Wednesday, October 26, 2011

children of a full life





.




with special thanks to it's all dhamma




why do 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.

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





Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Che Fece... Il Gran Refiuto


.


For some people the day comes
when they have to declare the great Yes
or the great No. It’s clear at once who has the Yes
ready within him; and saying it,

he goes from honor to honor, strong in his conviction.
He who refuses does not repent. Asked again,
he’d still say no. Yet that no—the right no—
drags him down all his life.




~ Constantine P. Cavafy
from C.P. Cavafy: Collected Poems
translated by Edmund Keeley and Phillip Sherrard



the falling





.


You turn towards meteor showers in August,
wishing yourself like that:
bright and burning wholly out.
When feeling finally comes it is
that falling, matter breaking away
from air, the sound
of crickets moving through the grass like fire—
and the strangely twisted metal
in the field that a child finds:
residue, crown.
Then there’s the story of the Chinese sage,
in anger and despair, who cut his body away in pieces,
flung them into the lake.
Each one, becoming finned and whole, swims off.





~ Jane Hirshfield




a lie



self-portrait - 1901



Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth

Everyone wants to understand painting. 
Why don’t they try to understand the song of the birds?
 Why do they love a night, a flower, 
everything which surrounds man, 
without attempting to understand them? 
 
Whereas where painting is concerned, they want to understand. 
Let them understand above all that the artist works from necessity; 
that he, too, is a minute element of the world
 to whom one should ascribe no more importance 
than so many things in nature which charm us 
but which we do not explain to ourselves.
 
 Those who attempt to explain a picture 
are on the wrong track most of the time.



~ Pablo Picasso
Boisgeloup, winter 1934





Sunday, October 23, 2011

a choice






"Give us a king."
 

Samuel told all the words of the Lord to the people who were asking him for a king, 
He said,
"This is what the king who will reign over you will do:

He will take your sons and make them serve with his chariots and horses,
and they will run in front of his chariots.
Some he will assign to be commanders of thousands and commanders of fifties,
 and others to plow his ground and reap his harvest and still others to make weapons
 of war and equipment for his chariots. 

He will take your daughters to be perfumers and cooks and bakers.
He will take the best of your fields and vineyards and olive groves 
and give them to his attendants.

He will take a tenth of your grain and of your vintage and give it
 to his officials and attendants.
Your menservants and maidservants and the best of your cattle and donkeys
 he will take for his own use.

He will take a tenth of your flocks,
 and you yourselves will become his slaves.

When that day comes, you will cry out for relief 
from the king you have chosen,
and the Lord will not answer you in that day.

...


"No," they said, "We want a king over us.
Then we will be like all the other nations,
with a king to lead us and to go out before us
 and fight our battles."



~ 1 Samuel 8, 11-19
from the Holy Bible
new international version




Friday, October 21, 2011

no bell







When I heard the sound of the bell ringing,
there was no bell,
and there was no I -
there was only the ringing. 

Once you stop clinging and let things be,
you’ll be free, even of birth and death. 

You’ll transform everything…
And you’ll be at peace wherever you are. 

Even as fire finds peace
in its resting place without fuel,
when thoughts become silence
the soul finds peace in its own source. 

When the mind is silent,
then it can enter into a world
which is far beyond the mind:
the highest End. 

The mind should be kept in the heart
as long as it has not reached the highest End.
This is wisdom, and this is liberation. 





~ Upanishads 




Thursday, October 20, 2011

solitude









I was nearly killed here, one night in February.
My car shivered, and slewed sideways on the ice,
right across into the other lane. The slur of traffic
came at me with their lights.

My name, my girls, my job, all
slipped free and were left behind, smaller and smaller,
further and further away. I was a nobody:
a boy in a playground, suddenly surrounded.

The headlights of the oncoming cars
bore down on me as I wrestled the wheel through a slick
of terror, clear and slippery as egg-white.
The seconds grew and grew – making more room for me –
stretching huge as hospitals.

I almost felt that I could rest
and take a breath
before the crash.

Then something caught: some helpful sand
or a well-timed gust of wind. The car
snapped out of it, swinging back across the road.
A signpost shot up and cracked, with a sharp clang,
spinning away in the darkness.

And it was still. I sat back in my seat-belt
and watched someone tramp through the whirling snow
to see what was left of me.



~ Tomas Transtromer


Tranströmer is the recipient of the 2011 Nobel Prize for Literature. His other honors and awards include the Aftonbladets Literary Prize, the Bonnier Award for Poetry, the Neustadt International Prize for Literature, the Oevralids Prize, the Petrach Prize in Germany, and the Swedish Award from International Poetry Forum.

He has read at many American universities, often with poet and friend Robert Bly. Tranströmer is a respected psychologist, and has worked at a juvenile prison, and with the disabled, convicts, and drug addicts. He lives with his wife Monica in Vasteras, west of Stockholm.

from  poets.org


Tuesday, October 18, 2011

two things






Two things of opposite natures seem to depend
On one another, as Logos depends
On Eros, day on night, the imagined

On the real. This is the origin of change.
Winter and spring, cold copulars, embrace
And forth the particulars of rapture come.

Music falls on the silence like a sense
A passion that we feel, not understand.
Morning and afternoon are clasped together

And North and South are an intrinsic couple
And sun and rain a plural, like two lovers
That walk away together as one in the greenest body.





~ Wallace Stevens








the place of rest








Unto the deep the deep heart goes,
It lays its sadness nigh the breast:
Only the Mighty Mother knows
The wounds that quiver unconfessed.

It seeks a deeper silence still;
It folds itself around with peace,
Where thoughts alike of good or ill
In quietness unfostered cease.

It feels in the unwounding vast
For comfort for its hopes and fears:
The Mighty Mother bows at last;
She listens to her children's tears.

Where the last anguish deepens -- there
The fire of beauty smites through pain:
A glory moves amid despair,
The Mother takes her child again. 





~ A. E. (George William Russell)
with thanks to poetry chaikhana






Saturday, October 15, 2011

today





a radiance once seen only in time and space
 shares his blessing without boundary

today a named one 
brings a particular beauty to the nameless 

today the pain and strength of  longing
stretches beyond limits

today that sparkling love can't be seen with eyes,
we seek it everywhere





 ~  nead rellek
for Doug









Thursday, October 13, 2011

words' leaves







.
Truly now I've grown old
in the winter rains.
Even the words' leaves
of love
change in their falling




~ Ono no Komachi




care






.

Once upon a time, when Dongshan was ill, a monk asked him, 
"You are ill, teacher, but is there anyone who doesn't get ill?" 


Dongshan said, "There is." 
 

The monk said, "Does the one who doesn't get ill look after you?" 
 

Dongshan said, "No, I look after him." 
 

The monk said, "How is it when you look after him?" 

Dongshan said, "I see that there is no illness." 






~ Dongshan
from the Book of Serenity
Zen dialogue (Case 94)










Wednesday, October 12, 2011

poetry?




.
Now, what is poetry?
If you say it is simply a matter of words, I will say a good poet gets rid of words.
If you say it is simply a matter of meaning, I will say a good poet gets rid of meaning.
"But," you ask, "without words and without meaning, where is the poetry?"
To this I reply, "Get rid of words and get rid of meaning, and still there is poetry."



~ Yang Wan-li
translation by Jonathan Chaves




Tuesday, October 11, 2011

rain in May






.

The blackened iron
of the stove
is ticking into coolness
when the first drops 
start against the roof.
It is late: the night
has darkened into this
like a fruit--
a sudden pear-aroma fills the room.
Just before dawn 
it comes up harder again,
a white, steady drum of day-rain
caught in the moon's deep pail.
A battered tin-light
overspills ocean and sky,
hill opens to facing hill,
and I wake to a simple longing,
all I want of this ordinary hour,
this ordinary earth
that was long ago married to time:
to hear as a sand-crab hears the waves,
loud as a second heart;
to see as a green thing sees the sun,
with the undividing attention of blind love.






~ Jane Hirshfield