the lips of insanity

~ Coleman Barks

~ Rumi

wait for the hour

Always trust yourself and your own feeling, 

as opposed to argumentations, discussion, 

or introductions of that sort; if it turns out that you are wrong, 

then the natural growth of your inner life will eventually guide you to other insights. 

Allow your judgments their own silent, undisturbed development, 

which, like all progress, must come from deep within 

and cannot be forced or hastened. 

Everything is gestation and then birthing. 

To let each impression and each embryo of a feeling come to completion,

 entirely in itself, in the dark, in the unsayable, the unconscious, 

beyond the reach of one’s own understanding, and with deep humility 

and patience to wait for the hour when a new clarity is born: 

this alone is what it means to live as an artist: in understanding as in creating.

~Rainer Maria Rilke

from Letters to a young poet, letter 3

translation by Stephen Mitchell
image found at art42

many waves

each image painted

on the canvas of existence

is the form

of the artist himself.

Eternal Ocean

spews forth new waves,

"Waves" we call them;

but there is only the Sea.

Many and disparate waves do not make the sea a multiplicity;

no more do the Names make the Named more than One.

When the sea breathes they call it mist;

when mist piles up they call it clouds.

It falls again,

they name it rain;

it gathers itself and rejoins the sea.

And it is now the same sea it ever was.

~ Fakhruddin 'Iraqi

from Divine Flashes

meditation

~ Jiddu Krishnamurti, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche

utterance

Sitting over words

very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing

not far

like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark

the echo of everything that has ever

been spoken

still spinning its one syllable

between the earth and silence

~ W. S. Merwin

 from The Rain in the Trees

the conditional

Say tomorrow doesn't come. 

Say the moon becomes an icy pit. 

Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified. 

Say the sun's a foul black tire fire. 

Say the owl's eyes are pinpricks. 

Say the raccoon's a hot tar stain. 

Say the shirt's plastic ditch-litter. 

Say the kitchen's a cow's corpse. 

Say we never get to see it: bright 

future, stuck like a bum star, never 

coming close, never dazzling. 

Say we never meet her. Never him. 

Say we spend our last moments staring 

at each other, hands knotted together,

clutching the dog, watching the sky burn. 

Say, It doesn't matter. Say, That would be 

enough. Say you'd still want this: us alive, 

right here, feeling lucky.

~ Ada Limón

with thanks again to Lisa

about this poem the author said,

"There is so much to worry about. 
All the time, so much worry. 
Here, I wanted to take all the worry as far out as I could 
and then stamp it out 
under the heavy black boot of love." 

the wealth of poverty

I have seen that the lane of piety stretches out,

far, far into the distance;

My dearest friends, can you not show me then

the way of the madman?

Bring me a glass of Magian wine

that I may drink deep

for I have given up all thought

of ascetic piety;

or if the pure wine has all been downed

bring me the cloudy dregs

for thick residue lights up the heart 

and illuminates the eyes.

Tuppence for the Sufi meeting house!

I flee the company of the righteous;

fill up a row of glasses with wine

and bring me the first.

I have no rules or regulations,

nor heart nor religion -

only I remain, and you, sitting in the corner

and the wealth of Poverty.

All fear of God, all self-denial I deny;

bring wine, nothing but wine

for in all sincerity I repent

my worship which is but hypocrisy.

Yes, bring me wine, for I have renounced all renunciation

and all my vaunted self-righteousness

seems to me but swagger and self-display.

Now for a time let my proof be wine

against the sorrow of Time

for only in drunkenness can one be free

of the hour's grief.

Once I am thoroughly drunk, what difference

if I end up in a church or in Mecca?

Once I've abandoned myself, what matter

if I win Union - or separation?

I've been to the gambling house and seen 

that the losers there are pure;

I've been to the monastery and have found

no one but hypocrites.

Now I've broken my repentance, at least

do not break our covenant:

at least welcome this broken heart and say

"How are you? Where have you been?"

I've been to Mecca, to circle the Kaaba

but they refused me entrance

saying "Off with you!  What merit have you earned

outside, that we should admit you within?"

Then, last night, I knocked

at the tavern door;

from within came a voice: "'Iraqi! Come in!

for you are one of the chosen!"

~ Fakhruddin 'Iraqi

from the introduction to Divine Flashes

translation by William Chittick and Peter Wilson

three times my life has opened

.

Three times my life has opened.

Once, into darkness and rain.

Once, into what the body carries at all times within it and starts

to remember each time it enters the act of love.

Once, to the fire that holds all.

These three are not different.

You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.

But outside my window all day a maple has stepped from her leaves

like a woman in love with winter, dropping the colored silks.

Neither are we different in what we know.

There is a door.  It opens.  Then it is closed.  But a slip of light

stays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor,

or the one red leaf the snow releases in March.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from The Lives of the Heart

a wind-swept spirit

In this mortal frame of mine, which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices, there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit, for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind.  

This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business.  It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering  between doubts of one kind and another. 

At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its unquenchable love of poetry.  The fact is, it knows no other art than writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more of less blindly.

~ Matsuo Basho

from Journal of a Travel-Worn Satchel

translated by Nobuyuki Yuasa

A wanderer all his life both in body and spirit, Basho concerned himself less with destination than with the quality of the traveler's attention.  A poem, he said, only exists while it's on the writing desk; by the time its ink has dried, it should be recognized as just a scrap of paper.  In poetry as in life, he saw each moment as gate-latch.  Permeability mattered more in this process than product or will:  "If we were to gain mastery over things, we would find their lives would vanish under us without a trace."

~ Jane Hirshfield 

from The Heart of Haiku

this was once a love poem

This was once a love poem,

before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short,

before it found itself sitting,

perplexed and a little embarrassed,

on the fender of a parked car,

while many people passed by without turning their heads.

It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement.

It remembers choosing these shoes,

this scarf or tie. Once, it drank beer for breakfast,

drifted its feet

in a river side by side with the feet of another.

Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy,

dropping its head so the hair would fall forward,

so the eyes would not be seen. It spoke with passion of history, of art.

It was lovely then, this poem.

Under its chin, no fold of skin softened.

Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat.

What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.

An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks.

The longing has not diminished.

Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat,

the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus. Yes, it decides:

many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots.

When it finds itself disquieted

by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life,

it will touch them-one, then another-

with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Given Sugar Given Salt

with thanks to writers almanac

the birds' doubt

The hoopoe intones: 'So you must desire with your heart and more

Beyond the enticement of words and knowledge of the stars.

You must want with all your being, you must be sure

Of your substance, which first you have to find far

Within you, to mine your soul's gold to start on the Way.

If you cannot stomach a grain nor sip a simple glass

How do you think that you can sit at the Simurgh's table, pray?

If you drown in a drop, blotted out by a hand's pass,

You will never learn to plumb the depths nor rise 

To the heaven you say you seek, that waits for you.

You must learn to be bewildered, restore surprise

In your heart and eyes, and learn to know what's true.'

The birds consider his challenge with hooded eyes, let it burn

Their serried minds, then they reply: 'We are weak

And aimless atoms, we have no wit to seek and discern

Him who stands above and beyond yet within, we cannot seek

What we do not understand.  He is Solomon, the Ark

That contains us all, we are peripheral, mere ants

At the bottom of the pit scrabbling about in the dark.

We cannot see nor speak of the great Simurgh, we pant

With trepidation when we even begin to consider His being;

He is beyond all moral exchange, or the burden of seeing.'

The hoopoe hears these words with rising ire:

'You are without true aspiration, your hearts are 

Devoid of discrimination, you chatter as you enter the fire

Unwittingly, you fail to see that you can be within that far

And near mystery if only you would charter love and set out

With opened eyes, do not falter, discount your petty life here.

He is the light that ferries shadows which crave to live without

But always fail, His gaze turns them into fleeing birds where

All is form and substance erased; you are shadows of His word.

You must pierce this empty space with your shadowed mind

And if you speak with the discipline of love, you will sense

The Simurgh's shadow which is you, and in your desert find

The Way, that ocean in which you can immerse yourself, in His being

That resides in your heart and in the planted stars without you seeing.'

~ Farid ud-Din Attar

from The Conference of Birds

interpreted by Raficq Abdulla

photo of the Folger Shakespear Theatre's production

by Scott Suchman

as intimately as if it were your own body

When I start to write, I’m not a guide or teacher; I’m not even a poet. I’m a person far out at sea, and the poem is a raft made of whatever floats past in the water. Those almost accidental rescuing pieces are words, rhythms, musics, ideas, the memory that is mine and the memory that is all of ours and the memory that is held in language itself. The experience of writing, for me at least, isn’t confidence or wisdom; it’s closer to desperation. You are naked as Odysseus when he’s lost his ship and all his men, before he’s met by the courageous young girl Nausicaa—a version perhaps of the rescuing muse, who helps us find our way back into the world shared with others but only if we bring our own resourcefulness to the situation as well. There is some faint memory that this raft business has worked before, some memory of knot-tying, of the intention to live. There is that in us that recognizes: “this is water; this is land.” A poem is land found, as if for the first time. If I already knew what it would hold, I wouldn’t need the poem, and if what it holds were knowable by any other words or way, I wouldn’t need the poem. 

 You have to welcome both your own strangeness and your own fierceness. And you have to have an ear, an eye, that will recognize when a poem has stumbled in its music, seeing, courage, or path, so you can know that you need to work with it further, to ask of it more.

[Poems offer] A door. One that stands outside our usual addresses and maps—or more truly, perhaps, many doors at once, that lead simultaneously outward and inward, into both the life we share with others and the privacy in which self can take stock with original eyes. I hope my poems might offer: “Here is one experience of life, of its possibilities, exhilarations, bewilderments, griefs. Enter. Now, here is another.” When we bring that spirit of openness, permeability, exploration, and courage into our lives and our hands, everything else follows: a deeper saturation and compassion, a recalibrating sense of proportion, an increase of the possible. Good poems make clarity without making simple. They do not erase darkness; if anything, they open into it.

It's odd perhaps that many of the moments in my life I'm most grateful for are those in which nothing seems to have happened. Yet everything that followed was changed by those moments outside of eventfulness, because I was changed. Thought takes time, feeling takes time. The deepest thought and feeling stop time entirely. You disappear into the poem, the painting, the mountain, the music, the idea, the emotion, the loved person. You disappear into action, even, as every athlete or dancer knows. And by that disappearance, you become your own fullest self, unlimited by ego or skin. Something in us recognizes the sanity of not being so worried about periphery and center. You emerge from those time-stopping moments more able to take care of both your own life and the lives of everyone and everything, which are also yours. If a slope in Patagonia is ruined by toxins or erosion, that's felt as intimately as if it were your own body.

~ Jane Hirshfield 

from an interview with Kim Rosen

spirituality & health

opening

~ Coleman Barks and Robert Bly

with Bill Moyers

on Rumi

near field

This is not something new or kept secret

the tilled ground unsown in late spring

the dead are not separate from the living

each has one foot in the unknown

and cannot speak for the other

the field tells none of its turned story

it lies under its low cloud like a waiting river

the dead made this out of their hunger

out of what they had been told

out of the pains and shadows

and bowels of animals

out of turning and 

coming back singing

about another time

~ W. S. Merwin

from The Shadow of Sirius

photo by Kathleen Connally

there is no poverty

There is only one way: Go within. Search for the cause, find the impetus that bids you write. Put it to this test: Does it stretch out its roots in the deepest place of your heart? Can you avow that you would die if you were forbidden to write? Above all, in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: Must I write? Dig deep into yourself for a true answer. And if it should ring its assent, if you can confidently meet this serious question with a simple, "I must," then build your life upon it. It has become your necessity. Your life, in even the most mundane and least significant hour, must become a sign, a testimony to this urge.

Then draw near to nature. Pretend you are the very first man and then write what you see and experience, what you love and lose. Do not write love poems, at least at first; they present the greatest challenge. It requires great, fully ripened power to produce something personal, something unique, when there are so many good and sometimes even brilliant renditions in great numbers. Beware of general themes. Cling to those that your every- day life offers you. Write about your sorrows, your wishes, your passing thoughts, your belief in anything beautiful. Describe all that with fervent, quiet, and humble sincerity. In order to express yourself, use things in your surroundings, the scenes of your dreams, and the subjects of your memory.

If your everyday life appears to be unworthy subject matter, do not complain to life. Complain to yourself. Lament that you are not poet enough to call up its wealth. For the creative artist there is no poverty—nothing is insignificant or unimportant. Even if you were in a prison whose walls would shut out from your senses the sounds of the outer world, would you not then still have your childhood, this precious wealth, this treasure house of memories? Direct your attention to that. Attempt to resurrect these sunken sensations of a distant past. You will gain assuredness. Your aloneness will expand and will become your home, greeting you like the quiet dawn. Outer tumult will pass it by from afar.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from Letters to a Young Poet  (the first letter)

translated by Joan M. Burnham