Saturday, February 28, 2009
(after a poem by Rilke)
I think it is enough,
this wandering in the descending twilight
beneath these welcoming boughs
once ripe with the sap of new beginnings,
now hung with later promise.
Like us they hold the recollection
of passage from seed
their home of buried earth transformed to the light
of upward reaching arms.
Already they bow
with the weight of coming harvest,
and we too
move steadily where our necessity
takes us, beyond grief or doubt,
February 26, 2009
Here is the Rilke poem which inspired me:
The Apple Orchard
Come let us watch the sun go down
and walk in twilight through the orchard's green.
Does it not seem as if we had for long
collected, saved and harbored within us
old memories? To find releases and seek
new hopes, remembering half-forgotten joys,
mingled with darkness coming from within,
as we randomly voice our thoughts aloud
wandering beneath these harvest-laden trees
reminiscent of Durer woodcuts, branches
which, bent under the fully ripened fruit,
wait patiently, trying to outlast, to
serve another season's hundred days of toil,
straining, uncomplaining, by not breaking
but succeeding, even though the burden
should at times seem almost past endurance.
Not to falter! Not to be found wanting!
Thus must it be, when willingly you strive
throughout a long and uncomplaining life,
committed to one goal: to give yourself!
And silently to grow and to bear fruit.
Rainer Maria Rilke
(Selected Poems, trans. by Albert Ernest Flemming)
(Photo from Panhala)
Friday, February 27, 2009
(for John O’Donohue, Who Departed Early)
He already knew all he needed to know.
He had plumbed the depths,
met the strange forms below,
captured their wisdom.
When dawn broke,
the birds caroled
into his ear.
meaning behind the sounds.
The winds carried him
to unmarked places,
until he was filled
like a holy vessel
from the ancient source.
These gifts found meaning
in what he gave to others:
the world was his parish,
humanity his flock.
His words fed many.
When his time came,
he acquiesced gracefully
and departed like a bright lantern
carried upward on the currents
into the final light
Thursday, February 26, 2009
There will be an invitation.
It will not come tied in ribbons
nor a message streaming down
from the sky.
There will be no Roman candles
nor brilliant colors
Instead there will be a soft
in your ear,
something in a language
you once knew
and are trying to learn again.
In order to hear it,
you will need to
put down all your packages,
stop everything you are doing
and stand very still
then wait. . .until something stirs inside.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
For the Unknown Self
So much of what delights and troubles you
Happens on a surface
You take for ground.
Your mind thinks your life alone,
Your eyes consider air your nearest neighbor,
Yet it seems that a little below your heart
There houses in you an unknown self
Who prefers the patterns of the dark
And is not persuaded by the eye's affection
Or caught by the flash of thought.
It is a self that enjoys contemplative patience
With all your unfolding expression,
Is never drawn to break into light
Though you entangle yourself in unworthiness
And misjudge what you do and who you are.
It presides within like an evening freedom
That will often see you enchanted by twilight
Without ever recognizing the falling night,
It resembles the under-earth of your visible life:
All you do and say and think is fostered
Deep in its opaque and prevenient clay.
It dwells in a strange, yet rhythmic ease
That is not ruffled by disappointment;
It presides in a deeper current of time
Free from the force of cause and sequence
That otherwise shapes your life.
Were it to break forth into day,
Its dark light might quench your mind,
For it knows how your primeval heart
Sisters every cell of your life
To all your known mind would avoid,
Thus it knows to dwell in you gently,
Offering you only discrete glimpses
Of how you construct your life.
At times, it will lead you strangely,
Magnetized by some resonance
That ambushes your vigilance.
It works most resolutely at night
As the poet who draws your dreams,
Creating for you many secret doors,
Decorated with pictures of your hunger;
It has the dignity of the angelic
That knows you to your roots,
Always awaiting your deeper befriending
To take you beyond the threshold of want,
Where all your diverse strainings
Can come to wholesome ease.
To Bless the Space Between Us
Monday, February 23, 2009
mending a stone wall
(Sailing Around the Room)
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Hyperthermia is almost always used with other forms of cancer therapy, such as radiation therapy and chemotherapy (see Question 2).
Several methods of hyperthermia are currently under study, including local, regional, and whole-body hyperthermia (see Question 3).
Many clinical trials (research studies) are being conducted to evaluate the effectiveness of hyperthermia.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
He's there among the scented trees,
playing the notes he has taught you.
Too late for embarrassment, shy doe
nibbling at the forest's edge,
shawled in deep blue shadows.
He's calling you. The flower of your soul
is opening, little deer.
The river of scent will lead you
deep into the trees where he waits.
The bihanga also plays tonight --
do you hear his more distant flute?
Black bees carry the moon's luster
from flower to flower.
The rest of the grove will bloom tonight, I think.
How he looks at you, young animal.
He shames the moon with his own dark light.
Let's bow down before the young Lord,
the deep blue flowers at his feet.
Rabindranath Tagore ( 1861 – 1941, India )
This is another poem from the ancient bhakti tradition, where lover and beloved become one, just as human and divine are linked through mutual devotion. Bhaktis do not ask for anything in prayer, only to be allowed to worship their beloved in their attitudes and practice. In this, they are somewhat different from most western practitioners, who generally offer prayers in which they ask their Lord for something specific.
The shy flute player in this poem is Krishna, whose delicate flute music lures the soul to come away and be lost in the nectar of divine love play: "the flower of your soul is opening."
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
(from In Praise of Krishna: Songs from the Bengali
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
CDE, CDE. It is (I think) much more difficult to write in set rhyme than in free verse. Robert Frost said that to dispense with rhyme was like playing tennis without a net.
Behind the phrase, behind pretense of art;
Monday, February 16, 2009
At the time of my original awakening, I too had a sense that in the "after world" (after what? maybe ours is the true "after world.") groups of kindred souls would be drawn together to experience what I called "group consciousness." At the same time each would retain individual identity and personal traits. This state would create an authentic "oneness of being."
I still believe that such will be the case, though, of course, there is no way to prove this notion until we actually experience it on another plane.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Here is my heart.
It has been quiet now
for oh so long.
It is waiting to see
what will happen,
if someone will sing to it,
make up a song
that only it can hear.
This is my spirit.
It has been waiting for the song.
Sometimes it pieces out a tune
on a piano,
an old guitar.
It likes music.
It wants to be drenched
in some hidden
the way an afternoon shower
without your coat
or how you stumble and fall
into the arms
of a rushing mountain stream.
This is my tongue
It is telling you how it feels.
It is saying words
for you to hear,
to know how it is
hearts lying in wait.
(Inspired by Joy Harjo's "This is My Heart")
February 14, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
This is my heart. It is a good heart.
My head is a good head, but it is a hard head
This is my soul. It is a good soul.
This is my song. It is a good song.
Come lie next to me, says my heart.
(A Map to the Next World)
Friday, February 13, 2009
How to See Angels
Stand very still.
or if you do,
do it silently.
Be in a familiar place,
or else a new place
which feels familiar.
Under a tree by
Or else in a church
where vibrations of
the holy still linger
in the air.
Incense and candles are
but not required.
If you know a prayer
or a mantra,
this is the time.
Music will help.
for bits of color,
small flashes of light.
Close your eyes
for one brief moment,
then open and turn very slowly.
Listen for something that
sounds like a wooden flute
playing in the distance.
You will feel a
quiet breeze pass over you.
Your cells will brighten,
and you will give a little sigh.
That is when it will happen.
There will be a soft rush of wings.
a blur of shining movement. . .
Everything will light up
as if you are standing
in an aura of sweet feeling.
Now look straight ahead:
an image will appear
at the corner of your eye,
white wings hovering against
blue and gold. . .
Your heart will
and you will become
two lovers kissing.
When you awaken,
you will find
a single feather
in your hand.
Feb. 12, 2009
(Inspired by Philip Booth, How to See a Deer)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
How to See Deer
Forget roadside crossings.
Go nowhere with guns.
Go elsewhere your own way,
lonely and wanting. Or
stay and be early:
next to deep woods
inhabit old orchards.
All clearings promise.
Sunrise is good,
and fog before sun.
Expect nothing always;
find your luck slowly.
Wait out the windfall.
Take your good time
to learn to read ferns;
make like a turtle:
downhill toward slow water.
Instructed by heron,
drink the pure silence.
Be compassed by wind.
If you quiver like aspen
trust your quick nature:
let your ear teach you
which way to listen.
You've come to assume
protective color; now
colors reform to
new shapes in your eye.
You've learned by now
to wait without waiting;
as if it were dusk
look into light falling;
in deep relief
things even out. Be
careless of nothing. See
what you see.
(picture from anonymous source)
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
spirit tracks on paper as if
such subtle movements
could be captured
like notes in silent song
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Spontaneous Me (Excerpt)
The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with,
Saturday, February 07, 2009
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 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.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
above the horizon, like a shade pulled
Monday, February 02, 2009
Sunday, February 01, 2009
The deep eye sees the shimmer on the stone