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