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Lightbabies
We are Lightbabies.
Golden Grace.
Wings, meant to fly.
We are delicate, and pregnant
with goodness.
We are each made of such a quiet
that the entire Universe
can hear us.
*
There is only the Unfolding; the Opening
ever happening.
All else are thoughts -
lollipops for the mind.
We, are Lightbabies
parading
as Humankind.
http://www.EmClairePoet.com
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Praying
It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
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Can You Imagine?
For example, what the trees do
not only in lightning storms
or the watery dark of a summer's night
or under the white nets of winter
but now, and now, and now - whenever
we're not looking. Surely you can't imagine
they don't dance, from the root up, wishing
to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting
a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly
more shade - surely you can't imagine they just
stand there loving every
minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings
of the years slowly and without a sound
thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,
and then only in its own mood, comes
to visit, surely you can't imagine
patience, and happiness, like that.
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For Death
From the moment you were born,
Your death has walked beside you.
Though it seldom shows its face,
You still feel its empty touch
When fear invades your life,
Or what you love is lost
Or inner damage is incurred.
Yet when destiny draws you
Into these spaces of poverty,
And your heart stays generous
Until some door opens into the light,
You are quietly befriending your deat;
So that you will hhave no need to fear
When your time comes to turn and leave
That the silent presence of your death
Would call your life to attention,
Wake you up to how scarce your time is
And to the urgency to become free
And equal to the call of your destiny.
That you would gather yourself
And decide carefully
How you now can live
The life you would love
To look back on
From your deathbed.
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For the Mother To Be
Nothing could have prepared
Your heart to open like this.
From beyond the skies and the stars
This echo arrived inside you
And started to pulse with life,
Each beat a tiny act of growth,
Traversing all our ancient shapes
On its way home to itself.
Once it began, you were no longer your own.
A new, more courageous you, offering itself
In a new way to a presence you can sense
But you have not seen or known.
It has made you feel alone
In a way you never knew before;
Everyone else sees only from the outside
What you feel and feed
With every fiber of your being.
Never have you traveled farther inward
Where words and thoughts become half-light
Unable to reach the fund of brightness
Strengthening inside the night of your womb.
Like some primeval moon,
Your soul brightens
The tides of essence
That flow to your child.
You know your life has changed forever,
For in all the days and years to come,
Distance will never be able to cut you off
From the one you now carry
For nine months under your heart.
May you be blessed with quiet confidence
That destiny will guide you and mind you.
May the emerging spirit of your child
Imbibe encouragement and joy
From the continuous music of your heart,
So that it can grow with ease,
Expectant of wonder and welcome
When its form is fully filled
And it makes its journey out
To see you and settle at last
Relieved, and glad in your arms.
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For a New Father
As the shimmer of dawn transforms the night
Into a blush of color futured with delight,
The eyes of your new child awaken in you
A brightness that surprises your life.
Since the first stir of its secret becoming,
The echo of your child has lived inside you,
Strengthening through all its night of forming
Into a sure pulse of fostering music.
How quietly and gently that embryo-echo
Can womb in the bone of a man
And foster across the distance to the mother
A shadow-shelter around this fragile voyage.
Now as you behold your infant, you know
That this child has come from you and to you;
You feel the full force of a father' desire
To protect and shelter.
Perhaps for the first time
There awakens in you
A sense of your own mortality.
May your heart rest in the grace of the gift
And you sense how you have been called
Inside the dream of this new destiny.
May you be gentle and loving,
Clear and sure.
May you trust in the unseen providence
That has chosen you all to be a family.
May you stand sure on your ground
And know that every grace you need
Will unfold before you
Like all the mornings of your life.
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Everywhere Heart
We are Lightbabies.
Golden Grace.
Wings, meant to fly.
We are delicate, and pregnant
with goodness.
We are each made of such a quiet
that the entire Universe
can hear us.
*
There is only the Unfolding; the Opening
ever happening.
All else are thoughts -
lollipops for the mind.
We, are Lightbabies
parading
as Humankind.
http://www.emclairepoet.com/
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While You Were Out
While You were out,
many things transpired.
A sky was born.
Love & Laughter married.
Ten Thousand suns were birthed.
I awoke a Butterfly,
my wings burst into song,
and I even changed my name
While You were out.
Planets began to dance,
and all colors traded hues.
Stars turned themselves into ocean bottoms;
Grasshoppers into Gazelles,
and I left the earth
and returned
Courageous
All
while You were out.
http://www.emclairepoet.com/
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For the Unknown Self
So much of what delights and troubles you
Happens on a surface
You take for ground.
Your mind thinks your life alone,
Your eyes consider air your nearest neighbor,
Yet it seems that a little below your heart
There houses in you an unknown self
Who prefers the patterns of the dark
And is not persuaded by the eye's affection
Or caught by the flash of thought.
It is a self that enjoys contemplative patience
With all your unfolding expression,
Is never drawn to break into light
Though you entangle yourself in unworthiness
And misjudge what you do and who you are.
It presides within like an evening freedom
That will often see you enchanted by twilight
Without ever recognizing the falling night,
It resembles the under-earth of your visible life:
All you do and say and think is fostered
Deep in its opaque and prevenient clay.
It dwells in a strange, yet rhythmic ease
That is not ruffled by disappointment;
It presides in a deeper current of time
Free from the force of cause and sequence
That otherwise shapes your life.
Were it to break forth into day,
Its dark light might quench your mind,
For it knows how your primeval heart
Sisters every cell of your life
To all your known mind would avoid,
Thus it knows to dwell in you gently,
Offering you only discrete glimpses
Of how you construct your life.
At times, it will lead you strangely,
Magnetized by some resonance
That ambushes your vigilance.
It works most resolutely at night
As the poet who draws your dreams,
Creating for you many secret doors,
Decorated with pictures of your hunger;
It has the dignity of the angelic
That knows you to your roots,
Always awaiting your deeper befriending
To take you beyond the threshold of want,
Where all your diverse strainings
Can come to wholesome ease.
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We Have Come To Be Danced
by Jewel Mathieson
We have come to be danced
not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hands and feet dance
We have come to be danced
not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance
We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, two dance like you
one two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance
WE have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance
We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
the Olly Olly Oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance
We have come to be danced
where the kingdom’s collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME
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Dear Darkening Ground
Dear darkening ground,
you've endured so patiently the walls we've built,
perhaps you'll give the cities one more hour
and grant the churches and cloisters two.
And those that labor—let their work
grip them another five hours, or seven,
before you become forest again, and water, and widening wilderness
in that hour of inconceivable terror
when you take back your name
from all things.
Just give me a little more time!
I want to love the things
as no one has thought to love them,
until they're worthy
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A Morning Offering
I bless the night that nourished my heart
To set the ghosts of longing free
Into the flow and figure of dream
That went to harvest from the dark
Bread for the hunger no one sees.
All that is eternal in me
Welcome the wonder of this day,
The field of brightness it creates
Offering time for each thing
To arise and illuminate.
I place on the altar of dawn:
The quiet loyalty of breath,
The tent of thought where I shelter,
Wave of desire I am shore to
And all beauty drawn to the eye.
May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers,
To break the dead shell of yesterdays,
To risk being disturbed and changed.
May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.
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One or Two Things
Don’t bother me.
I’ve just
been born.
The butterfly’s loping flight
carries it through the country of the leaves
delicately, and well enough to get it
where it wants to go, wherever that is, stopping
here and there to fuzzle the damp throats
of flowers and the black mud; up
and down it swings, frenzied and aimless; and sometimes
for long delicious moments it is perfectly
lazy, riding motionless in the breeze on the soft stalk
of some ordinary flower.
The god of dirt
came up to me many times and said
so many wise and delectable things, I lay
on the grass listening
to his dog voice,
crow voice,
frog voice; now,
he said, and now,
and never once mentioned forever,
which has nevertheless always been,
like a sharp iron hoof,
at the center of my mind.
One or two things are all you need
to travel over the blue pond, over the deep
roughage of the trees and through the stiff
flowers of lightning — some deep
memory of pleasure, some cutting
knowledge of pain.
But to lift the hoof!
For that you need
an idea.
For years and years I struggled
just to love my life. And then
the butterfly
rose, weightless, in the wind.
“Don’t love your life
too much,” it said,
and vanished
into the world.
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Life is Mostly Quiet
Believe me, you don't have to know.
Not so much that you render yourself helpless.
Helpless in the face of what Life brings next.
So make peace with knowing very little.
About Love.
About Others.
About how life should be.
Make amends with how things are.
Not knowing a thing,
walk with gentle knees,
ready to drop to them, at any moment
that Life dictates it.
Keep an empty hand
so that it can be brought to your heart
Make up a bed that you can fall into
as your own, comforting arms.
•
We come to find that Life is mostly quiet -
it asks us to live by our Knowing,
while surrendering that very same thing.
It vibrates easily around us,
candid and benevolent.
You see, it's only
when we root ourselves
solid in some Knowing again,
that Life seems to have to shout -
rises,
lovingly,
from Its whisper.
http://www.emclairepoet.com/
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The Best Dancers
Maybe God keeps me here like this
to stumble a little.
If I were to suddenly just
turn into light,
blinding myself even
to the most precious and necessary illusions,
then what hand could hold my own?
Where would rest a weary head?
What good use for warm hearts;
for hot tears?
Why eyes to see?
Why arms to open?
Which Lovefamily to fall into?
Oh, the best dancers know
what grace
every stumble
contains.
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Travelling Light
It's as though I saw it all
diminished tothe core
the whole day to a minute
the suitcase to a book
the long conversation to a word
looks of longing to a smile
and hopless choice to what must be
it is so light, so clear
I want nothing more anymore
only wind stroking waves
onto a distant shore
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Bone from Why I Wake Early (2004)
1.
Understand, I am always trying to figure out
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape
and so, last week,
when I found on the beach
the ear bone
of a pilot whale that may have died
hundreds of years ago, I thought
maybe I was close
to discovering something
for the ear bone
2.
is the portion that lasts longest
in any of us, man or whale; shaped
like a squat spoon
with a pink scoop where
once, in the lively swimmer's head,
it joined its two sisters
in the house of hearing,
it was only
two inches long
and thought: the soul
might be like this
so hard, so necessary
3.
yet almost nothing.
Beside me
the gray sea
was opening and shutting its wave-doors,
unfolding over and over
its time-ridiculing roar;
I looked but I couldn't see anything
through its dark-knit glare;
yet don't we all know, the golden sand
is there at the bottom,
though our eyes have never seen it,
nor can our hands ever catch it
4.
lest we would sift it down
into fractions, and facts
certainties
and what the soul is, also
I believe I will never quite know.
Though I play at the edges of knowing,
truly I know
our part is not knowing,
but looking, and touching, and loving,
which is the way I walked on,
softly,
through the pale-pink morning light.
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Shedding Skin
Pulling out of the old scarred skin
(old rough thing I don't need now I strip off
slip out of
leave behind)
I slough off deadscales
flick skinflakes to the ground
Shedding toughness
peeling layers down
to vulnerable stuff
And I'm blinking off old eyelids
for a new way of seeing
By the rock I rub against
I'm going to be tender again
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Walking North
No matter how I turn
the magnificent light follows.
Background to my sadness.
No matter how I lift my heart
my shadow creeps in wait behind.
Background to my joy.
No matter how fast I run
a stillness without thought is where I end.
No matter how long I sit
there is a river of motion I must rejoin.
And when I can’t hold my head up
it always falls in the lap of one
who has just opened.
When I finally free myself of burden
there is always someone’s heavy head
landing in my arms.
The reasons of the heart
are leaves in wind.
Stand up tall and everything
will nest in you.
We all lose and we all gain.
Dark crowds the light.
Light fills the pain.
It is a conversation with no end
a dance with no steps
a song with no words
a reason too big for any mind.
No matter how I turn
the magnificence follows.
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Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches
of other lives --
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey,
hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning,
feel like?
Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over
the dark acorn of your heart!
No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!
Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?
Well, there is time left --
fields everywhere invite you into them.
And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?
Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!
To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!
To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
in the night
To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!
Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.
Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not,
but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe
I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!
A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.
Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?
And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down
to think about it.
That was then, which hasn't ended yet.
Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.
I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.
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Imagining World
In my dream, the angel shrugged & said, If we fail this time, it will be a failure of imagination & then she placed the world gently in the palm of my hand.
So, imagine the world in the palm of your hand and come with me on a journey of imagination...
Imagine the possibilities that opened for us on September 11, 2001, when the whole world declared itself American and reached out to embrace us with the empathy that only shared experience can elicit.
Imagine how we might have reached back. Think about millions of Americans finally leaving the comfortable cocoon of their country and traveling all over the world to learn about other cultures and customs. Imagine school children being taught foreign languages in kindergarten, and every college student required to spend a semester abroad.
Imagine a United Nations empowered by an overwhelming influx of American funds and talent in a concerted effort to make it more effective in its mission of peace and world community.
Imagine Iraq being invaded, not by our military, but by our musicians. Imagine thousands of Iraqis waking up one morning to the strains of Mozart's "Jupiter" Symphony playing in their square.
Imagine Palestinians, Arabs, and Israelis all participating in a Middle East Fair where they talk, laugh, and learn about each other.
Imagine a huge picnic on the outskirts of Baghdad--catered by the US, with entertainment and skits provided by our troops.
Imagine the US offering a free trip to Disney World (including complimentary mouse ears) to anyone in the Muslim world who can't afford to pay.
Imagine what we could do with our resources and power!
Imagine what could happen if we focused on life instead of death, on our friends instead of our enemies, on our potential instead of our fears.
Imagine the world in the palm of your hand. What can you imagine?
Brian Andreas & Elissa Bishop-Becker
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from the Findhorn Garden
Flowers unfold slowly and gently,
bit by bit in the sunshine.
A soul, too,
must never be pushed or driven
but unfolds in its own perfect timing
to reveal its
true wonder and beauty.
...
Our work is to be gardeners of the souls,
wherever we are.
Everywhere, seeds are beginning to germinate.
Let us tend them with the greatest care.
They are very tender and delicate.
Let us water them with love.
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The Buddha in Glory
Center of all centers, innermost core,
almond sweetening in its self-embrace--
all of this, out to the stars,
is the fruit of your body. We greet you.
You feel how little clings to you now.
Endlessness is your shell,
and there, too, the strength.
It is summoned by the radiance
of the full and glowing suns
that wheel around you.
Yet those stars will be outlasted
by what you have begun.
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Is It Not Time
Is it not time
to free ourselves from the beloved
even as we, trembling, endure the loving?
As the arrow endures the bowstring's tension
so that, released, it travels farther.
For there is nowhere to remain.
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Be Received
Move slowly from these old skins.
Your belly is raw, your back is tender --
you are rudimentary now.
Move softly from these old skins.
Let the full bodyweight
of all your innocence
down.
Be received.
Be received by the broad earth of your worthiness.
Cast off everything
everyone else has known for you.
Move gratefully, from these old skins.
And this time, if you toughen,
decide
for whom?
http://www.emclairepoet.com/
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Precious Waters
Emerging from the ground of Being,
it’s as if we haven’t yet got wings or armoring to protect us
from encounters that will mostly feel
like suffering.
As innocent as water, We Happen.
We pool or we run, singing and whispering
over the jagged and timeworn stones to
Awakening.
But it’s as if the mother who birthed us
never named us.
Trusted us too much.
Expected us to parent ourselves
and then, all the world.
And so These Precious Waters, They run:
pooling and running
singing and whispering
crying and keening
to the Sea.
Crying and keening
to the Sea…
http://www.emclairepoet.com/
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What I Will
I will not
dance to your war
drum. I will
not lend my soul nor
my bones to your war
drum. I will
not dance to your
beating. I know that beat.
It is lifeless. I know
intimately that skin
you are hitting. It
was alive once
hunted stolen
stretched. I will
not dance to your drummed
up war. I will not pop
spin break for you. I
will not hate for you or
even hate you. I will
not kill for you. Especially
I will not die
for you. I will not mourn
the dead with murder nor
suicide. I will not side
with you nor dance to bombs
because everyone else is
dancing. Everyone can be
wrong. Life is a right not
collateral or casual. I
will not forget where
I come from. I
will craft my own drum. Gather my beloved
near and our chanting
will be dancing. Our
humming will be drumming. I
will not be played. I
will not lend my name
nor my rhythm to your
beat. I will dance
and resist and dance and
persist and dance. This heartbeat is louder than
death. Your war drum ain’t
louder than this breath.
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Shadow and Light Source Both
How does a part of the world leave the world?
How does wetness leave water? Dont' try to
put out fire by throwing on more fire! Don't
wash a wound with blood. No matter how fast
you run, your shadow keeps up. Sometimes it's
in front! Only full overhead sun diminishes
your shadow. But that shadow has been serving
you. What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is
your candle. Your boundaries are your quest.
I could explain this, but it will break the
glass cover on your heart, and there's no
fixing that. You must have shadow and light
source both. Listen, and lay your head under
the tree of awe. When from that tree feathers
and wings sprout on you, be quieter than
a dove. Don't even open your mouth for even a coo.
From Soul of Rumi by Coleman Barks
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Exquisite courtesy
That you should see me
Immeasurable grace
For you to believe
That I, the faceless child of darkness
Could enter into hallowed halls of love.
Could touch, and find no shame in touching
Could hope, and find hope not in vain.
A peace beyond my understanding
Has fallen on my head like gentle rain.
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Love Is Enough
Love is enough: though the world be a-waning,
And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,
Though the skies be too dark for dim eyes to discover
The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,
And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over,
Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter:
The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter
These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
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Song of the Nations
Out of
Night and alarm,
Out of
Darkness and dread,
Out of old hate,
Grudge and distrust,
Sin and remorse,
Passion and blindness;
Shall come
Dawn and the birds,
Shall come
Slacking of greed,
Snapping of fear---
Love shall fold warm like a cloak
Round the shuddering earth
Till the sound of its woe cease.
After
Terrible dreams,
After
Crying in sleep,
Grief beyond thought,
Twisting of hands,
Tears from shut lids
Wetting the pillow;
Shall come
Sun on the wall,
Shall come
Sounds from the street,
Children at play--
Bubbles too big blown, and dreams
Filled too heavy with horror
Will burst and in mist fall.
Sing then,
You who were dumb,
Shout then
Into the dark;
Are we not one?
Are not our hearts
Hot from one fire,
And in one mold cast?
Out of
Night and alarm,
Out of
Terrible dreams,
Reach me your hand,
This is the meaning of all that we
Suffered in sleep,--the white peace
Of the waking.
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For Solitude
May you recognize iny our life the presence,
power, and light of your soul.
May you realize that you are never alone,
that your soul in its brightness and belonging
connets you intimately with the rhythms of the universe.
May you have respect for your individuality and difference.
May you realize that the shape of your soul is unique,
that you have a special destiny here,
that behind the facade of your life
there is something beautiful and eternal happening.
May you learn to see your self
with the same delight,
pride, and expectation
with which God sees you in every moment.
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For Loneliness (go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7X7sZzSXYs for a great film)
When the light lessons,
Causing colors to lose there courage,
And your eyes fix on the empty distance
That can open on either side
Of the surest line
To make all that is
Familiar and near
Seem suddenly foreign,
When the music of talk
Breaks apart into noise
And you hear your heart louden
While the voices around you
Slow down to leaden echoes
Turning the silence
Into something stony and cold,
When the old ghosts come back
To feed on everywhere you felt sure,
Do not strengthen their hunger
Buy choosing to fear;
Rather, decide to call on your heart
That it may grow clear and free
To welcome home your emptiness
That it may cleanse you
Like the clearest air
You could ever breathe.
Allow your loneliness time
To dissolve the shell of dross
That had closed around you;
Choose in htis severe silence
To hear the one true voice
Your rushed life fears;
Cradle yourself like a child
Learning to trust what emerges,
So that gradually
You may come to know
That deep in that black hole
You will find the blue flower
That holds the mystical light
Which will illuminate in you
The glimmer of springtime.
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To Come Home To Yourself
May all that is unforgiven in you
Be released.
May your fears yield
Their deepest tranquilities.
May all that is unlived in you
Blossom into a future
Graced with love.
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A Morning Offering
May my mind come alive today
to the invisible geography
that invites me to new frontiers,
to break the dead shell of yesterdays,
to risk being disturbed and changed.
May I have the courage today
to live the life that I would love
to postpone my dream no longer
but do at last what I came here for
and waste my heart on fear no more
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Earth, Isn't This What You Want
Earth isn't this what you want? To arise in us, invisible?
I it not your dream, to enter us so wholly
there's nothing left outside us to see?
What, if not transformation,
is your deepest purpose? Earth, my love,
I want it too. Believe me,
no more of your springtimes are needed
to win me over -- even one flower
is more than enough. Before I was named
I belonged to you. I see no other law
but yours, and know I can trust
the death you will bring.
See, I live. On What?
Childhood and future are equally present.
Sheer abundance of being
floods my heart.
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TRUST
You know that the flower bends when the wind wants it to, and you must become like that--that is, filled with deep trust.
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EXCERPTS The Precious Human Birth
Of all the things that exist,
we breathe and wake and turn it into song.
There is a Buddhist precept that asks us to be mindful of how rare it is to find ourselves in human form on earth. It is really a beautiful view of life that offers us the chance to feel enormous appreciation for the fact that we are here as individual spirits filled with consciousness, drinking water and chopping wood.
It asks us to look about at the ant and antelope, at the worm and the butterfly, at the dog and the castrated bull, at the hawk and the wild lonely tiger, at the hundred year old oak and the thousand year old patch of ocean. It asks us to understand that no other life form has the consciousness of being that we are privilege to. It asks us to recognize that, of all the endless species of plant and animal and mineral that make up the earth, a very small portion of life has the wakefulness of spirit that we call being human.
That I can rise from some depth of awareness to express this to you and that you can receive me in this instant is part of our precious human birth. You could have been an ant. I could have been an ant-eater. You could have been rain. I could have been a lick of salt. But we were blessed—in this time, in this place—to be human beings, alive in rare ways we often take for granted.
All of this to say, this precious human birth is unrepeatable. So what will you do today, knowing that you are one of the rarest forms of life to ever walk the earth? How will you carry yourself? What will you do with your hands? What will you ask and of whom?
Tomorrow you could die and become an ant, and someone will be setting traps for you. But today you are precious and rare and awake. It ushers us into grateful living. It makes hesitation useless. Grateful and awake, ask what you need to know now. Say what you feel now. Love what you love now.
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About Feelings
All feelings that gather you up and lift you are pure. If they twist and tear at your being, they are not. All tenderness you may feel for your childhood is good. Every emotion that makes more of you than you have ever been, even in your best hours, is good.
Every intensification is good, if it seizes you entire and is not an intoxication or delusion, but a joy you can see into, clear to the bottom. Do you understand what I mean?
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Springtime People
We are no longer innocent; but we must mae every effort to become primitive so that we can begin again each time, and from our hearts. We must become springtime people in order to find the summer, whose greatness we must herald.
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Lullaby
When it happens that i lose you,
will you find that you can sleep
without my whispering over you
like the rustling linden tree?
Without my lying awake beside you
and letting my words
fall upon your breast, your limbs
your mouth, like petals of a rose?
Without my letting you be cradled
alone with what is yours,
like a garden abundant
with lavender and lemon balm.
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The Buddha in Glory
Center of all centers, innermost core,
almost sweetening in its self embrace---
all of this, out to the stars,
is the fruit of your body. We greet you.
You feel how little clings to you now.
Endlessness is your shell,
and there, too, the strength.
It is summoned by the radiance
of the full and glowing suns
that wheel around you.
Yet those stars will be outlasted
by what you have begun.
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Is It Not Time
Is it not time
to free ourselves from teh beloved
even as we, trembling, endure the loving?
As the arrow endures teh bowstrings's tension
so that, released, it traels farther.
For there is nowhere to remain.
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For Freedom
As a bird soars high
In the free holding of the wind,
Clear of the certainty of ground,
Opening the imagination of wings
Into the grace of emptiness
To fulfill new voyagings,
May your life awaken
To the call of it freedom.
As the ocean absolves itself
Of the expectation of land,
Approaching only
In the form of waves
That fill and pleat and fall
With such gradual elegance
As to make of the limit
A sonorous threshold
Whose music echoes back along
The give and strain of memory,
Thus may your heart know the patience
That can draw of infinity from limitation.
As the embrace of the earth
Welcomes all we call death,
Taking deep into itself
The right solitude of a seed,
Allowing it time
To shed the grip of former form
And give way to a deeper generosity
That will one day send it forth,
A tree into springtime,
May all that holds you
Fall from its hungry ledge
Into the fecund surge of your heart.
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In Praise of Fire
Let us praise the grace and risk of Fire.
In the beginning,
The Word was red,
And the sound was thunder,
And the would in the unseen
Spilled for the red weaterh of being.
In the name of the Fire,
The Flame
And the Light:
Praise the pure presence of fire
That burns from within
Without thought of time.
The hunger of Fire has no need
For the reliquary of the future;
It adores the eros of now,
Where the memory of the earth
In flames that lick and drink the air
Is made to release
Its long-enduring forms
In a powder of ashes
Left for the wind to decipher.
As air intensifies the hunger of fire,
May the thought of death
Breathe new urgency
Into our love of life.
As fire cleanses dross,
May the flame of passion
Burn away what is false.
As short as the time
From spark to flame,
So brief may the distance be
Between heart and being.
May we discover
Beneath our fear
Embers of anger
To kindle justice.
May courage
Cause our lives to flame,
In the name of the Fire,
And the Flame
And the Light.
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Thirst
Another morning and I wake with thirst for the goodness I do not have. I walk out to the pond and all the way God has given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar but sulked and hunched over my books past the hour and the bell; grant me, in your mercy, a little more time. Love for the eathr and love for you are having such a long conversation in my heart. Who knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting to be told to pack nothing, except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning.
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For A New Beginning
In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.
For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.
It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the gray promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the wavs of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.
Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life's desire.
Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.
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Structures of Kindness (excerpted from TO BLESS THE SPACE BETWEEN US)
There is a kindness that dwells deep down in things; it presides everywhere, often in the places we least expect.
The world can be harsh and negative, but if we remain generous and patient, kindness inevitably reveals itself. Something deep in the human soul seems to depend on the presence of kindness; something instinctive in us expects it, and once we sense it we are able to trust and open ourselves.
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from: the Leaf and the Cloud
Even now
I remember something
the way a flower
in a jar of water
remembers its life
in the perfect garden
the way a flower
in a jar of water
remembers its life
as a closed seed
the way a flower
in a jar of water
steadies itself
remembering itself
long ago
the plunging roots
the gravel the rain
the glossy stem
the wings of the leaves
the swords of the leaves
rising and clashing
for the rose of the sun
the salt of the stars
the crown of the wind
the beds of the clouds
the blue dream
the unbreakable circle
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To cross thresholds worthily: when a great moment knocks on the door of your heart (excerpt from To Bless The Space Between Us)
It remains the dream of every life to realize itself, to reach out and lift oneself up to greater heights. A life that continues to remain on the safe side of it s own habits and repetitions, that never engages with teh risk of its own possibility, remains an unlived life. There is within each heart a hidden voice that calls out for freedom and creativity. WE often linger for years in spaces that are too small and shabby for the grandeur of our spirit. Yet experience always remains faithful to us. If lived truthfully and generously, it will always guide us toward the real pastures.
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the leaf and the cloud (excerpt evening star verse 10
The first streak of light in the darkness,
the first bird to sing,
the first whale to rise out of the black water
the first morning of the spring tide
the first lupine geranium poppy
first sweet corn,
the first afternoon spent outdoors, after illness,
first child
speaking its first words
first peach on the tree
first grapes
first hand-holding first kiss
first afternoon of snow
flakes like salt tapping the leaves
then the swirl then the soft clouds tumbling down
first road to the ocean,
first smell of the ocean
first white heron
first abalone,
first crab, iridescent in the seaweed
first mountain
first fern
first egg with a tapping from inside
first rose
red rose first white rose opening
itself and no more than itself
and more than itself.
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Consciously or unconsciously, we avoid facing things as they are in themselves and so we want God to open for us a door which is beyond... (But) to find life’s purpose we must go through the door of ourselves.
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Living With The Wound
There is a need to be specific
if we are to survive,
which requires being honest,
the way seeing requires
the eyes to stay open.
It means I can tell you
when you hurt me
and still count on your love.
It means being honest
with myself, knowing
the ugly things are not
always someone else's.
I’ve been thinking how
practical people cut the cord
to those who've broken hope,
the way breeders shoot horses
with broken legs, as if
there's nothing to be done.
Now I know they do this
for themselves, not wanting
to care for a horse that cannot run,
not wanting to sit with a friend
who can't find tomorrow, not wanting
to be saddled with anything
that will slow them down.
I used to think it bad timing.
When I was up, you were down.
When you were ready,
I was scared. But since
we've never given up on each other,
it's clear that drinking wonder
when we're sad is how we shed
the things we love about pain.
I have a right to joy
even when lonely,
even when in pain,
and you need never
cover your wounds
when entering my house.
If your voice breaks, I'll be a cup.
If your heart sweats, I'll be a pillow
in which you'll chance to dream
that weeping is singing
through an instrument
that's hard to reach,
though it lands us like lightning
in the grasp of each other
where giving is a mirror
of all we cannot teach.
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For Celebration
Now is the time to free your heart,
Let all intentions and worries stop,
Free the joy in side the self,
Awaken to the wonder of your life.
Open your eyes and see the freinds
Whose hearts recognize your face as kin,
Those whose kindness watchful and near,
Encourages you to live everything here.
See the gifts the years have given,
Things your effort could never earn,
The health to enjoy who you want to be
And the mind to mirror mystery.
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For Presence
Awaken to the mystery of being here
and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence
Have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.
Receive encouragement when new frontiers beckon.
Respond to the call of your gifts and the courage to follow its path.
Let the flame fo anger free you of all falsity.
May warmth of heart heep your presence aflaime.
May anxiety never linger about you.
May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of soul.
Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.
Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.
May you experience eah day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder.
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On Waking
I give thanks for arriving
Safely in a new dawn
for the gift of eyes
To see the world
The gift of mind
To feel at home
In my life.
The waves of possibility
Breaking on the shore of dawn
The harvest of the past
That awaits my hunger,
And all the furtherings
This new day will bring.
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At the End of the Year (from To Bless the Space Between Us)
The particular mind of the ocean
Filling the coastline's longing
With such brief harvest
Of elegant, vanishing waves
Is like the mind of time
Opening us shapes of days.
As this year draws to its end,
We give thanks for the gifts it brought
And how they became inlaid within
When neither time nor tide can touch them.
The days when the veil lifted
And the soul could see delight;
When a quiver caressed the heart
In the sheer exuberance of being here.
Surprises that came awake
In forgotten corners of old fields
Where expectation seemed to have quenched.
The slow, brooding times
When all was awkward
And the wave in the mind
Pierced every sore with salt.
The darkened days that stopped
The confidence of the dawn.
Days when beloved faces shone brighter
With light from beyond themselves;
And from the granite of some secret sorrow
A stream of buried tears loosened
We bless this year for all we learned
For all we loved an lost
And for the quiet way it brought us
Nearer to our invisible destination.
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God's Wounds
Through the great pain of stretching
beyond all that pain has taught me,
the soft well at the base
has opened, and life
touching me there
has turned me into a flower
that prays for rain. Now
I understand: to blossom
is to pray, to wilt and shed
is to pray, to turn to mulch
is to pray, to stretch in the dark
is to pray, to break surface
after great months of ice
is to pray, and to squeeze love
up the stalky center toward the sky
with only dreams of color
is to pray, and finally to unfold
again as if never before
is to be the prayer.
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Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches
of other lives --
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey,
hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning,
feel like?
Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over
the dark acorn of your heart!
No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!
Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?
Well, there is time left --
fields everywhere invite you into them.
And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?
Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!
To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!
To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
in the night
To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!
Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.
Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not,
but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe
I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!
A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.
Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?
And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down
to think about it.
That was then, which hasn't ended yet.
Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.
I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(West Wind: Poems and Prose Poems)
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The Silence of the Stars
When Laurens van der Post one night
In the Kalihari Desert told the Bushmen
He couldn't hear the stars
Singing, they didn't believe him. They looked at him,
Half-smiling. They examined his face
To see whether he was joking
Or deceiving them. Then two of those small men
Who plant nothing, who have almost
Nothing to hunt, who live
On almost nothing, and with no one
But themselves, led him away
From the crackling thorn-scrub fire
And stood with him under the night sky
And listened. One of them whispered,
Do you not hear them now?
And van der Post listened, not wanting
To disbelieve, but had to answer,
No. They walked him slowly
Like a sick man to the small dim
Circle of firelight and told him
They were terribly sorry,
And he felt even sorrier
For himself and blamed his ancestors
For their strange loss of hearing,
Which was his loss now. On some clear nights
When nearby houses have turned off their visions,
When the traffic dwindles, when through streets
Are between sirens and the jets overhead
Are between crossings, when the wind
Is hanging fire in the fir trees,
And the long-eared owl in the neighboring grove
Between calls is regarding his own darkness,
I look at the stars again as I first did
To school myself in the names of constellations
And remember my first sense of their terrible distance,
I can still hear what I thought
At the edge of silence where the inside jokes
Of my heartbeat, my arterial traffic,
The C above high C of my inner ear, myself
Tunelessly humming, but now I know what they are:
My fair share of the music of the spheres
And clusters of ripening stars,
Of the songs from the throats of the old gods
Still tending even tone-deaf creatures
Through their exiles in the desert.
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The Opening of Eyes
That day I saw beneath dark clouds
The passing light over the water
And I heard the voice of the world speak out
I knew then as I have before
Life is no passing memory of what has been
Nor the remaining pages of a great book
Waiting to be read
It is the opening of eyes long closed
It is the vision of far off things
Seen for the silence they hold
It is the heart after years of secret conversing
Speaking out loud in the clear air
It is Moses in the desert fallen to his knees
Before the lit bush
It is the man throwing away his shoes
As if to enter heaven and finding himself astonished
Opened at last
Fallen in love
With Solid Ground
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Mockingbirds
This morning
two mockingbirds
in the green field
were spinning and tossing
the white ribbons
of their songs
into the air.
I had nothing
better to do
than listen.
I mean this
seriously.
In Greece,
a long time ago,
an old couple
opened their door
to two strangers
who were,
it soon appeared,
not men at all,
but gods.
It is my favorite story--
how the old couple
had almost nothing to give
but their willingness
to be attentive--
but for this alone
the gods loved them
and blessed them--
when they rose
out of their mortal bodies,
like a million particles of water
from a fountain,
the light
swept into all the corners
of the cottage,
and the old couple,
shaken with understanding,
bowed down--
but still they asked for nothing
but the difficult life
which they had already.
And the gods smiled, as they vanished,
clapping their great wings.
Wherever it was
I was supposed to be
this morning--
whatever it was I said
I would be doing--
I was standing
at the edge of the field--
I was hurrying
through my own soul,
opening its dark doors--
I was leaning out;
I was listening.
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At The Window
I was at the window
when a fly near the latch
was on its back spinning—
legs furious, going nowhere.
I thought to swat it
but something in its struggle
was too much my own.
It kept spinning and began to tire.
Without moving closer, I exhaled
steadily, my breath a sudden wind
and the fly found its legs,
rubbed its face
and flew away.
I continued to stare at the latch
hoping that someday, the breath
of something incomprehensible
would right me and
enable me to fly.
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The Necessary Art
Poetry is the unexpected utterance of the soul. Much more than the manipulation of language, it is a necessary art by which we live and breathe. It is the art of embodied perception; a braiding of heart and mind around experience. Consider how a simple fish inhales water and somehow, mysteriously and miraculously, extracts the oxygen from the water. In doing this, it turns that water into the air by which it breathes. This ongoing inner transformation—the turning of water into air by extracting what is essential—is poetry. A much deeper process than fooling with words. For us, the heart is our gill and we must move forward into life, like simple fish, or we will die. And the mysterious yet vital way we turn experience into air, the way we extract what keeps us alive—this is the poetry of life that transcends any earthly endeavor. All this while the Universal Ground of Being we call Spirit is working its unknowable physics on us, eroding us to know that we are each other.
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Before The Twice-Locked Gates
I come to you from a land where elders have shown their grandchildren how to sing their way through. I write this in a land where skin pounds skin. From the outside in, we call this brutality. From the inside out, we call this song. The gift of Africa tells us that song is the only thing that can outlast brutality. Whether you suffer an unjust system or an oppressive father, whether you have been in a prison of another’s making or in a cage of your own construction, this sun-baked continent that carries the tremor of the beginning tells any who will listen that song is the only thing that can outlast brutality. The drums, if leaned into, will carry you along. The drums, which have no beginning or end, will circle you through the many faces of pain and joy. The drums sound the heartbeat of God, clear and unending. Even when oppressed to the point of silence, the drumbeat cannot be silenced. Even if you are born a funé, a storyteller who is not permitted to sing, there is song in how you raise your eyes to the unwatched sky. Even if you are forbidden to cry your truth, there is the Geuca Solo, the dance without words before the twice-locked gates. Pain held in is pain. Pain let out is dance. Worry held in is worry. Worry let out is the cry of a bird that lives on the branch of heart that no one sees. Sorrow held in is sorrow. But sorrow let out is the song of the continents moving together. Even if you are forbidden to cry your truth, there is still the dance without words before the twice-locked gates. No matter if the gates are generations old, no matter if the gates are in your mind, no matter if when you move, you stumble. It is the gift of Africa for the children of the earth: God is the wood of the drums, drums sound the heartbeat of the living, song is the thing that will outlast brutality...
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Fighting The Instrument
Often the instruments of change
are not kind or just
and the hardest openness
of all might be
to embrace the change
while not wasting your heart
fighting the instrument.
The storm is not as important
as the path it opens.
The mistreatment in one life
never as crucial as the clearing
it makes in your heart.
This is very difficult to accept.
The hammer or cruel one
is always short-lived
compared to the jewel
in the center of the stone.
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Muir Woods
Masters of stillness,
masters of light,
who, when cut by something
falling, go nowhere and heal,
teach me this nowhere,
who, when falling themselves,
simply wait to root
in another direction,
teach me this falling.
Four hundred year old trees,
who draw aliveness from the earth
like smoke from the heart of God,
we come, not knowing
you will hush our little want
to be big;
we come, not knowing
that all the work is so much
busyness of mind; all
the worry, so much
busyness of heart.
As the sun warms anything near,
being warms everything still
and the great still things
that outlast us
make us crack
like leaves of laurel
releasing a fragrance
that has always been.
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Look Around
If you try to comprehend air
before breathing it,
you will die.
If you try to understand love
before being held,
you will never feel compassion.
If you insist on bringing God to others
before opening your very small window of life,
you will never have honest friends.
If you try to teach before you learn
or leave before you stay,
you will lose your ability to try.
No matter what anyone promises—
to never feel compassion,
to never have honest friends,
to lose your ability to try—
these are desperate ways to die.
A dog loves the world through its nose.
A fish through its gills.
A bat through its deep sense of blindness.
An eagle through its glide.
And a human life
through its spirit.
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Walking North
No matter how I turn
the magnificent light follows.
Background to my sadness.
No matter how I lift my heart
my shadow creeps in wait behind.
Background to my joy.
No matter how fast I run
a stillness without thought is where I end.
No matter how long I sit
there is a river of motion I must rejoin.
And when I can’t hold my head up
it always falls in the lap of one
who has just opened.
When I finally free myself of burden
there is always someone’s heavy head
landing in my arms.
The reasons of the heart
are leaves in wind.
Stand up tall and everything
will nest in you.
We all lose and we all gain.
Dark crowds the light.
Light fills the pain.
It is a conversation with no end
a dance with no steps
a song with no words
a reason too big for any mind.
No matter how I turn
the magnificence follows.
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Earth Prayer
O Endless Creator, Force of Life, Seat of the Unconscious,
Dharma, Atman, Ra, Qalb, Dear Center of our Love,
Christlight, Yaweh, Allah, Mawu,
Mother of the Universe...
Let us, when swimming with the stream,
become the stream...
Let us, when moving with the music,
become the music...
Let us, when rocking the wounded,
become the suffering...
Let us live deep enough
till there is only one direction...
and slow enough till there is only
the beginning of time...
and loud enough in our hearts
till there is no need to speak...
Let us live for the grace beneath all we want,
let us see it in everything and everyone,
till we admit to the mystery
that when I look deep enough into you,
I find me, and when you dare to hear my fear
in the recess of your heart, you recognize it
as your secret which you thought
no one else knew...
O let us embrace
that unexpected moment of unity
as the atom of God...
Let us have the courage
to hold each other when we break
and worship what unfolds...
O nameless spirit that is not done with us,
let us love without a net
beyond the fear of death
until the speck of peace
we guard so well
becomes the world...
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Accepting This
Yes, it is true. I confess,
I have thought great thoughts,
and sung great songs—all of it
rehearsal for the majesty
of being held.
The dream is awakened
when thinking I love you
and life begins
when saying I love you
and joy moves like blood
when embracing others with love.
My efforts now turn
from trying to outrun suffering
to accepting love wherever
I can find it.
Stripped of causes and plans
and things to strive for,
I have discovered everything
I could need or ask for
is right here—
in flawed abundance.
We cannot eliminate hunger,
but we can feed each other.
We cannot eliminate loneliness,
but we can hold each other.
We cannot eliminate pain,
but we can live a life
of compassion.
Ultimately,
we are small living things
awakened in the stream,
not gods who carve out rivers.
Like human fish,
we are asked to experience
meaning in the life that moves
through the gill of our heart.
There is nothing to do
and nowhere to go.
Accepting this,
we can do everything
and go anywhere.
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I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for
may for once spring clear
without my contriving.
If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.
Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing you as no one ever has,
streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.
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All will come again into its strength:
the fields undivided, the waters undammed,
the trees towering and the walls built low.
And in the valleys, people as strong and varied as the land.
And no churches where God
is imprisoned and lamented
like a trapped and wounded animal.
The houses welcoming all who knock
and a sense of boundless offering
in all relations, and in you and me.
No yearning for an afterlife, no looking beyond,
no belittling of death,
but only longing for what belongs to us
and serving earth, lest we remain unused.
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ll will come again into its strength:
the fields undivided, the waters undammed,
the trees towering and the walls built low.
And in the valleys, people as strong and varied as the land.
And no churches where God
is imprisoned and lamented
like a trapped and wounded animal.
The houses welcoming all who knock
and a sense of boundless offering
in all relations, and in you and me.
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You must give birth to your images.
They are the future waiting to be born...
Fear not the strangeness you feel.
The future must enter you
long before it happens.
Just wait for the birth,
for the hour of new clarity.
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Forget Everything & Just Dance
Forget everything anyone ever taught you
about right or wrong, good or bad, beautiful or ugly
& just dance my Dear.
Dance the way you do when no one else is looking
& you have no reputation to protect,
or inhibitions to keep you from being free.
For you, the Lover has commissioned this spinning galactic dance floor,
& is now there upon the threshold of your heart's hesitation saying:
O come my Sweet, don't be shy, for it makes my Soul smile
to see your Mind & Spirit move together like that.
Forget those worries & obligations;
those mean spirited words & unkind thoughts
forget your own harsh inconsiderate actions of the past & just sing!
Sing like you do in the shower when you think noone is listening.
For the Sun & Moon are already there,
keeping company with planets & stars,
all have joined hands together
& are whirling their way through the Universe
in enamored expressions of overwhelming ecstatic joy
& all are thinking quietly to themselves
as they pass your bedroom window in the night:
if only you would untie your wings & let the Sacred in you soar,
if only you could see the Light of your own astounding presence,
then perhaps the world around you (a world full of anguish & sorrow)
would remember something of their true sublime beauty
& be able to smile in absolute purity once again.
Forget about politics, religion & money;
forget about fitting in &having to be right,
& just laugh my Dear, laugh!
Laugh the way children do when they forget about he brain
& give into Love for a lesson in Heart-Storming,
like a wild inferno of joy
overflowing & expanding out of control with Light,
For once you set yourself loose
to join your divine dance partners in the Sky,
the flowers will open, the trees will gather,
th wind will bow itself at your feet
& God herself will step onto the spiraling flames of existence,
& take your soul by the hand
uttering those soft holy words as a prayer saying;
at last, at last my Love, at last
at last I Am complete.
Dreaming-Bear Baraka Kanaan
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The Swan
Across the wide waters
something comes
floating - a slim
and delicate
ship, filled
with white flowers--
and it moves
on its miraculous muscles
as though time didn't exist,
as though bringing such gifts
to the dry shore
was a happiness
almost beyond bearing.
And now it turns tis dark eyes,
it rearranges
the clouds of it is wings,
it trails
an elaborate webbed foot,
the color of charcoal.
Soon it will be here.
Oh what shall I do
when that poppy-colored beak
rests in my hand?
Said Mrs. Blake of the poet:
I miss my husband's company
he is so often
in paradise
Of course the path to heaven
doesn't lie down in flat miles.
It's in the imagination
with which you percieve
the world
and the gestures
with which you honor it
Oh, what will I do, what will I say, when those
white wings
touch the shore?
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I Know The Way You Can Get
I know the way you can get
When you have not had a drink of Love:
Your face hardens,
Your sweet muscles cramp.
Children become concerned
About a strange look that appears in your eyes
Which even begins to worry your own mirror
And nose.
Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
And call an important conference in a tall tree.
They decide which secret code to chant
To help your mind and soul.
Even angels fear that brand of madness
That arrays itself against the world
And throws sharp stones and spears into
The innocent
And into one's self.
O I know the way you can get
If you have not been drinking Love:
You might rip apart
Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
Looking for hidden clauses.
You might weigh every word on a scale
Like a dead fish.
You might pull out a ruler to measure
From every angle in your darkness
The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once
Trusted.
I know the way you can get
If you have not had a drink from Love's
Hands.
That is why all the Great Ones speak of
The vital need
To keep remembering God,
So you will come to know and see Him
As being so Playful
And Wanting,
Just Wanting to help.
That is why Hafiz says:
Bring your cup near me.
For all I care about
Is quenching your thirst for freedom!
All a Sane man can ever care about
Is giving Love!
From: 'I Heard God Laughing - Renderings of Hafiz'
Translated by Daniel Ladinsky
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Someone Who Can Kiss God
Come to my house late at night -
Do not be shy.
Hafiz will be barefoot and dancing.
I will be
In such a grand and generous mood!
Come to my door at any hour,
Even if your eyes
Are frightened by my light.
My heart and arms are open
And need no rest--
They will always welcome you.
Come in, my dear,
From that harsh world
That has rained elements of stone
Upon your tender face.
Every soul
Should receive a toast from us
For bravery!
Bring all the bottles of wine you own
To this divine table - the earth
We share.
If your cellar is empty,
This whole Univers
Could drink forever
From mine!
Let's dine tonight with exquisite music.
I might even hire angels
To play - just for you.
Look!
Hidden beneath your feet
Is a Luminous Stage
Where we are meant to rehearse
Our Eternal Dance!
And what is the price of my Divine Instruction?
What could I ask of you?
All I could ever want
Is that
You have the priceless company
Of Someone
Who can Kiss God,
That you have the priceless gift
Of becoming a servant to the Friend!
Come to my window, dear world --
Why ever be shy?
Look inside my playful Verse,
For Hafiz is Barefoot and Dancing
And in such a Grand and generous --
In such a Fantastic Mood.
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Saints Bowing in the Mountains
Do you know how beautiful you are?
I think not, my dear.
For as you talk of God,
I see great parades with wildly colorful bands
Streaming from your mind and heart,
Carrying wonderful and secret messages
To every corner of this world.
I see saints bowing in the mountains
Hundreds of miles away
To the wonder of sounds
That break into light
From your most common words.
Tell me of squirrels and birds you know.
Awaken your legion of nightingales-
Let them soar wild and free in the sky
And begin to sing to God.
Let's all begin to sing to God!
Do you know how beautiful you are?
I think not, my dear,
Yet Hafiz
Could set you upon a Stage
And worship you forever!
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Someone Should Start Laughing
I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
How are you?
I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
What is God?
If you think that the Truth can be known
From words,
If you think that the Sun and the Ocean
Can pass through that tiny opening
Called the mouth,
O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing-
Now!
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A Golden Compass
Forget every idea of right and wrong
Any classroom ever taught you
Because
An empty heart, a tormented mind,
Unkindness, jealousy and fear
Are always the testimony
You have been copletely fooled!
Turn your back on those
Who would imprison your wondrous spirit
With deceit and lies.
Come, join the honest company
Of the King's beggars-
Those gamblers, scoundrels and divine clowns
And those astonishing fair courtesans
Who need Divine Love every night.
Come, join teh courageous
Who have no choice
But to bet their entire world
That indeed,
Indeed, God is Real.
I will lead you into the Circle
Of the Beloved's cunning thieves,
Those playful royal rogues-
The ones youcan trust for true guidance-
Who can aid you
In this Blessed Calamity of life.
Hafiz
Look at the Perfect One
At the Circle's Center:
He Spins and Whirls like a Golden Compass,
Beyond all that is Rational,
To show this dear world
That Everything,
Everything in Existence
Does point to God.
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My Sweet, Crushed Angel
You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One.
You have waltzed with great style,
My sweet, crushed angel,
To have ever neared God's Heart at all.
Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow,
And even His best musicians are not always easy
To hear.
So what if the music has stopped for a while.
So what
If the price of admission to the Divine
Is out of reach tonight.
So what, my dear,
If you do not have the ante to gamble for Real Love.
The mind and body are famous
For holding the heart ransom,
But Hafiz knows the Beloved's eternal habits.
Have patience,
For He will not be able to resist your longing
For long.
You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.
You have actually waltzed with tremendous style,
O my sweet,
Oh my sweet, crushed angel.
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My Eyes So Soft
Don't surrender your loneliness so quickly
let it cut more deep.
Let it ferment and season you
as few human or even divine ingredients can
Something missing in my heart tonight
has made my eyes so soft
my voice so tender
my need of god
absolutely clear.
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Every child has known God,
Not the God of names,
Not the God of don'ts,
Not the God who ever does
Anything weird,
But the God who knows only 4 words
And keeps repeating them, saying:
"Come Dance with Me."
Come Dance.
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There You Go Again
Ever since I stepped out of imagination
and into the heart of things
I have become so much less spiritual.
Heaven, hell and earth
hold no meaning for me anymore.
For I am neither coming
nor going
nor staying put.
All I do is notice all the varioius ways
that Light weaves itself into dreams.
When someone asks me who they are
or what God is
I smile inside and whisper to the Light:
There you go again pretending.
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I Woke Up Laughing
I had a dream last night.
We were all inside the sacred temple
looking for the entrance.
Who would have thought
that such insanity exists in heaven?
At first light I woke up
laughing.
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God is always dancing --- always.
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The Shape of Love
What we see is not the most important.
Could the dust rise without the invisible
hand of the wind?
Could a fan turn without any current?
Could lungs breathe without breath?
Tell me
What is the shape of love?
How much does Joy weigh
when held in the palm of your hand?
Can you catch the Spirit of life in a jar?
All things seen depend
upon the Unseen.
All sounds depend
upon Silence.
All things felt depend
upon what is not felt.
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From The Book of Time
I rose this moringing early as usual, and went to my desk.
But it's spring,
and the thrush is in the woods,
somewhere in the twirled branches, and he is singing.
And so, now, I am standing bythe open door.
And now I am stepping down onto the grass.
I am touching a few leavves.
I am noticing the way the yellow butterflies
move together, in a twinkling cloud, over the field.
And I am thinking: maybe just looking and listening
is the real work.
Maybe the world, without us,
is the real poem.
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Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart
and try to love the questions themselves ...
Don't search for the answers,
which could not be given to you now,
because you would not be able to live them.
And the point is, to live everything.
Live the questions now.
Perhaps then, someday far in the future,
you will gradually, without even noticing it,
live your way into the answer.
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Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other" doesn't make any sense.
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Revelations
Bless you for your anger
It’s a sign of rising energy.
(Transform the energy to versatility
and it will bring you
prosperity).
Bless you for your sorrow
It’s a sign of vulnerability.
(Transform the energy to sympathy
and it will bring you love).
Bless you for greed
It’s a sign of great capacity.
(Transform the energy to giving.
Give as much as you wish to take,
and you will receive satisfaction).
Bless you for your jealousy
It’s a sign of empathy.
(Transform the energy to admiration
and what you admire will become
part of your life).
Bless you for your fear
It’s a sign of wisdom.
(Transform the energy to flexibility
and you will be free from what you fear).
Bless you for your search of direction
(Transform the energy to receptivity and
the direction will come to you).
Bless you for the times you see evil.
(Evil feeds on your support. Feed not
and it will self-destruct.
Shed light and it will cease to be).
Bless you for the times you feel no love.
Open your heart to life anyway
And in time you will find love in you.
You are a sea of goodness
You are a sea of love.
Bless you, bless you, bless you
Bless you for what you are
The world has all that you need
And you have the power to
attract what you wish.
Wish for health, wish for joy.
Remember, you are loved.
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The Opening of Eyes
That day I saw beneath dark clouds
The passing light over the water
And I heard the voice of the world speak out
I knew then as I have before
Life is no passing memory of what has been
Nor the remaining pages of a great book
Waiting to be read
It is the opening of eyes long closed
It is the vision of far off things
Seen for the silence they hold
It is the heart after years of secret conversing
Speaking out loud in the clear air
It is Moses in the desert fallen to his knees
Before the lit bush
It is the man throwing away his shoes
As if to enter heaven and finding himself astonished
Opened at last
Fallen in love
With Solid Ground
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The Journey
Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again
Painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.
Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens
so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.
Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that
small, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.
Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out
someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life.
You are not leaving
you are arriving.
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Heavy featured January 7, 2007
The time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying
I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had His hand in this,
as well as friends,
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,
was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry
but how you carry it--
books, bricks,grief--
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it
when you cannot, and would not,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?
Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?
How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind,and maybe
also troubled--
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep wave,
a love
to which there is no reply?
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Kindness
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the
Indian in a white poncho lies dead
by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night
with plans and the simple breath
that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness
as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow
as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness
that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day
to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.
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Lead
Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.
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all things connected
all things connected
fairies to tales
beginning to end
head to toes
to the dirt of the earth
to my bones
to the memory
of skin
redbirds to roses
to the sweet sting of thorns
kisses from queens
sent into the night
swords that slash
from hearts to veins
rivers of blood, red
red apples to serpents
who shed their skin
and begin again
anew
birth to death
the dye is cast
the layers are woven
set into motion
the wheel of time
is going fast and round
inside of you
and all over me
is this the part where
WE begin?
if not in this story
then where and when?
turn the page
all things intersect
at one place or another
all things will begin
with death and then
a dawning
crossroads and corners
will forever remain questions
marks on your map
asking only that you decide
turn the page!!
step into time
move deeper within
the story of yourself
find your course
look to the lines of the body for direction
revealing roads to hidden places
that you always knew existed
but have not yet journeyed
perhaps we will meet
in the middle of ourselves
perhaps
you will sense me in between the seams
find me with your fingertips
i will recognize your touch
i will remember it as my own
look for the links
listen to the rhythm
of our blood
as you
turn the page
kim g/ 1998
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she danced for the love she felt
she danced for the love she felt
the love she gave away
and the love she kept
she danced to free her spirit
and to free other spirits too
she danced in response to joy
and to process pain
she moved her body
like her life depended on it
all the while praying
for love to come for sadness to go
and danced
for all the people
who can't dance for themselves
she also taught others to dance
for justice, for truth, for possiblity
for healing the broken-hearted
she danced
with the little children
and the wise old ones
she danced
to break the ties that bind our women
to bring awareness and healing
to invite friendship and art
into the open spaces
that the dance created
she danced
to break open the hearts of our men
to bring truth and compassion
to encourage kindness and vision
toward the healed places
that the dance created
she danced to keep the flame of
true Love
burning
she danced
for all the wishes, all the dreams
and all the blessings
she danced the first dance
and the last dance
she danced
when she was too tired to walk
she danced
for the living and for the dead
in birth and in mourning
for peace, beauty and
creative -expression
she danced
our prayers all the way to G*D
which wasn't so very far after all
By Shiloh Sophia McCloud @2003
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RUMI'S SISTER
There is no cure for a broken
heart, but this,
let it break. Let it be inhabited
by the silence of train whistles
in the dark, by the bird whose
red violet song pours
out of his throat all night,
by the desert that sprang up shining
where the forest used to be.
Let the thirst pour through your
heart where once there was
water, and let the water pour
down your face where once
there was sun.
Let it break. Sit with it gently
as you would sit with an elderly relative whose
eyes have gone soft with memories. Give up
your need to be pain-free and just listen
to the pieces of your old boat
rocking gently in the water.
The tide will take it out. The fish
will bury it in their yawning
mouths and no one will be the wiser
that it ever existed.
There are no monuments to what
you feel. So don't make yourself
one. Just be happy
that you are alive to watch the drops
of your own blood filling the jar
and that you can choose to pour a little
jar of that precious life, onto
the roots of the reddest rose
you can find.
Go find that rose. It has made
splendid petals of its broken heart and
perfume that rises in the night
up to the loneliest stars. You were
allowed to live in this green oasis for
two or three bright moments
and while you were here, the
Lover touched you
everywhere.
Sip from your broken heart.
Swallow the tears of each moment.
Let your suffering carry you
like perfume.
jill Wright jill@starrypuddle.com
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TIGHTROPE
Once the tightrope has broken
beneath you, and your soul splintered
out your flailing arms,
you never work without a net.
You spend time learning
knots and tying them
fast.
But you forget
to rub oil on your shoulders,
nurture those little stubs of wings.
You forget to study the updraft
of the wind and memorize
the mathematics of maps.
Don't spend your time
on the net.
The only thing that can help you now
is flight.
jill Wright jill@starrypuddle.com
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In The Sun (song lyrics)
Joseph Arthur - In The Sun
I picture you in the sun wondering what went wrong
And falling down on your knees asking for sympathy
And being caught in between all you wish for and all you seen
And trying to find anything you can feel that you can believe in
May God's love be with you
Always
May God's love be with you
I know i would apologize if i could see your eyes
'Cause when you showed me myself i became someone else
But i was caught in between all you wish for and all you need
I picture you fast asleep
A nightmare comes
You can't keep awake
May God's love be with you
Always
May God's love be with you
'Cause if i find
If i find my own way
How much will i find
If i find
If i find my own way
How much will i find
You
I don't know anymore
What it's for
I'm not even sure
If there is anyone who is in the sun
Will you help me to understand
'Cause i been caught in between all I wish for and all I need
Maybe you're not even sure what it's for
Any more than me
May God's love be with you
Always
May God's love be with you
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Everything Is Waiting For You
(After Derek Mahon)
Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice. You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
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pray for peace
Pray to whoever you kneel down to:
Jesus nailed to his wooden or marble or plastic cross,
his suffering face bent to kiss you,
Buddha still under the Bo tree in scorching heat,
Adonai, Allah, raise your arms to Mary
that she may lay her palm on our brows,
to Shekinhah, Queen of Heaven and Earth,
to Inanna in her stripped descent.
Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, Record Keeper
of time before, time now, time ahead, pray. Bow down
to terriers and shepherds and siamese cats.
Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.
Pray to the bus driver who takes you to work,
pray on the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus
and for everyone riding buses all over the world.
If you haven't been on a bus in a long time,
climb the few steps, drop some silver, and pray.
Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM,
for your latté and croissant, offer your plea.
Make your eating and drinking a supplication.
Make your slicing of carrots a holy act,
each translucent layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.
Make the brushing of your hair
a prayer, every strand its own voice,
singing in the choir on your head.
As you wash your face, the water slipping
through your fingers, a prayer: Water,
softest thing on earth, gentleness
that wears away rock.
Making love, of course, is already a prayer.
Skin and open mouths worshipping that skin,
the fragile case we are poured into,
each caress a season of peace.
If you're hungry, pray. If you're tired.
Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day.
Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth.
Pray to the angels and the ghost of your grandfather.
When you walk to your car, to the mailbox,
to the video store, let each step
be a prayer that we all keep our legs,
that we do not blow off anyone else's legs.
Or crush their skulls.
And if you are riding on a bicycle
or a skateboard, in a wheel chair, each revolution
of the wheels a prayer that as the earth revolves
we will do less harm, less harm, less harm.
And as you work, typing with a new manicure,
a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail
or delivering soda or drawing good blood
into rubber-capped vials, writing on a blackboard
with yellow chalk, twirling pizzas, pray for peace.
With each breath in, take in the faith of those
who have believed when belief seemed foolish,
who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.
Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace,
feed the birds for peace, each shiny seed
that spills onto the earth, another second of peace.
Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.
Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk.
Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child
around your VISA card. Gnaw your crust
of prayer, scoop your prayer water from the gutter.
Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling
your prayer through the streets.
-Ellen Bass
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Peonies
this morning the green fists of the peonis are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers
and the open----
pools of lace,
white and pink----
and all day the black ants climb over them,
boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away
to their dark, underground cities----
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,
the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding
all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again----
beauty the brave, the exemplary,
blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?
do you also hurry half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,
with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?
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Gannets
I am watching the white gannets
blaze down into the water
with the power of blunt spears
and a stunning accuracy----
even though the sea is riled and boiling
and gray with fog
and the fish
are nowhere to be seen,
they fall, they explode into the water
like white gloves,
then they vanish,
then they climb out again,
from the cliff of the wave,
like white flowers----
and still I think
that nothing in this world moves
but as a positive power----
even the fish, finning down into the current
or collapsing in the red purse of the beak,
are only interrupted from their own pursuit
of whatever it is
that fills their belliesand I say:
life is real,
and pain is real,
but death is an imposter,
and if I could be what once I was,
like the wolf or the bear
standing on the cold shore,
I would still see it---
how the fish simply escape, this time,
or how they slide down into the black fire
for a moment,
then rise from the water inseparable
from the gannets wings.
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Some Questions You Might Ask
Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beack of an owl?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad
as the face of Jesus.
The swan opens her white wings slowly
In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness
One question leads to another.
Does it have a shape? Like an iceberg?
Like the eye of a hummingbird?
Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?
Why sthoid I have it, and not the anteater
who loves her children?
Whi should I have it and not the camel?
Come to think of it, what about the maple trees?
What about the blue iris?
What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?
What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?
What about grass?
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The Esquimos Have No Word for "War"
Trying to explain it to them I
Leaves one feeling ridiculous and obscene.
Their houses, like white bowls, Sit on a prairie of ancient snowfalls
Caught beyond thaw or the swift changes
Of night and day.
They listen politely, and stride away
With spears and sleds and barking dogs
To hunt for food.
The women wait
Chewing on skins or singing songs,
Knowing that they have hours to spend,
That the luck of the hunter is often late.
Later, by fires and boiling bones
In steaming kettles, they welcome me,
Far kin, pale brother,
To share what they have in a hungry time
In a difficult land. While I talk on
Of the southern kingdoms, cannon, armies,
Shifting alliances, airplanes, power,
They chew their bones, and smile at one another.
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Night Flight
Traveling at thirty thousand feet, we see
How much of earth still lies in wilderness,
Till terminals occur like miracles
To civilize the paralyzing dark.
Buckled for landing to a tilting chair,
I think: if miracle or accident
Should send us on across the upper air,
How many miles, or nights, or years to go
Before the mind, with its huge ego paling,
Before the heart, all expectation spent, Should read the meaning of the scene below?
But now already the loved ones gather
Under the dome of welcome, as we glide
Over the final jutting mountainside,
Across the suburbs tangled in their lights,
And settled softly on the earth once more
Rise in the fierce assumption of our lives
Discarding smoothly, as we disembark,
All thoughts that held us wiser for a moment
Up there alone, in the impartial dark.
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Autumn Poem
In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing-but it's neither
loose, nor lilting, nor lovely-
it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges.
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and onto the evening,
its ticks and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life
to come through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
Inward
to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven,
but when it happens-
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,
and he begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,
from so many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.
Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is trying
to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.
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The Moths
There's a kind of white moth, I don't know
what kind, that glimmers
by mid-May
in the forest, just
as the pink moccasin flowers
are rising.
If you notice anything,
it leads you to notice
more and more.
And anyway
I was so full of energy.
I was always running around, looking
at this and that.
If I stopped
the pain
was unbearable.
If I stopped and thought, maybe
the world
can't be saved,
the pain
was unbearable.
Finally, I had noticed enough.
All around me in the forest
the white moths floated.
How long do they live,
fluttering in and out of the shadows?
You aren't much, I said
one day to my reflection
in a green pond,
and grinned.
The wings of the moths catch the sunlight
and burn
so brightly.
At night, sometimes,
they slip between the pink lobes
of the moccasin flowers and lie there until dawn,
motionless in those dark halls of honey.
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The Buddha's Last Instruction
"Make of yourself a light,"
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal-a white fan streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward, it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire-
clearly I'm not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
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