Kundalini Splendor

Thou hast made me endless
By Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941)
English version by Rabindranath Tagore

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

Here is the poem that Elizabeth Alexander read at Obama's inauguration:

Praise Song For The Day

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky. A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side;;I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe. We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign. The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

Elizabeth Alexander

Learning to Read

If I had to look up every fifth or sixth word

so what. I looked them up.

I had nowhere important to be.

My father was unavailable, and my mother

looked like she was about to break,

and not into blossom, every time I spoke.

My favorite was called the Iliad. True,

I had trouble pronouncing the names,

but when was I going to pronounce them, and

to whom?

My stepfather maybe?

Number one, he could barely speak English;

two, he had sufficient intent

to smirk or knock me down

without any prompting from me.

Loneliness, boredom and terror

my motivation

fiercely fuelled.

I get down on my knees and thank God for them.

Du Fu, the Psalms, Whitman, Rilke.

Life has taught me

to understand books.

Franz Wright

(Picture is from Wikipedia. Achilles and Patroclus were two Greek warriors at the battle for Troy, which is the subject of the Iliad. They were intimate friends, with love for one another "surpassing the love of women.")

The Road Taken

(with apologies to Robert Frost)

The wood was green,

though it could just as well

have been yellow.

The roads did indeed diverge, though.

Those who know me would not be surprised

to hear that I took the one

marked "No Trespassing".

On the other side

I found myself already there.

I won't say what else I found there.

I will say that I will be back.

I'll leave it to you

to decide which side

was in and which was out.

Two roads converged

and that erased

all the difference.

Larry Robinson

(picture from supersam5 on Flickr)

Here is a bit of fun for Sunday morning. Truly a delightful song!

The Barack Obama Irish song

Moneygall is a small village in County Offaly, Ireland. It has a population of 298 people, has a Roman Catholic church, five shops, a post office, a national school, a police station and, of course, two pubs.

President-elect Barack Obama's great-great-great grandfather, Falmouth Kearney, emigrated from Moneygall to New York City at the age of 19 in 1850 and eventually resettled in Tipton County, Indiana. Yep --that makes our lad 3.1% Irish!

And now for the SONG...Crank up your speakers and enjoy. (Above text from e-mail forward.)

http://www.oneeyedparrot.org/obama.html

(Gives new meaning to Black Irish, said someone.)

Here is an e-mail which was forwarded to me, written by someone who works at the American Embassy in Kurdistan (I have left spelling, etc., as it came through in the original):

The group I work with at the Embassy (locally here in Kurdistan) have permission to leave our compound 1 time per week for social reasons. With a significant, but unnecessary, security detail. (Erbil is very safe if you are American) We planned a trip to a German Kurdish restaurant for tonight 2 weeks ago, without considering the inauguration when we did so. This morning, I called the restaurant to see if there was a TV there, as we all wanted to see the event. (note that many there are political appointees here of the prior administration) the restaurant staff said they didn't have one, but would "see what they could do" being the middle east, we didn't have high expectations... when we arrived, there was a huge American flag flying outside the restaurant. Inside was another large flag (our reservation was for 10 people) and a 20' x 30' projection TV with CNN on a wall! The most amazing thing happened when the swearing in took place. When the (elect) took his place at the podium, every employee came out of the kitchen, every Kurdish and Iraqi patron stood up...we followed their lead, and many cried while he was sworn in...i cannot even attempt to understand the emotions which took place here, in a non descript restaurant, in Erbil, Kurdistan, Iraq...and we had to argue with the owner to be able to pay our full bill...they wanted to cover it...in a place where people earn an average of 3k per year. I thought that you might be interested in this observation of what just happened, in this remote part of the world, as American democracy shows its face yet again.

(Map found on Wikipedia)

Things to Take with Me


If I must choose,
then of course
it would be that day
in the mountains,
the sun rinsing the pines
to a new clarity,
scarlet berries
glistening in their
lush green beds,
you lying there,
me watching in wonder.
That day I had hoped
for passion,
but it was instead
a rare purity,
a sense of everything
cleansed and new
as if a rainbow had come
to announce stillness
after agitation,
a softness of light
appearing after bright sun,
everything in place.

And if I could choose again
it would be meetings after absence,
kisses too strong to endure,
feeling itself
lighting the room
as if in trance.

And then of course
music.
Something that speaks
not from without
but inside your veins,
coursing like determined
rivulets of joy
through your body
which is neither flesh
nor spirit
but some strange alchemical joining
of the two.

And, finally, surprise of
awakening.
Such amazement.
Who could have thought
such things possible?
Who would believe
that moments like this could happen?

Dorothy Walters
January 22, 2009

The Almanac of Last Things

From the almanac of last things

I choose the spider lily

for the grace of its brief

blossom, though I myself

fear brevity,

but I choose The Song of Songs

because the flesh

of those pomegranates

has survived

all the frost of dogma.

I choose January with its chill

lessons of patience and despair--and

August, too sun-struck for lessons.

as I have done before.

is at its most reflective

just as it is ready

to go out.

Linda Pastan

(Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems 1968-1998)

(photo by Susan Voison)

(Note: The spacing on this poem is incorrect--my computer seems to have a mind of its own and doesn't want to take orders from me. But the images are indeed sublime. Linda Pastan is one of our most gifted poets.)

As is so often the case, Patricia has summed up beautifully what so many of us felt as we watched the inauguration. Here is her reflection on yesterday's events:

Inauguration Day 2009

Psalms 15

Lord, who can be trusted with power

and who may act in your place?

Those with a passion for justice,

who speak the truth from their hearts;

who have let go of selfish interests

and grown beyond their own lives;

who see the wretched as their family

and the poor as their flesh and blood.

They alone are impartial

and worthy of the people's trust.

Their compassion lights up the whole earth,

and their kindness endures forever.


(A Book of Psalms, translations by Stephen Mitchell)

(photo from N.Y. Times)

Here is a beautiful poem by Ivan Granger, well known to many of you as the creator of www.Poetry-Chaikhana.com His site contains rich offerings, including poetry, music, interpretation, video sites, listing and excerpts from poets early and modern as well as other items pertaining to the spiritual path.

Ten Ways to Lose Your Head on Maui

I.

Piercing the clouds, fingers

of sunlight caress the valley floor.

The Iao Needle stands, its immense

quiet crushing.

II.

Staring blindly out the window,

no work getting done –

a stolen moment when silence

has stolen me.

III.

Reading, I shiver in the Upcountry chill.

Already old in the new year, the island

and I shiver

and grow still.

IV.

Baldwin Avenue meandering to Paia

beneath an empty sky,

cane fields

surge in the sun.

V.

At the altar: Breath

aglow in my throat.

Golden treacle pools

upon my heart.

VI.

The path to Twin Falls, dusty

between my toes. Ginger points

to the upper pool. Fallen guavas

float downstream.

VII.

Hana Highway, pausing

at each bridge to let traffic pass.

Around the bend –

endless ocean.

VIII.

Fasting on Saturday –

empty stomach, empty head.

Time spreads

into stillness.

IX.

Cinnamon-red and blue, a pheasant stares

through the window. Michele

calls me, whisper. I see them

see each other.

X.

In the cave among the eucalyptus

up Alae Road – a fine seat

for a city boy

playing sadhu.

XI.

In bursts of wingbeats

a cardinal darts by. The red

bird finds himself lost

among the red proteas.

XII.

The sun setting beyond

Ma’alaea Harbor. The golden ocean,

I see, drinks the tired eye in.

I am gone.

Ivan Granger

( / Photo by JoshBerglund19 /)

Detour

I took a long time getting here,

much of it wasted on wrong turns,

back roads riddled by ruts.

I had adventures

I never would have known

if I proceeded as the crow flies.

Super highways are so sure

of where they are going:

they arrive too soon.

A straight line isn't always

the shortest distance

between two people.

Sometimes I act as though

I'm heading somewhere else

while, imperceptibly,

I narrow the gap between you and me.

I'm not sure I'll ever

know the right way,

but I don't mind

getting lost now and then.

Maps don't know everything.

~ Ruth Feldman ~



(The Ambitions of Ghosts)

(Image from source)

Enough

It is this:
this bird cutting
its fine arc
across our sky
defining possibility.

Or perhaps this:
the goldfish
which swam right
to the surface,
as if to say hello
from some other planet
or plane of being.
.
Maybe it was the wild deer
which stood at attention
as we passed by,
then thundered away
to its hidden lair.

Or even that one flower
still spreading its wondrous
purple wings bravely
after all the others
had gone,
taken shelter below.
Where did it find
its enduring intent?

Any one of these
brings completion,
says, This is sufficiency,
is all
you need.

Dorothy Walters
January 12, 2008

Still More Love Poems

to the Invisible

5.

Whatever You Do

Whatever you do,
don’t tell anyone
about this.
They make laws against
such alliances,
put people in prisons,
lock them away
like shadows.

They do not wish
to hear our story,
our tale must not be told.
Except, of course,
to those ready to listen,
the ones enfolded
in this precious cloak,
tapestry embroidered
of god’s flesh.

Dorothy Walters
January 2, 2008

More Poems to the Invisible

4.

Or Even Sunsets

You say, all these poems
are beginning to sound alike.

Tell me, can you tell one kiss
from another? . . .
One night of pleasure
from the one before? . . .

Or even sunsets.
Don't they begin to look alike
after so much looking?
Or the stars on different nights?

Dorothy Walters
January 2, 2009

Yet More Poems to the Invisible

3.

Like Lovers of Zeus

When I come near you,
I fall backwards
in my joy.

There are waves
flowing
around your body,
scent coming
from your flesh.

If you held me
in your arms,
I think that I
would perish,
the way the lovers
of Zeus
went up in an
invisible flame
after the first glance.

Dorothy Walters
January 2, 2009


Semele was a mortal woman in love with Zeus. Despite his warnings, she used a trick to lure him to come to her “in his full glory.” When he did so, she was immediately annihilated by the fire of his lightning bolts.

(Image from tribe net)

Only the Lovemaking

The Lover is always beside you,
waiting.

The Lover is patient,
like a devoted friend,
or someone who gave you food
long ago.

But you must give the signal.
You must say,
"Now, I am ready.
Come to my bed at midnight."

The Lover will come,
still invisible,
still without a name.

Only the lovemaking
will be real.

Dorothy Walters
January 2, 2009

Still More Love Poems

to the Invisible Within

1.

What I Have Given You

What I have given you
is everything.
What you have given me
is everything
in return.
Now we are one being,
both of us giving
and receiving,
bound together
flame and candle
as before.

Dorothy Walters
January 2, 2009

(Image from Wikipedia)

A Poem by Rumi

The mystery does not get clearer by repeating the question,

nor is it bought by going to amazing places.

Until you've kept your eyes

and your wanting still for fifty years,

you don't begin to cross over from confusion.

Burning the Old Year

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,

lists of vegetables, partial poems.

Orange swirling flame of days,

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn't,

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,

only the things I didn't do

crackle after the blazing dies.

Naomi Shihab Nye

This poem appealed to me because I am currently sorting and discarding, just as she describes. I suspect many of us are involved in this same process. It is always hard to decide what part of your past to let go of, since in fact each item is a part of your history, who you are. Everything goes into the making of your identity, including your spiritual self. And some of it is too precious to relinquish. I myself do not wish to forego the past, but rather to honor it and integrate it into who I am now and who I am becoming. When we rummage through our boxes, we relive our lives and see the threads of relationship and the process of unfolding over the years. We took many steps, went through many phases to arrive at where we now are.

(Image from Wikipedia)

For Presence

Awaken to the mystery of being hereand enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.

Have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.

Receive encouragement when new frontiers beckon.

Respond to the call of your gift and the courage to follow its path.

Let the flame of anger free you of all falsity.

May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame.

May anxiety never linger about you.

May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of soul.

Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.

Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.

May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder.

John O'Donohue

Patricia has done it again--or "A Star is Born"

Dear Friends,

As most of you know, it was Patricia Lay-Dorsey who originally set up this blog for me and has monitored it ever since. I have written before about her many, many talents and achievements--as an artist, teacher, social worker, musician, social activist, writer and others too numerous to mention. Then she became a digital photographer as well, and began to incorporate her photos of friends and strangers, places and interesting perspectives into her blog site, which was read by a world audience.

But now she has done something even more remarkable. A few years ago she began to focus on what some call "art photography." These are carefully selected and meticulously composed images which take us beyond the usual parameters of seeing. The art photographer is an artist of a special kind. Patricia began to put her work up on a photography site (PBase) and it soon attracted the attention of other first class photographers, some world renowned.

Patricia has now had her own album of photos included in the launch issue of a new on line photography magazine named "Burn." This is a great honor, accorded to very few, for the editors maintain extremely high criteria for their selections. Her work is magnificent, and the result is that congratulations are pouring in from all over the world. Most of those responding are themselves photographers of a high order--some are world famous. They are lavishing high praise on her offerings--such enthusiasm is rare in any art field, I think. They recognize that a gifted talent has now emerged into the larger world community of visual artists.

I too am celebrating Patricia's triumph. She has poured thousands of hours into perfecting her craft which now is displayed so brilliantly in this collection. And I feel much like a proud parent, for I have watched both Patricia and her talents grow over the years, and now see her reaping the notice and recognition which she so totally deserves.

Do go to her site and see her exhibition--and be sure to read the many comments which have poured in. Indeed, a star has been born.

This simple prayer, taken from the Upanishads (sacred books of ancient India), seems like an appropriate one for this special day, the beginning of a new year and of a new era:

Lead me from dreaming to waking.

Lead me from opacity to clarity.

Lead me from the complicated to the simple.

Lead me from the obscure to the obvious.

Lead me from intention to attention.

Lead me from what I'm told I am to what I see I am.

Lead me from confrontation to wide openness.

Lead me to the place I never left,

Where there is peace, and peace

The Upanishads

Note: The beautiful picture at the top is by N. M. Rai. It seems a good choice for a day such as today when we are celebrating in thanks for the beauty of creation and seeking to find ways to protect our world in future.

HAPPY NEW YEAR AND BLESSINGS TO ALL. MAY YOUR YEAR BE FILLED WITH ALL THE RICHES YOU CAN IMAGINE, ALL THE CREATIVITY YOU CAN HOPE FOR, AND ALL THE LOVE YOU CAN CONTAIN.