Monday, July 18, 2011

your very flesh shall be a great poem



.

.

This is what you shall do; 
Love the earth and sun and the animals, 
despise riches, 
give alms to every one that asks, 
stand up for the stupid and crazy, 
devote your income and labor to others, 
hate tyrants, 
argue not concerning God, 
have patience and indulgence toward the people, 
take off your hat to nothing known or unknown
 or to any man or number of men, 
go freely with powerful uneducated persons 
and with the young and with the mothers of families, 
read these leaves in the open air every season
 of every year of your life, 
re-examine all you have been told at school
 or church or in any book, 
dismiss whatever insults your own soul, 
and your very flesh shall be a great poem 
and have the richest fluency not only in its words 
but in the silent lines of its lips and face
 and between the lashes of your eyes 
and in every motion and joint of your body.






~ Walt Whitman
 from the preface of Leaves of Grass





Sunday, July 17, 2011

surrendering, lose myself in your loosened hair




 
 
Someday, emerging at last from the violent insight,
let me sing out jubilation and praise to assenting angels.
Let not even one of the clearly-struck hammers of my heart
fail to sound because of a slack, a doubtful,
or a broken string.  Let my joyfully streaming face
make me more radiant; let my hidden weeping arise
and blossom.  How dear you will be to me then, you nights 
of anguish.  Why didn't I kneel more deeply to accept you,
inconsolable sisters, and, surrendering, lose myself
in your loosened hair.  How we squander our hours of pain.
How we gaze beyond them into the bitter duration
to see if they have an end.  Though they are really
our winter-enduring foliage, our dark evergreen,
one season in our inner year -, not only a season
in time -, but are place and settlement, 
foundation and soil and home.




~ Rainer Maria Rilke
from Duino Elegies, The Tenth Elegy
translation by stephen mitchell
art by van gogh




Saturday, July 16, 2011

my soul heard something







.

What was in that candle's light
that opened and consumed me so quickly?

Come back, my friend! The form of our love
is not a created form.

Nothing can help me but that beauty.
There was a dawn I remember

when my soul heard something
from your soul. I drank water

from your spring and felt
the current take me.





~ Rumi
from The Essential Rumi
translation by Coleman Barks


the vast man






.

But sweeter still than laughter and greater than longing came to me.
It was the boundless in you;
The vast man in whom you are all but cells and sinews;
He in whose chant all your singing is but a soundless throbbing.
It is in the vast man that you are vast,
And in beholding him that I beheld you and loved you.
For what distances can love reach that are not in that vast sphere?
What visions, what expectations and what presumptions can outsoar that flight?
Like a giant oak tree covered with apple blossoms is the vast man in you.
His might binds you to the earth, his fragrance lifts you into space, and in his durability you are deathless.




~ Kahlil Gibran
from The Prophet
photo by Jack Spenser







the beginning of terror









.

For beauty is nothing
but the beginning of terror, which we still are able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains
to annihilate us.




~  Rainer Maria Rilke
from Duino Elegies, The First Elegy

Friday, July 15, 2011

puppet play





.
My body lives in the city,
But my essence dwells in the mountains.
The affairs of a puppet play
Are not to be taken too seriously.
When the polar mountain fits into a mustard seed,
All the words in the universe may as well be erased.




My mind is like a jade jar of ice,
Never invaded by even half a mote of dust.
Though the jade jar be obscured without,
I pay no mind at all -
On the terrace of Immortals,
I climb straight to the highest level.




~ Wu Cailuan (9th century)
from Immortal Sisters: Secret Teachings of Taoist Women
photo by Ansel Adams




Thursday, July 14, 2011

quenched and still




.

I gave up my house
and set out into homelessness.
I gave up my child, my cattle,
and all that I loved.
I gave up desire and hate.
My ignorance was thrown out.
I pulled out craving
along with its root.
Now I am quenched and still.




~ Sangha (6th-5th centuries BCE)
translated by Susan Murcott

Her work is recorded in Pali in the Therigatha,
 the book of enlightenment poetry of Buddhist nuns.



the reed flute's song




.
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 the 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
version by Coleman Barks
from The Essential Rumi






Tuesday, July 5, 2011

the remains







.

I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.

My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.



~ Mark Strand
photo by Nancy Crampton



something that is neither yours nor from yourself







.

To belong to Allah
Is to see in your own existence
And in all that pertains to it
Something that is neither yours
Nor from yourself,
Something you have on loan;
To see your being in His Being,
Your subsistence in His Subsistence,
Your strength in His Strength:
Thus you will recognize in yourself
His title to possession of you
As Lord,
And your own title as servant:
Which is Nothingness. 



~ Thomas Merton
in response to writings of  Ibn Abbad



by technique?






.


All truly contemplatives souls have this in common: 
not that they gather exclusively in the desert, 
or that they shut themselves up in reclusion, 
but that where He is, there they are. 

And how do they find Him? By technique? 
There is no technique for finding Him. 
They find Him by His will. And His will, 
bringing them grace within and arranging their lives exteriorly, 
carries them infallibly to the precise place in which they can find Him. 
Even there they do not know how they have got there, 
or what they are really doing.



Thomas Merton
from  Thoughts in Solitude
sketch by the author

 

Sunday, July 3, 2011

entrance








.
Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,
Out of the room that lets you feel secure.
Infinity is open to your sight.
Whoever you are.
With eyes that have forgotten how to see
From viewing things already too well-known,
Lift up into the dark a huge, black tree
And put it in the heavens: tall, alone.
And you have made the world and all you see.
It ripens like the words still in your mouth.
And when at last you comprehend its truth,
Then close your eyes and gently set it free.





~ Rainer Maria Rilke





sitting together





.
We sit in this courtyard,
two forms, shadow outlines with one soul.

Birdsound, leaf moving, early evening star,
fragrant damp, and a sweet sickle curve of moon.

You and I in a round, unselved idling
in the garden-beauty detail.

The raucous parrots laugh,
and we laugh inside their laughter, 
the two of us on a bench in Konya, 
yet amazingly in Khorasan and Iraq as well.

Friends abiding this form,
yet also in another, outside of time, you and I.



~ Rumi
translation by Coleman Barks
from The Big Red Book



the angel standing in the sun





.


by J.M.W. Turner
from the Tate Gallery, London

For those with eyes to see, the world is filled with the glory of God.





wine grapes for breakfast





.
Sweet
at first
on the tongue,
hours later
the red grapes
still sting,
as if trying 
to tell me something -
what the hook
tells the fish
perhaps,
or the wand
or stick hears
before conductor 
or mule driver
brings it down.


~ Jane Hirshfield
from Lives of the Heart