this is it

This is It
and I am It
and You are It
and so is That
and He is It
and She is It
and It is It
and That is That

O it is This
and it is Thus
and it is Them
and it is Us
and it is Now
and Here It is
and Here We are
so This is It





James Broughton

of being

I know this happiness

is provisional:

     the looming presences —

     great suffering, great fear —

     withdraw only 

     into peripheral vision:

but ineluctable this shimmering 

of wind in the blue leaves:

this flood of stillness 

widening the lake of sky:

this need to dance, 

this need to kneel: 

         this mystery:

Denise Levertov

Photo:  Peter Bowers

late fragment

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.





Raymond Carver
Photo:  Peter Bowers

yes, we can talk

Having loved enough and lost enough,
I'm no longer searching
just opening,

no longer trying to make sense of pain
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.

These are the irritations
that rub into a pearl.

So we can talk for a while
but then we must listen,
the way rocks listen to the sea.

And we can churn at all that goes wrong
but then we must lay all distractions
down and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight
I too feel alone. But seldom do I
face it squarely enough
to see that it's a door
into the endless breath
that has no breather,
into the surf that human
shells call God.





Mark Nepo
Photo:  Peter Bowers

love window

There is some kiss we want
with our whole lives,
the touch of spirit on the body.

Seawater begs the pearl
to break its shell.

And the lily, how passionately
it needs some wild darling.

At night, I open the window
and ask the moon to come
and press its face against mine.

Breathe into me.

Close the language door
and open the love-window.

The moon won't use the door,
only the window.





Rumi
photo:  Peter Bowers

home

reciting poems in the moonlight,

riding a painted boat...

every place the wind carries me is home.  

Yu Xuanji (A.D. 843-868)

tr. Jane Hirshfield

Photo:  Peter Bowers