Friday, July 3, 2015

love is not all






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Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
and rise and sink and rise and sink again.

Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

It well may be that in a difficult hour,
pinned down by need and moaning for release
or nagged by want past resolutions power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.

It may well be. I do not think I would.


–Edna St. Vincent Millay



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only breath







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the deep listening






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What is the deep listening? Sama is
a greeting from the secret ones inside
the heart, a letter. The branches of
your intelligence grow new leaves in
the wind of this listening. The body
reaches a peace. Rooster sound comes,
reminding you of your love for dawn.
The reed flute and the singer's lips:
the knack of how spirit breathes into
us becomes as simple and ordinary as
eating and drinking. The dead rise with
the pleasure of listening. If someone
can't hear a trumpet melody, sprinkle
dirt on his head and declare him dead.
Listen, and feel the beauty of your
separation, the unsayable absence.
There's a moon inside every human being.
Learn to be companions with it. Give
more of your life to this listening. As
brightness is to time, so you are to
the one who talks to the deep ear in
your chest. I should sell my tongue
and buy a thousand ears when that
one steps near and begins to speak.



–Rumi
from The Glance

Coleman Barks translation



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what Jesus said






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The wind blows where it likes: that is what
Everyone is like who is born from the wind.
Oh now it’s getting serious. We are the ones
Born from the wind that blows along the plains

And over the sea where no one has a home.
And that Upsetting Rabbi, didn't he say:
‘Take nothing with you, no blanket, no bread.
When evening comes, sleep wherever you are.

And if the owners say no, shake out the dust
From your sandals; leave the dust on their doorstep.’
Don’t hope for what will never come. Give up hope,
Dear friends, the joists of life are laid on the winds


–Robert Bly



supposing






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supposing i dreamed this)
only imagine,when day has thrilled
you are a house around which
i am a wind-

your walls will not reckon how
strangely my life is curved
since the best he can do
is to peer through windows,unobserved

-listen,for(out of all
things)dream is noone's fool;
if this wind who i am prowls
carefully around this house of you

love being such,or such,
the normal corners of your heart
will never guess how much
my wonderful jealousy is dark

if light should flower:
or laughing sparkle from
the shut house(around and around
which a poor wind will roam


–E. E. Cummings



 .
 






Thursday, July 2, 2015

from Keep Moving





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Stay light-footed, and keep moving.
Do you hear what the violin
says about longing?
The same as the stick, "I was once
a green branch in the wind."
We are all far from home.
Language is our caravan bell.
Don't stop anywhere.
The moment you're attracted to a place,
you grow bored with it.
Think of the big moves you've already made,
from a single cell to a human being!
Stay light-footed, and keep moving.
Turkish, Arabic, Greek, any tongue
is a wind that was formerly water.
As a breeze carries the ocean inside it,
so underneath every sentence is,
"Come back to the source."


–Rumi 
Coleman Barks version from a
John Moyne translation




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A Messenger from the Horizon, excerpt






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Pardon all runners,
All speechless, alien winds,
All mad waters.

Pardon their impulses,
Their wild attitudes,
Their young flights, their reticence.

When a message has no clothes on
How can it be spoken.

–Thomas Merton



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utterance






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Sitting over words
very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing
not far
like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark
the echo of everything that has ever
been spoken
still spinning its one syllable
between the earth and silence


–W. S. Merwin


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the sea wind





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The sea wind sways over the endless oceans -
spreads its wings night and day
rises and sinks again
over the desolate swaying floor of the immortal ocean.

Now it is nearly morning
or it is nearly evening
and the ocean wind feels in its face - the land wind.

Clockbuoy toll morning and evening psalms,
the smoke of a coalboat
or the smoke of a tar-burning phoenician ship faces away at the horizons.

The lonely jellyfish who has no history rocks around with
burning blue feet.
It's nearly evening now or morning.


–Harry Martinson


 
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from The Alchemist





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I have inside me the winds, the deserts, the oceans, the stars, and everything created in the universe.
We were all made by the same hand, and we have the same soul.

—Paulo Coelho


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medicine






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When the wind blows
that is my medicine
When it rains
that is my medicine

When it hails
that is my medicine

When it becomes clear after a storm
that is my medicine


–Holy Woman Poem



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the wind shifts like this





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This is how the wind shifts:
Like the thoughts of an old human,
Who still thinks eagerly
And despairingly.

The wind shifts like this:
Like a human without illusions,
Who still feels irrational things within her.

The wind shifts like this:
Like humans approaching proudly,
Like humans approaching angrily.

This is how the wind shifts:
Like a human, heavy and heavy,
Who does not care.


–Wallace Stevens



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Wednesday, July 1, 2015

something about circles





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The moon is most happy
When it is full. 
And the sun always looks
Like a perfectly minted gold coin
That was just Polished
And placed in flight
By God's playful Kiss.

And so many varieties of fruit
Hang plump and round
From branches that seem like a Sculptor's hands.

I see the beautiful curve of a pregnant belly
Shaped by a soul within,
And the Earth itself,
And the planets and the Spheres--

I have gotten the hint:
There is something about circles
The Beloved likes.

Hafiz,
Within the Circle of a Perfect One
There is an Infinite Community
Of Light.


–Hafiz









Complexity of a Sphere




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Buckminster Fuller defines a Sphere as “a multiplicity of discrete events, approximately equidistant in all directions from a Nuclear Center.”


.
chaosophia
.








all motion is curved






.






you know






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We are not stuff that abides,

but patterns that perpetuate themselves.


–Norbert Weiner



.




supposing i dreamed this)






.



supposing i dreamed this)
only imagine,when day has thrilled
you are a house around which
i am a wind-

your walls will not reckon how
strangely my life is curved
since the best he can do
is to peer through windows,unobserved

-listen,for(out of all
things)dream is noone’s fool;
if this wind who i am prowls
carefully around this house of you

love being such,or such,
the normal corners of your heart
will never guess how much
my wonderful jealousy is dark

if light should flower:
or laughing sparkle from
the shut house(around and around
which a poor wind will roam


–E. E. Cummings



.






the part is like the whole







.






revelation






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Poetry reveals that there is no empty space.

When your truth forsakes its shyness,
When your fears surrender to your strengths,
You will begin to experience

That all existence
Is a teeming sea of infinite life.
In a handful of ocean water
You could not count all the finely tuned
Musicians
Who are acting stoned
For very intelligent and sane reasons
And of course are becoming extremely sweet
And wild!

In a handful of the sky and earth,
In a handful of God,
We cannot count
All the ecstatic lovers who are dancing there
Behind the mysterious veil.

True art reveals there is no void
Or darkness.

There is no loneliness to the clear-eyed mystic
In this luminous, brimming
Playful world.



–Hafiz



.












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I am
emptiness
but make
no mistake

emptiness is not
void. It has
flavor, it has
substance.
Its colors are dusk,
half-light, depth.

You are the tender
spread of dawn
when it first appears
and the last lingering
long after sunset.
You are the
emerald sheen of
sun in water
and the light that fails
to find its reflection
on a day of drizzle.

You take my
emptiness and spin it
into a blanket so light
it sits like stardust
on your shoulders,
my emptiness offering shade
to your dazzling Fullness.


–Antoinette Voûte Roeder
Color Me Empty
a love song




.

thank you
Antoinette!
.







hush





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The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us and whispers:
“I am not empty, I am open.”


—Tomas Tranströmer
Robert Bly translation



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Monday, June 29, 2015

somebody always helps that girl







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you are that

 



.


Be melting snow.
Wash yourself of yourself.


–Rumi



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not to worry




 
 
.
 

You are a sinner,
You are a saint.
You are a murderer and
You are a monk.

The entire world
You experience is
Inside yourself.

To fix the problems of
The world,
You need only
Fix yourself.


–Wu Hsin



In the Privacy of the Home







 
.


You want to get a good look at yourself. You stand before a mirror, you take off your jacket, unbutton your shirt, open your belt, unzip your fly. The outer clothing falls from you. You take off your shoes and socks, baring your feet. You remove your underwear. At a loss, you examine the mirror. There you are. You are not there.


–Mark Strand


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I loved you even then






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When you were a tadpole and I was a fish
In the Paleozoic time,
And side by side on the ebbing tide
We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip
Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
My heart was rife with the joy of life,
For I loved you even then.

Mindless we lived and mindless we loved
And mindless at last we died;
And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift
We slumbered side by side.
The world turned on in the lathe of time,
The hot lands heaved amain,
Till we caught our breath from the womb of death
And crept into light again.

We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,
And drab as a dead man's hand;
We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees
Or trailed through the mud and sand.
Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet
Writing a language dumb,
With never a spark in the empty dark
To hint at a life to come.

Yet happy we lived and happy we loved,
And happy we died once more;
Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
Of a Neocomian shore.
The eons came and the eons fled
And the sleep that wrapped us fast
Was riven away in a newer day
And the night of death was past.

Then light and swift through the jungle trees
We swung in our airy flights,
Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms
In the hush of the moonless nights;
And, oh! what beautiful years were there
When our hearts clung each to each;
When life was filled and our senses thrilled
In the first faint dawn of speech.

Thus life by life and love by love
We passed through the cycles strange,
And breath by breath and death by death
We followed the chain of change.
Till there came a time in the law of life
When over the nursing side
The shadows broke and soul awoke
In a strange, dim dream of God.

I was thewed like an Auruch bull
And tusked like the great cave bear;
And you, my sweet, from head to feet
Were gowned in your glorious hair.
Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,
When the night fell o'er the plain
And the moon hung red o'er the river bed
We mumbled the bones of the slain.

I flaked a flint to a cutting edge
And shaped it with brutish craft;
I broke a shank from the woodland lank
And fitted it, head and haft;
Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,
Where the mammoth came to drink;
Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone
And slew him upon the brink.

Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,
Loud answered our kith and kin;
From west and east to the crimson feast
The clan came tramping in.
O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof
We fought and clawed and tore,
And check by jowl with many a growl
We talked the marvel o'er.

I carved that fight on a reindeer bone
With rude and hairy hand;
I pictured his fall on the cavern wall
That men might understand.
For we lived by blood and the right of might
Ere human laws were drawn,
And the age of sin did not begin
Till our brutal tush were gone.

And that was a million years ago
In a time that no man knows;
Yet here tonight in the mellow light
We sit at Delmonico's.
Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,
Your hair is dark as jet,
Your years are few, your life is new,
Your soul untried, and yet -

Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay
And the scarp of the Purbeck flags;
We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones
And deep in the Coralline crags;
Our love is old, our lives are old,
And death shall come amain;
Should it come today, what man may say
We shall not live again?

God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds
And furnished them wings to fly;
We sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,
And I know that it shall not die,
Though cities have sprung above the graves
Where the crook-bone men make war
And the oxwain creaks o'er the buried caves
Where the mummied mammoths are.

Then as we linger at luncheon here
O'er many a dainty dish,
Let us drink anew to the time when you
Were a tadpole and I was a fish.



–Langdon Smith
Evolution



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your work is deeper





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Be with those who help your being.
Don't sit with indifferent people, whose breath
comes cold out of their mouths.

Not these visible forms, your work is deeper.
A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.
If you don't try to fly,
and so break yourself apart,
you will be broken open by death,
when it's too late for all you could become.

Leaves get yellow. The tree puts out fresh roots
and makes them green.
Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow?


–Rumi
Ode 2865
Coleman Barks translation



.





beautiful





.



Your cure is in you, but you are unaware,
And your illness is from you, but you do not see.


And you consider yourself to be a small mass
While within you lies the greatest world.


And you are the clear book
Whose letters make manifest the hidden.



–Amīr al-Mu’mineen, Imam Ali (ع)



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its self





.


I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.


–D. H. Lawrence

.




cup and ocean





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These forms we seem to be are cups floating in an ocean
of living consciousness.

They fill and sink without leaving an arc of bubbles or any good-bye spray. What we are is that ocean, too near to see, though we swim in it and drink it in.
Don't be a cup with a dry rim, or someone who rides all night and never knows the horse beneath his thighs, the surging that carries him along.


–Rumi
Mathnawi 1, 1109-16
Coleman Barks version



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