The Summer Day

by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Thanks to my colleague, G, who introduced me to this poem by Wendell Berry today.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
-by Wendell Berry, from The Country of Marriage

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Rediscovering My Love for a Love Poem

From Pablo Neruda's Cien Sonetos de amor (1oo Love Sonnets)

XVII

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio I don ’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma. secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores, the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra. from the earth lives dimly in my body.

Te amo sin saber como, ni cuándo, ni de donde, I love you without knowing how, or when, or
from where
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo: I love you directly without problems or pride:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera, I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres, except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño. so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

[English translation by Mark Eisner 2004, from City Lights' The Essential Neruda]

Faith, a poem

Faith
-by David Whyte, from Where Many Rivers Meet

I want to write about faith,
about the way the moon rises
over cold snow, night after night,

faithful even as it fades from fullness,
slowly becoming that last curving and impossible
sliver of light before the final darkness.

But I have no faith myself
I refuse it even the smallest entry.

Let this then, my small poem,
like a new moon, slender and barely open,
be the first prayer that opens me to faith.

San Diego Spring Winds

With tangled hair,
billowing clothes,
steps, harried and pushed
as the mighty sea wind flows.

Like a leaf adeptly pulled
by the swift, sliding hand
of a panda bear, this wind
leaves little force to stand.

As I make my way,
down these broad avenues
I remember these words
to pay my daily dues:

"I testify at this moment
to my powerless and to Thy might"
and at this moment I am humbled
by this clear gift of sight.

Thank you Wind.

In Honor of N's Birthday

Sonnet on the Author’s Birthday
-Robert Burns

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear,
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart;
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys—
What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high heav’n bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share.

The Fast (a poem)

Thanks to my dear friend A, for sending me this poem.

The Fast

O My loving companions on the path
Think ye that the fast is a burden?
Even should you waste into nothingness,
This would be a joy beyond compare.
For those that enjoy this mystic meal,
The True Fast begins at sunset.
If it be that thy stomach groans
And thy tongue is a desert,
Eat and drink thoughts of thy Beloved
Whose sweet fresh water cleanses
And heavenly food strengthens.

And as thy body empties itself, so too
Empty the cup of the heart of self and passion.
And in thy growing weakness
Feel thy humility before God and thy fellows.
And as the dreary hours pass along,
Think of what store of patience
Ye may gather for the coming year.
And as thy body begins to lighten,
Let thy soul float like a kite
In the breezes of the spirit
Though still attached to the form
Which is fulfilling its daily duties.

And when you desire something,
Think of the One Desired,
Who has created all of what thou hast ever desired.
And as your hunger grows,

Think of those less fortunate souls
Who cannot replenish their flesh
During the sleeping of the sun.
And when you break bread,

Think of thy fellow Baha'is
all around the world
In unity with your
actions.

-- Stephen Newbegin ,
first published in the California Regional Newsletter,
June 1975

The Inner Spaces of Force, Pure Oneness

The Wide Ocean (from Canto General)
-Pablo Neruda

Ocean, if you were to give, a measure, a ferment, a fruit
of your gifts and destructions, into my hand,
I would choose your far-off repose, your contour of steel,
your vigilant spaces of air and darkness,
and the power of your white tongue,
that shatters and overthrows columns,
breaking them down to your proper purity.

Not the final breaker, heavy with brine,
that thunders onshore, and creates
the silence of sand, that encircles the world,
but the inner spaces of force,
the naked power of the waters,
the immoveable solitude, brimming with lives.
It is Time perhaps, or the vessel filled
with all motion, pure Oneness,
that death cannot touch, the visceral green
of consuming totality.

Only a salt kiss remains of the drowned arm,
that lifts a spray: a humid scent,
of the damp flower, is left,
from the bodies of men. Your energies
form, in a trickle that is not spent,
form, in retreat into silence.

The falling wave,
arch of identity, shattering feathers,
is only spume when it clears,
and returns to its source, unconsumed.

Your whole force heads for its origin.
The husks that your load threshes,
are only the crushed, plundered, deliveries,
that your act of abundance expelled,
all those that take life from your branches.

Your form extends beyond breakers,
vibrant, and rhythmic, like the chest, cloaking
a single being, and its breathings,
that lift into the content of light,
plains raised above waves,
forming the naked surface of earth.

You fill your true self with your substance.
You overflow curve with silence.

The vessel trembles with your salt and sweetness,
the universal cavern of waters,
and nothing is lost from you, as it is
from the desolate crater, or the bay of a hill,
those empty heights, signs, scars,
guarding the wounded air.

Your petals throbbing against the Earth,
trembling your submarine harvests,
your menace thickening the smooth swell,
with pulsations and swarming of schools,
and only the thread of the net raises
the dead lightning of fish-scale,
one wounded millimeter, in the space
of your crystal completeness.

Amazing Peace

Here is a beautiful poem so well suited to the holiday season. As I reread it, it also seems so appropriate for this particular moment, with this new year on the horizon and the message of hope our new American president brings.
This poem also seems particularly well suited to this month of unity, for it seems there can be no unity without peace -- peace in our hearts, peace in our relationships, peace in the world.

AMAZING PEACE by Maya Angelou

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Flood waters await us in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and grey and threatening.

We question ourselves.
What have we done to so affront nature?
We worry God.
Are you there? Are you there really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,
Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.
Flood waters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,
Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now. It is louder.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.
We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.
We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.
Peace.

Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,
implore you to stay awhile with us
so we may learn by your shimmering light
how to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.
On this platform of peace, we can create a language
to translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.
At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ

Into the great religions of the world.
We jubilate the precious advent of trust.
We shout with glorious tongues the coming of hope.
All the earth’s tribes loosen their voices to celebrate the promise of
Peace.

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and Nonbelievers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace.

We look at our world and speak the word aloud.
Peace.

We look at each other, then into ourselves,
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation:

Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.

On Unity, a Poem

In honor of this month's virtue of the month, unity, I am posting this poem by one of my favorite poets.

Working Together
David Whyte (from The House of Belonging)

We shape our self
to fit this world

and by the world
are shaped again.

The visible
and the invisible

working together
in common cause,

to produce
the miraculous.

I am thinking of the way
the intangible air

passed at speed
round a shaped wing

easily
holds our weight.

So may we in this life
trust

to those elements
we have yet to see

or imagine,
and look for the true

shape of our own self,
by forming it well

to the great
intangibles about us.

El miedo nos traga,
nos asfixia.
El miedo no nos deja en paz.
El miedo es un ladrón – roba nuestra razón
y roba la inspiración.

El celos, igual.
Asimismo, el enojo.

October

October
-Robert Frost
(thanks 8&20 for awakening Frost in my heart this morning)

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
one from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the all.

Eternal Hug

one of my more recent poems... this week seems like a beautiful time to share this one publicly.

Eternal Hug

Today we began an eternal hug

of incandescent perfection.

Within this embrace

there is boundless space

to accommodate all our needs.

There is the deepest caring

and generous sharing

of all we have to give.

There is room to grow,

infinitely more to know

and eagerness to learn.

There is gentle warmth

and potentially sublime fire

a million points of contact

to creatively inspire.

We can step into this sanctuary

and cast off all our fears.

Here there is only beauty

even in our tears.

Here there is only light

as, heart to heart, we shine.

In these arms, we find wings

to soar unto the Divine.

i thank You God for most this amazing

How many times have I read this poem, but it resonates at a whole new level today. ¡Gracias a Dios para este amor!


i thank You God for most this amazing
-e.e. cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

On Seeking God

O servant, where dost thou seek Me?

Lo! I am beside thee.

I am neither in temple nor in mosque: I am neither in Kaaba nor

in Kailash:

Neither am I in rites and ceremonies, nor in Yoga and

renunciation.

If thou art a true seeker, thou shalt at once see Me: thou shalt

meet Me in a moment of time.

Kabîr says, "O Sadhu! God is the breath of all breath."

-Kabir (from Songs of Kabir)

An Instant of Certainty

This morning I rise
to effulgent streams of light
a moment of yes!
- an instant of certainty.
My heart leaps up for the Friend.

Breath

Let each single breath
Be like an infinite string
Drawing you to God.

Like Lassos

(inspired by a comment from N under my previous post, and also reminiscent of one of my favorite childhood stories, The Rainbow Goblins by Ul de Rico).

Let each of us be
Like lassos thrown by prayer
To harness God's will.

Song of the Soul

I just discovered this poem by Kahlil Gibran, and it seems an appropriate and useful addition to my earlier posts today about love.

Song of the Soul
-Kahlil Gibran

In the depth of my soul there is
A wordless song - a song that lives
In the seed of my heart.
It refuses to melt with ink on
Parchment; it engulfs my affection
In a transparent cloak and flows,
But not upon my lips.

How can I sigh it? I fear it may
Mingle with earthly ether;
To whom shall I sing it? It dwells
In the house of my soul, in fear of
Harsh ears.

When I look into my inner eyes
I see the shadow of its shadow;
When I touch my fingertips
I feel its vibrations.

The deeds of my hands heed its
Presence as a lake must reflect
The glittering stars; my tears
Reveal it, as bright drops of dew
Reveal the secret of a withering rose.

It is a song composed by contemplation,
And published by silence,
And shunned by clamor,
And folded by truth,
And repeated by dreams,
And understood by love,
And hidden by awakening,
And sung by the soul.

It is the song of love;
What Cain or Esau could sing it?

It is more fragrant than jasmine;
What voice could enslave it?

It is heartbound, as a virgin's secret;
What string could quiver it?
Who dares unite the roar of the sea
And the singing of the nightingale?
Who dares compare the shrieking tempest
To the sigh of an infant?
Who dares speak aloud the words
Intended for the heart to speak?
What human dares sing in voice
The song of God?