Friday, September 24, 2010

dog still barking at midnight


.
.
It has come to this:
three ants, seemingly separate, seemingly aimless,
wandering on a shelf.
.
They've appeared and disappeared for days between jars and bottles.
Luckless, they move without pausing.
.
A single breath-puff could send any one to the floor.
How distant they must be from the nest -
yet none consults with another,
none turns to the others for reassurance or warmth.
.
In their cold bodies: calcium, carbons, a trace of nickel.
.
Inexhaustible solitude, how did you come so far
to waver on the slim antennae of these my sisters?
.
~ Jane Hirshfield
.

the promise


.
.
Mysteriously they entered, those few minutes.
Mysteriously, they left.
As if the great dog of confusion guarding my heart,
who is always sleepless, suddenly slept.
It was not any awakening of the large, not so much as that,
only a stepping back from the petty.
I gazed at the range of blue mountains,
I drank from the stream.  Tossed in a small stone from the bank.
Whatever direction the fates of my life might travel, I trusted.
Even the greedy direction, even the grieving, trusted.
There was nothing left to be saved from, bliss nor danger.
The dogs tail wagged a little in his dream.
.
~ Jane Hirshfield
from After
photo by shreve stockton
.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

That Time of Year thou mayst in me Behold





.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by and by black night doth take away, 
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. 
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
.
~ William Shakespeare
sonnet LXXIII

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

woman in red coat





.
Some questions cannot be answered.
They become familiar weights in the hand,
round stones pulled from the pocket,
unyielding and cool.
Your fingers travel their surfaces,
lose themselves finally
in the braille of the durable world.
Look out of any window, it's the same --
the yellow leaves, the wintering light.
A truck passes, piled deep in cut wood.
A woman, in a red wool coat,
sees you watching and quickly looks away.
.
~ Jane Hirshfield 
from Of Gravity and Angels
.


Let life happen





.
For one human being to love another; 
that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, 
the ultimate, the last test and proof, 
the work for which all other work is but preparation. 
.
I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people: 
that each protects the solitude of the other. 
This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love: 
the more they give, the more they possess.
.
There are no classes in life for beginners; 
right away you are always asked to deal with what is most difficult.
.
Believe that with your feelings and your work you are taking part in the greatest; 
the more strongly you cultivate this belief, 
the more will reality and the world go forth from it. 
If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; 
blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; 
for the Creator, there is no poverty.
.
Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting 
to see us once beautiful and brave. 
Perhaps everything terrible 
is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us. 
The deepest experience of the creator is feminine, 
for it is experience of receiving and bearing.
.
The future enters into us, in order to transform itself in us, long before it happens. 
Let life happen to you. 
Believe me: life is in the right, always.
.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
.


just now



.
In the morning as the storm begins to blow away
the clear sky appears for a moment and it seems to me
that there has been something simpler than I could ever believe
simpler than I could have begun to find words for
not patient not even waiting no more hidden
than the air itself that became part of me for a while
with every breath and remained with me unnoticed
something that was here unnamed unknown in the days
and the nights not separate from them
not separate from them as they came and were gone
it must have been here neither early nor late then
by what name can I address it now holding out my thanks
.
~ W.S. Merwin
from The Pupil
.
.

being separated




.
.
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 a 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
translation by Coleman Barks
from The essential Rumi

.

a strange thing is loneliness




.
.
What a strange thing is loneliness, and how frightening it is! We never allow ourselves to get too close to it; and if by chance we do, we quickly run away from it. We will do anything to escape from loneliness, to cover it up. Our conscious and unconscious preoccupation seems to be to avoid it or to overcome it. Avoiding and overcoming loneliness are equally futile; though suppressed or neglected, the pain, the problem, is still there. You may lose yourself in a crowd, and yet be utterly lonely; you may be intensely active, but loneliness silently creeps upon you; put the book down, and it is there. Amusements and drinks cannot drown loneliness; you may temporarily evade it, but when the laughter and the effects of alcohol are over, the fear of loneliness returns. You may be ambitious and successful, you may have vast power over others, you may be rich in knowledge, you may worship and forget yourself in the rigmarole of rituals; but do what you will, the ache of loneliness continues. You may exist only for your son, for the Master, for the expression of your talent; but like the darkness, loneliness covers you. You may love or hate, escape from it according to your temperament and psychological demands; but loneliness is there, waiting and watching, withdrawing only to approach again.
.
J. Krishnamurti
from his Commentaries on Living Series I
.

to waiting


.
.
You spend so much of your time
expecting to become
someone else
always someone 
who will be different 
someone to whom a moment
whatever moment it may be 
at last has come
and who has been
met and transformed
into no longer being you
and so has forgotten you
.
meanwhile in your life
you hardly notice
the world around you
lights changing
sirens dying along the buildings
your eyes intent
on a sight you do not see yet
not yet there
as long as you
are only yourself
.
with whom as you
recall you were
never happy
to be left alone for long
.
W.S. Merwin
from Present Company
art by Picasso
.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

to the happy few


.
.
Do you know who you are
.
O you forever listed
under some other heading
when you are listed at all
.
You whose addresses
when you have them 
are never sold except
for another reason
something else that is
supposed to identify you
.
who carry no card
stating that you are -
what would it say you were
to someone turning it over
looking perhaps for
a date or for
anything to go by
.
you with no secret handshake
no proof of membership
no way to prove such a thing
even to yourselves
.
you without a word
of explanation
and only yourselves
as evidence
.
~ W.S. Merwin
from Present Company
photo by edmund teske
.

Where is he now





Where is he now, who leaving wealth behind
grew so bold in poverty
that he threw off his clothes before the bishop
and stood naked in the square?

The most inward and loving of all,
he came forth like a new beginning,
the brown-robed brother of your nightingales,
with his wonder and goodwill
and delight in Earth...




~ Rainer Maria Rilke
III,33, The book of Poverty and Death
translation by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows

.

Monday, September 20, 2010

each our own death




God, give us each our own death,
the dying that proceeds
from each of our lives:

the way we loved,
the meanings we made,
our need.

III,6



For we are only the rind and the leaf,

The great death, that each of us carries inside,
is the fruit.

Everything enfolds it.

III,7




~ Rainer Maria Rilke
  The Book of Poverty and Death
translated by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows

Sunday, September 19, 2010

can't see the path or any distance



.
It feels as though I make my way 
through massive rock
like a vain of ore
alone, encased.

I am so deep inside it
I can't see the path or any distance:
everything us close
and everything closing in on me
has turned to stone.

Since I still don't know enough about pain,
this terrible darkness makes me small.
If it's you, though -

press down hard on me, break in
that I may know the weight of your hand,
and you, the fullness of my cry.




Rainer Maria Rilke
The Book of Poverty and Death III,1
translated by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows
(See interview with Joanna Macy)


he keeps on going


.
.
Sometimes a man rises from the supper table
and goes outside.  And he keeps on going
because somewhere to the east there's a church.
His children bless his name as if he were dead.
.
Another man stays at home until he dies,
stays with plates and glasses.
So then it is his children who go out
into the world, seeking the church that he forgot.
.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
from The Book of Pilgrimage, II,19
.


Friday, September 17, 2010

The ocean moves


.
.
The ocean moves, not because it wishes to move 
or because it knows that it is wise or good: 
it moves involuntarily, unconscious of movement.  
It is thus that you also will return to Tao, 
and when you have returned, you will not know it, 
because you yourself would have become Tao.
.
~ Wu Wei
.