Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Poem by Ivan Granger
Here is a lovely poem by Ivan Granger, together with his own thoughtful comments about it. Be sure to check his website, Poetry Chaikhana, which is a treasure trove of sacred verse.
white world
By Ivan M. Granger
(1969 - )
i can still see them
when the mist
draws about
the eucalyptus
the wattle in flower
but they are
not quite
there
fog sails
across the grass
but the white world
is still
============
Thought for the Day:
Accept others
as they are
and you will remember
your own natural beauty.
I thought I'd share a poem with you from my Maui days. Where I lived, high on the slope of Haleakala Volcano, we had eucalyptus and wattle trees, and almost every morning was filled with mist...
The white, the "mist" that "draws about" is the radiant light that shines throughout existence. When that eternal light is perceived directly, it can be a gentle glow or a flood of brilliance. That light can be described as a "mist" because it permeates everything with its whiteness while it obscures the surfaces of things, swallowing all objects into itself. You "can still see them" -- objects, the world -- "but they are / not quite / there" -- they are perceivable but they no longer seem tangible or real in any deep sense. Within that all-embracing light, everything else becomes ghost-like, outlines of seeming that at best you pretend are real...
And, although the "fog sails / across the grass," although that light seems to be flowing outward, radiating and moving, you see that the only reality in this world built of light is complete rest, "the white world / is still."
(copyright, Ivan Granger)
white world
By Ivan M. Granger
(1969 - )
i can still see them
when the mist
draws about
the eucalyptus
the wattle in flower
but they are
not quite
there
fog sails
across the grass
but the white world
is still
============
Thought for the Day:
Accept others
as they are
and you will remember
your own natural beauty.
I thought I'd share a poem with you from my Maui days. Where I lived, high on the slope of Haleakala Volcano, we had eucalyptus and wattle trees, and almost every morning was filled with mist...
The white, the "mist" that "draws about" is the radiant light that shines throughout existence. When that eternal light is perceived directly, it can be a gentle glow or a flood of brilliance. That light can be described as a "mist" because it permeates everything with its whiteness while it obscures the surfaces of things, swallowing all objects into itself. You "can still see them" -- objects, the world -- "but they are / not quite / there" -- they are perceivable but they no longer seem tangible or real in any deep sense. Within that all-embracing light, everything else becomes ghost-like, outlines of seeming that at best you pretend are real...
And, although the "fog sails / across the grass," although that light seems to be flowing outward, radiating and moving, you see that the only reality in this world built of light is complete rest, "the white world / is still."
(copyright, Ivan Granger)
