

fully ripened now, he turned to nature and knew 

how to swallow back his love for every apple

and put it to rest in the painted apple forever.

Can you imagine what that is like, and what

it's like to experience this through him?

~ Rilke on Cezanne

art by Paul Cezanne

soul of the world

~ Rumi 
version and reading by Coleman Barks