deep innerness of all things

You are the future, 

the red sky before sunrise

over the fields of time.

You are the cock's crow when night is done,

you are the dew and the bells of matins,

maiden, stranger, mother, death.

You create yourself in ever-changing shapes

that rise from the stuff of our days -

unsung, unmourned, undescribed,

like a forest we never know.

You are the deep innerness of all things,

the last word that can never be spoken.

To each of us you reveal yourself differently:

to the ship as coastline, to the shore as a ship.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Book of Hours, II.22

Translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

photo:  Peter Bowers

its own beauty

The world is no more than the Beloved's single face;

In the desire of the One to know its own beauty, we exist.

Each place, each moment, sings its particular song of not-being and being.

Without reason, the clear glass equally mirrors wisdom and madness.

Those who claim knowledge are wrong; prayer just leads to trance;

Appearance and faith are mere lees in the Unknowing Wine.

Wherever the Footprint is found,

the handful of dust holds the oneness of worlds.  

This earth, burnished by hearing the Name, is so certain of Love

That the sky bends unceasingly down, to greet its own light.

Ghalib

Translated by Jane Hirshfield

Photo:  Peter Bowers

gift

When the heart rises to the insight
that everything is gift,

when it makes this discovery,
human beings no longer invent themselves. 

They cease to pretend.

They no longer need to imagine 
what they might be.

Finally they are. 

They acquire the substantial solidity 
which is displayed before their eyes
by the stars. 

Luigi Giussani

I am a man: little do I last

and the night is enormous.

But I look up:

the stars write.

Unknowing I understand:

I too am written,

and at this very moment

someone spells me out.

Octavio Paz

Photo:  Peter Bowers

with thanks: love is a place

between what i see and what i say

for Roman Jakobson

1

Between what I see and what I say,

Between what I say and what I keep silent,

Between what I keep silent and what I dream,

Between what I dream and what I forget:

poetry.

            It slips

between yes and no,

                                 says

what I keep silent,

                              keeps silent

what I say,

                  dreams

what I forget.

                      It is not speech:

it is an act.

                  It is an act

of speech.

                  Poetry

speaks and listens:

                               it is real.

And as soon as I say

                                 it is real,

it vanishes.

                   Is it then more real?

2

Tangible idea,

                       intangible

word:

        poetry

comes and goes

                          between what is

and what is not.

                          It weaves

and unweaves reflections.

                                          Poetry

scatters eyes on a page,

scatters words on our eyes.

Eyes speak,

                   words look,

looks think.

                   To hear

thoughts,

               see

what we say,

                      touch

the body of an idea.

                                 Eyes close,

the words open.

Octavio Paz 

A Tree Within

Translated by Eliot Weinberger

Photo: Peter Bowers

i would like to describe

I would like to describe the simplest emotion

joy or sadness

but not as others do

reaching for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light

which is being born in me

but I know it does not resemble

any star

for it is not so bright

not so pure

and is uncertain

I would like to describe courage

without dragging behind me a dusty lion

and also anxiety

without shaking a glass full of water

to put it another way

I would give all metaphors

in return for one word

drawn out of my breast like a rib

for one word

contained within the boundaries

of my skin

but apparently this is not possible

and just to say - I love

I run around like mad

picking up handfuls of birds

and my tenderness

which after all is not made of water

asks the water for a face

and anger

different from fire

borrows from it

a loquacious tongue

so is blurred

so is blurred

in me

what white-haired gentlemen

separated once and for all

and said

this is the subject

and this is the object

we fall asleep

with one hand under our head

and with the other in a mound of planets

our feet abandon us

and taste the earth

with their tiny roots

which next morning

we tear out painfully

Zbigniew Herbert

Photo:  Peter Bowers

taste of morning

Time's knife slides from the sheath,

as fish from where it swims.

Being closer and closer is the desire 

of the body. Don't wish for union!

There's a closeness beyond that. Why 

would God want a second God?  Fall in 

love in such a way that it frees you 

from any connecting. Love is the soul's 

light, the taste of morning, no me, no

we, no claim of being. These words 

are the smoke the fire gives off as it

absolves its defects, as eyes in silence,

tears, face. Love cannot be said.

Rumi

Translation: Coleman Barks

seeing each other

They were like two mirrors facing each other.  

Who sees, who is seen?

Seeing each other like this, 

they experienced the recognition everyone craves  - 

to be seen exactly as we are, 

nothing more, 

and nothing less.

Seen like this, 

all the many forms in the world 

are the same 

as one's own hand,

one's own face.

Women of the Way

the iron grinder, Liu Tiemo (780-859)

 Sallie Tisdale

an ordinary day

I believe in the ordinary day

that is here at this moment and is me

I do not see it going its own way

but I never saw how it came to me

it extends beyond whatever I may

think I know and all that is real to me

it is the present that it bears away

where has it gone when it has gone from me

there is no place I know outside today

except for the unknown all around me

the only presence that appears to stay

everything that I call mine it lent me

even the way that I believe the day

for as long as it is here and is me

W.S. Merwin

"A Momentary Creed"

The Shadow of Sirius

Photo: Peter Bowers

lost

Stand still.  The trees ahead and bushes beside you 

Are not lost.  Wherever you are is called Here,

And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,

Must ask permission to know it and be known.

The forest breathes.  Listen.  It answers,

I have made this place around you,

If you leave it you may come back again saying Here.

No two trees are the same to Raven.

No two branches are the same to Wren.

If what a tree or bush does is lost on you,

You are surely lost.  Stand still.  The forest knows

Where you are.  You must let it find you.

David Wagoner

Photo:  Peter Bowers

happiness

What we really want to do is serve happiness.

We want everyone to be happy, never unhappy even for a moment.

We want the animals to be happy. The happiness of every living thing is what we want.

We want it very much but we cannot bring  it about.

We cannot make even one individual happy.

It seems that this thing that we want most of all is out of our reach.

But we were born to serve happiness and we do serve it.

The confusion is due to our lack of awareness of real happiness. 

Happiness is pervasive.

It is everywhere. And everywhere the same.

And it is forever.

When people are really happy they say: 'This will last forever even after death', and that is true.

When we are unhappy it is because something is covering our minds and we are not able to be aware of happiness. When the difficulty is past we find happiness again.

It is not that happiness is all around us. That is not it at all. 

It is not this or that or in this or that.

It is an abstract thing.

Happiness is unattached. Always the same. It does not appear and disappear. It is not sometimes more and sometimes less. It is our awareness of happiness that goes up and down.

Happiness is our real condition.

It is reality.

It is life.

…

When we see life we call it beauty. It is magnificent - wonderful.

We may be looking at the ocean when we are aware of beauty but it is not the ocean. We may be in the desert and we say that we are aware of the 'living desert' but it is not the desert.

Life is ever present in the desert and everywhere, forever.

By awareness of life we are inspired to live.

Life is consciousness of life itself.

Agnes Martin

prepared for a lecture at the University of New Mexico, Santa Fe 1979

Agnes Martin, Paintings, Writings, Remembrances, Arne Glimcher

Photo: Peter Bowers

between each word

A poem written three thousand years ago

about a man who walks among horses

grazing on a hill under the small stars

comes to life on a page in a book

and the woman reading the poem

in her kitchen filled with a gold metallic light

finds the experience of living in that moment

so vividly described as to make her feel known

to another, until the woman and the poet share

not only their souls but the exact silence

between each word.  And every time the poem is read,

no matter her situation or her age,

this is more or less what happens.

Jason Shinder

Photo:  Peter Bowers

unforeseen

Always in big woods when you leave familiar ground and step off 
alone into a new place there will be, 

along with the feelings of curiosity and excitement, a little nagging of dread. 

It is the ancient fear of the unknown, and it is your first bond 

with the wilderness you are going into.

You are undertaking the first experience, not of the place,
but of yourself in that place. It is an experience of our essential loneliness,
for nobody can discover the world for anybody else.
It is only after we have discovered it for ourselves
that it becomes a common ground and a common bond,
and we cease to be alone.

And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles,
no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey,
a journey of one inch, very arduous and humbling and joyful,
by which we arrive at the ground at our feet,
and learn to be at home.





Wendell Berry
The Unforeseen Wilderness: Kentucky’s Red River Gorge
photo:  Peter Bowers

travel

Mercy, there have been revelations.
Grace, there has been realization. Still, you must
travel the path of time and circumstance.

The further you go, the more it comes back to paying attention.
The rough skin of the tallowwood, the trade routes of lorikeets, a sky lifting
behind afternoon clouds. Staying close to the texture of things.

People can go before you and talk all they want,
but only one thing makes sense: the way the world enters
and finds its voice in you: the place you are free.





Andrew Colliver

with thanks: Poetry Chaikhana

what we do

Let the beauty we love be what we do

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground 

~

There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground, 

there are a thousand ways to go home again.

Rumi

Photo:  Peter Bowers

listen and watch

Do you bow your head when you pray or do you look 

    up into that blue space?

Take your choice, prayers fly from all directions.

And don't worry about what language you use, 

God no doubt understands them all.

Even when the swans are flying north and making 

such a ruckus of noise, God is surely listening

    and understanding.

Rumi said, There is no proof of the soul.

But isn't the return of spring and how it

springs up in our hearts a pretty good hint?

Yes, I know, God's silence never breaks, but is

    that really a problem?

There are thousands of voices, after all.

And furthermore, don't you imagine (I just suggest it)

that the swans know about as much as we do about 

    the whole business?

So listen to them and watch them, singing as they fly.

Take from it what you can.

Mary Oliver

"Whistling Swans"

Photo: Peter Bowers

community of the spirit

There is a community of the spirit.

Join it, and feel the delight

of walking in the noisy street,

and being the noise.

Drink all your passion,

and be a disgrace.

Close both eyes

to see with the other eye.

Open your hands,

if you want to be held.

Sit down in this circle.

Quit acting like a wolf, and feel

the shepherd’s love filling you.

At night, your beloved wanders.

Don’t accept consolations.

Close your mouth against food.

Taste the lover’s mouth in yours.

You moan, “She left me.” “He left me.”

Twenty more will come.

Be empty of worrying.

Think of who created thought!

Why do you stay in prison

when the door is so wide open?

Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.

Live in silence.

Flow down and down in always

widening rings of being.

Rumi 

Translation: Coleman Barks 

Photo:  Peter  Bowers

this rain

Some Sunday afternoon, it may be,

you are sitting under your porch roof,

looking down through the trees

to the river, watching the rain.  The circles

made by the raindrops' striking

expand, intersect, dissolve,

and suddenly (for you are getting on

now, and much of your life is memory)

the hands of the dead, who have been here

with you, rest upon you tenderly

as the rain rests shining

upon the leaves.  And you think then

(for thought will come) of the strangeness

of the thought of Heaven, for now

you have imagined yourself there,

remembering with longing this

happiness, this rain.  Sometimes here

we are there, and there is no death.

Wendell Berry

Photo: Peter Bowers

joy

is a meeting place, of deep intentionality and of self

forgetting, the bodily alchemy of what lies inside us in

communion with what formerly seemed outside, but

is now neither, but become a living frontier, a voice

speaking between us and the world: dance, laughter,

affection, skin touching skin, singing in the car, music

in the kitchen, the quiet irreplaceable and companionable

presence of a daughter: the sheer intoxicating 

beauty of the world inhabited as an edge between

what we previously thought was us and what we

thought was other than us. 

Joy can be made by practiced, hard-won achievement

as much as by an unlooked for, passing act of grace

arrived out of nowhere; joy is a measure of our

relationship to death and our living with death, joy is the 

act of giving ourselves away before we need to or are

asked to, joy is practiced generosity. If joy is a deep

form of love, it is also the raw engagement with the

passing seasonality of existence, the fleeting presence

of those we love understood as gift, going in and out

of our lives, faces, voices, memory, aromas of the first

spring day or a wood fire in winter, the last breath

of a dying parent as they create a rare, raw, beautiful

frontier between loving presence and a new and 

blossoming absence.

To feel a full and untrammeled joy is to have become

fully generous; to allow ourselves to be joyful is to

have walked through the doorway of fear, the dropping

away of the anxious worried self felt like a 

thankful death itself, a disappearance, a giving away,

overheard in the laughter of friendship, the vulnerability

of happiness felt suddenly as a strength, a solace

and a source, the claiming of our place in the living 

conversation, the sheer privilege of being in the

presence of a mountain, a sky or a well-loved familiar

face - I was here and you were here and together we

made a world.

David Whyte

Consolations

Photo: Peter Bowers

don't hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,

don't hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty

of lives and whole towns destroyed or about

to be. We are not wise, and not very often

kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this

is its way of fighting back, that sometimes

something happens better than all the riches

or power in the world. It could be anything,

but very likely you notice it in the instant

when love begins. Anyway, that's often the

case. Anyway, whatever it is, don't be afraid

of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

Mary Oliver

Photo: Peter Bowers

mysteries, yes

 

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous

to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the

mouths of the lambs.

How rivers and stones are forever

in allegiance with gravity

while we ourselves dream of rising.

How two hands touch and the bonds

will never be broken.

How people come, from delight or the

scars of damage,

to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those

who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say

"Look!" and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.

Mary Oliver

what we need is here

 

...

Geese appear high over us, 

pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,

as in love or sleep, holds

them to their way, clear

in the ancient faith: what we need

is here. And we pray, not

for new earth or heaven, but to be

quiet in heart, and in eye

clear. What we need is here.

Wendell Berry

Selected Poems of Wendell Berry 

Photo:  Peter Bowers