the voice under all silences

being to timelessness as it's to time,

love did no more begin than love will end;

where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim

love is the air the ocean and the land

(do lovers suffer?all divinities

proudly descending put on deathful flesh:

are lovers glad?only their smallest joy's

a universe emerging from a wish)

love is the voice under all silences,

the hope which has no opposite in fear;

the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:

the truth more first than sun more last than star

-do lovers love?why then to heaven with hell.

Whatever sages say and fools,all's well

~ e.e.cummings
photo by Eliot Porter

sighs from the deep sea of affection

I am dotted silver threads dropped from heaven 

By the gods. Nature then takes me, to adorn 

Her fields and valleys. 

I am beautiful pearls, plucked from the 

Crown of Ishtar by the daughter of Dawn 

To embellish the gardens. 

When I cry the hills laugh; 

When I humble myself the flowers rejoice; 

When I bow, all things are elated. 

The field and the cloud are lovers 

And between them I am a messenger of mercy. 

I quench the thirst of one; 

I cure the ailment of the other. 

The voice of thunder declares my arrival; 

The rainbow announces my departure. 

I am like earthly life, which begins at 

The feet of the mad elements and ends 

Under the upraised wings of death. 

I emerge from the heard of the sea 

Soar with the breeze. When I see a field in 

Need, I descend and embrace the flowers and 

The trees in a million little ways. 

I touch gently at the windows with my 

Soft fingers, and my announcement is a 

Welcome song. All can hear, but only 

The sensitive can understand. 

The heat in the air gives birth to me, 

But in turn I kill it, 

As woman overcomes man with 

The strength she takes from him. 

I am the sigh of the sea; 

The laughter of the field; 

The tears of heaven. 

So with love - 

Sighs from the deep sea of affection; 

Laughter from the colorful field of the spirit; 

Tears from the endless heaven of memories.

~ Kahlil Gibran

from Tears and Laughter

greet yourself in your thousand other forms

Leave the familiar for a while.

Let your senses and bodies stretch out

Like a welcomed season

Onto the meadows and shores and hills.

Open up to the Roof.

Make a new water-mark on your excitement

And love.

Like a blooming night flower,

Bestow your vital fragrance of happiness

And giving

Upon our intimate assembly.

Change rooms in your mind for a day.

All the hemispheres in existence

Lie beside an equator

In your heart.

Greet Yourself

In your thousand other forms

As you mount the hidden tide and travel

Back home.

All the hemispheres in heaven

Are sitting around a fire

Chatting

While stitching themselves together

Into the Great Circle inside of

You.

.

~ Hafiz

few are willing

To deliver oneself up,

to hand oneself over,

entrust oneself completely to the silence

of a wide landscape of woods and hills,

or sea and desert; to sit still while

the sun comes up over the land

and fills its silences with light.

...few are willing to belong completely

to such silence, to let it soak into their bones,

to breathe nothing but silence, to feed

on silence, and to turn the very substance of their life

into a living and vigilant silence.

~ Thomas Merton

from Thoughts in Solitude

life which makes us strangers

 

life is other, always there,

further off, beyond you and

beyond me, always on the horizon,

life which unlives us and makes us strangers,

that invents our face and wears it away

...

I heard my blood, singing in its prison,

and the sea sang with a murmur of light,

one by one the walls gave way,

all of the doors were broken down,

and the sun came bursting through my forehead,

it tore apart my closed lids,

cut loose my being from its wrappers,

and pulled me out of myself to wake me

from this animal sleep and its centuries of stone

~ Octavio Paz

from Sunstone/Piedra De Sol

for the Lobaria, Usnea, Witches Hair, Map Lichen, Beard Lichen, Ground Lichen, Shield Lichen

Back then, what did I know?

The names of subway lines, buses.

How long it took to walk twenty blocks.

Uptown and downtown.

Not north, not south, not you.

When I saw you, later, seaweed reefed in the air,

you were gray-green, incomprehensible, old.

What you clung to, hung from: old.

Trees looking half-dead, stones.

Marriage of fungi and algae,

chemists of air,

changers of nitrogen-unusable into nitrogen-usable.

Like those nameless ones

who kept painting, shaping, engraving

unseen, unread, unremembered.

Not caring if they were no good, if they were past it.

Rock wools, water fans, earth scale, mouse ears, dust,

ash-of-the-woods.

Transformers unvalued, uncounted.

Cell by cell, word by word, making a world they could live in

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Come, Thief

in the melody of silence

 

In the melody of silence,

Each note is a prayer,

Each break, a return to the Source.

Those who have passed through the tempests of ego,

And the torments of the spirit,

Know that this music is not found in the noise of the world,

But in inner quietude,

Where heaven and earth meet,

In the sacred union of being and non-being.

The melody of silence is the voice of Love,

Who speaks without words,

Who touches without touching,

Who kisses without hugging.

It is the melody that the prophets heard in their hearts,

When they were alone with the Beloved,

When the night enveloped the world,

And the whole cosmos seemed to hold its breath,

Waiting for the Light to reveal itself.

 

~ from the Quran, 

65:3,  55:1-4

with thanks to No Mind's Land

noninterference and surrender

On a farm you learn to respect nature, 

particularly for the wisdom of its dark underworld.  

When you sow things in the spring, 

you commit them to the darkness of the soil.  

The soil does its own work.  

It is destructive to interfere with the rhythm and wisdom of its darkness.  

You sow drills of potatoes on Tuesday and you are delighted with them.  

You meet someone on a Wednesday who says 

that you spread the potatoes too thickly, you will have no crop.  

You dig up the potatoes again and spread them more thinly.  

On the following Monday, you meet an agricultural advisor who says 

this particular variety of seed potatoes needs to be spread close together.

  

You dig them up again and set them closer to each other.  

If you keep scraping at the garden, you will never allow anything to grow.  

People in our hungry modern world are always scraping at the clay of their hearts.  

They have a new thought, a new plan, a new syndrome, that now explains why 

they are the way they are.  They have found an old memory that opens a new wound.  

They keep on relentlessly, again and again, scraping the clay away from their own hearts.  

In nature we do not see the trees, for instance, getting seriously involved in therapeutic analysis 

of their root systems or the whole stony world that they had to avoid on their way to the light.  

Each tree grows in two directions at once, into the darkness and out to the light 

with as many branches and roots as it needs to embody its wild desires...

It is wise to allow the soul to carry on its secret work in the night side of your life.  

You might not see anything stirring for a long time.  

You might have only the slightest intimations 

of the secret growth that is happening within you, 

but these intimations are sufficient.

~ John O'Donohue

from Anam Cara

when you want to bow to the past

Today, in conversation,
the past
cropped up,
my past.
Sleazy
incidents
indulged,
vacuous
episodes,
spoiled flour,
dust.
You crouch down,
gently
sink
into yourself,
you smile,
congratulate yourself,
but
when it's a matter
of someone else, some friend,
some enemy,
then
you are merciless,
you frown:
What a terrible life he had!
That woman, what a life
she led!
You hold
your nose,
visibly
you disapprove of pasts
other than your own.
Looking back, we view
our worst days
with nostalgia,
cautiously
we open the coffer
and run up the ensign
of our feats
to be admired.
Let's forget the rest.
Just a bad memory.
Listen and learn.
Time
is divided into two rivers:
one
flows backward, devouring
life already lived;
the other
moves forward with you
exposing
your life.
For a single second
they may be joined.
Now.
This is that moment,
the drop of an instant
that washes away the past.
It is the present.
It is in your hands.
Racing, slipping,
tumbling like a waterfall.
But it is yours.
Help it grow
with love, with firmness,
with stone and flight,
with resounding
rectitude,
with purest grains,
the most brilliant metal
from your heart,
walking
in the full light of day
without fear
of truth, goodness, justice,
companions of song,
time that flows
will have the shape
and sound
of a guitar,
and when you want
to bow to the past,
the singing spring of
transparent time
will reveal your wholeness.
Time is joy.

 

~ Pablo Neruda

 from Selected Odes of Pablo Neruda

 photo Judy Garland by Richard Avedon

woven of peace

 

I thought of happiness, how it is woven

Out of the silence in the empty house each day

And how it is not sudden and it is not given

But is creation itself like the growth of a tree.

No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark

Another circle is growing in the expanding ring.

No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark,

But the tree is lifted by this inward work

And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering.

So happiness is woven out of the peace of hours

And strikes its roots deep in the house alone:

The old chest in the corner, cool waxed floors,

White curtains softly and continually blown

As the free air moves quietly about the room;

A shelf of books, a table, and the white-washed wall—

These are the dear familiar gods of home,

And here the work of faith can best be done,

The growing tree is green and musical.

For what is happiness but growth in peace,

The timeless sense of time when furniture

Has stood a life's span in a single place,

And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir

The shining leaves of present happiness?

No one has heard thought or listened to a mind,

But where people have lived in inwardness

The air is charged with blessing and does bless;

Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.

~ May Sarton

The Work of Happiness from Collected Poems

trace the stream back

 

Trace the stream back to its source.

Trace consciousness to the root 

where there is no inside or outside,

 Consciousness is,

 I am over here as the subject, 

you are all out there as objects, 

and I roll along with my life.

 But if I trace my mind back further,

 to a place closer and nearer, 

where I am no longer separating myself from objects,

 the mind turns around. 

With the backward step,

 you see the unity

 and the emptiness of separation.

Walking forward does not cease; 

walking backward does not cease.

 Walking forward does not obstruct walking backward. 

Walking backward does not obstruct walking forward. 

This is called the mountain flow and the flowing mountain.

~ Dogen

excerpts from the Mountain and Waters Sutra

the work of happiness

I thought of happiness, how it is woven
Out of the silence in the empty house each day
And how it is not sudden and it is not given
But is creation itself like the growth of a tree.
No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark
Another circle is growing in the expanding ring.
No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark,
But the tree is lifted by this inward work
And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering.

So happiness is woven out of the peace of hours
And strikes its roots deep in the house alone:
The old chest in the corner, cool waxed floors,
White curtains softly and continually blown
As the free air moves quietly about the room;
A shelf of books, a table, and the white-washed wall --
These are the dear familiar gods of home,
And here the work of faith can best be done,
The growing tree is green and musical.

For what is happiness but growth in peace,
The timeless sense of time when furniture
Has stood a life's span in a single place,
And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir
The shining leaves of present happiness?
No one has heard thought or listened to a mind,
But where people have lived in inwardness
The air is charged with blessing and does bless;
Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.

 

 

 

 

~  May Sarton
from May Sarton, Collected Poems, 1930-1993

 

 

out of my deeper heart

Out of my deeper heart a bird rose and flew skyward.

Higher and higher did it rise, yet larger and larger did it grow.

At first it was but like a swallow, then a lark, then an eagle,
 then as vast as a spring cloud, and then it filled the starry heavens.

Out of my heart a bird flew skyward. 
And it waxed larger as it flew. 
 Yet it left not my heart.

~ Kahlil Gibran

from The Forerunner, His Parables and Poems

art by  Shel Waldman

our daily abiding awareness

 

~ James Finley 

turn your attention

 

God dwells in you, as you, 

and you don't have to 'do' anything

 to be God-realized or Self-realized,

 it is already your true and natural state.

Just drop all seeking, 

turn your attention inward, 

and sacrifice your mind to

 the One Self radiating in the Heart

 of your very being. 

For this to be your own presently lived experience, 

Self-Inquiry is the one direct and immediate way.

~ Sri Ramana

photo by Ansel Adams

with thanks to love is a place