Saturday, February 28, 2015

Lineage, Margaret Walker

Lineage

BY MARGARET WALKER
My grandmothers were strong.
They followed plows and bent to toil.
They moved through fields sowing seed.
They touched earth and grain grew.
They were full of sturdiness and singing.
My grandmothers were strong.

My grandmothers are full of memories
Smelling of soap and onions and wet clay
With veins rolling roughly over quick hands
They have many clean words to say.
My grandmothers were strong.
Why am I not as they?

Margaret Walker, "Lineage" from This is My Century: New and Collected Poems

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Fauve, Arthur Sze

Fauve
 
Caw Caw, Caw Caw Caw.
To comprehend a crow
you must have a crow's mind.
To be the night rain,
silver, on black leaves,
you must live in the
shine and wet.  Some people
drift in their lives:
green-gold plankton,
phosphorescent, in the sea.
Others slash: a knife
at a yellow window shade
tears open the light.
But to live digging deep
is to feel the blood
in you rage as rivers,
is to feel love and hatred
as fibers of rope,
is to catch the scent
of a wolf, and turn wild.
 
~ Arthur Sze ~
 
(The Redshifting Web)
 

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Lay Yourself Open, Neil Douglas-Klotz

 
When you want to lay yourself open for the divine,
like a snare that is hollowed out to its depth,
like a canopy that projects a shadow
from the divine heat and light
into your soul,
then go into your inner place physically,
or to that story or symbol that reminds you of the sacred.

Close the door of your awareness to
the public person you think yourself to be.
Pray to the parent of creation, with your inner sense,
the outer senses turned within.
Veiling yourself, the mystery may be unveiled through you.

By opening yourself to the flow of the sacred,
somewhere, resounding in some inner form,
the swell of the divine ocean can move through you.

The breathing life of all reveals itself
in the way you live your life.

~ Neil Douglas-Klotz ~
 
 


(Interpretive version of Matthew 6:6 in The Hidden Gospel: Decoding the Spiritual Message of
the Aramaic Jesus)

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

This Morning, I Wanted Four Legs, Jane Hirshdield

This Morning, I Wanted Four Legs
by Jane Hirshfield

Nothing on two legs weighs much,
or can.
An elephant, a donkey, even a cookstove-
those legs, a person could stand on.
Two legs pitch you forward.
Two legs tire.
They look for another two legs to be with,
to move one set forward to music
while letting the other move back.
They want to carve into a tree trunk:
2gether 4ever.
Nothing on two legs can bark,
can whinny or chuff.
Tonight, though, everything’s different.
Tonight I want wheels.


"This Morning, I Wanted Four Legs" by Jane Hirshfield, from The Beauty. © Knopf, 2015

Monday, February 23, 2015

Mind Wanting More, Holly Hughes

Mind Wanting More 
 
Only a beige slat of sun 
above the horizon, like a shade pulled 
not quite down.  Otherwise, 
clouds.  Sea rippled here and 
there.  Birds reluctant to fly. 
The mind wants a shaft of sun to 
stir the grey porridge of clouds, 
an osprey to stitch sea to sky 
with its barred wings, some dramatic 
music: a symphony, perhaps 
a Chinese gong. 
 
But the mind always 
wants more than it has -- 
one more bright day of sun, 
one more clear night in bed 
with the moon; one more hour 
to get the words right; one 
more chance for the heart in hiding 
to emerge from its thicket 
in dried grasses -- as if this quiet day 
with its tentative light weren't enough, 
as if joy weren't strewn all around. 
 
~ Holly Hughes ~

 
 
(American Zen A Gathering of Poets)

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Interim, Lola Ridge

Interim

 
Lola Ridge

Saturday, February 21, 2015

Nunc Dimittis, Joseph Brodsky


Nunc Dimittis – Joseph Brodsky

When Mary first came to present the Christ Child
to God in his temple, she found – of those few
who fasted and prayed there, departing not from it –
  devout Simeon and the prophetess Anna.

The holy man took the babe up in his arms.
The three of them, lost in the grayness of dawn,
now stood like a small shifting frame that surrounded
  the child in the palpable dark of the temple.

The temple enclosed them in forests of stone.
Its lofty vaults stooped as though trying to cloak
the prophetess Anna, and Simeon, and Mary –
   to hide them from men and to hide them from heaven.

And only a chance ray of light struck the hair
of that sleeping infant, who stirred but as yet
was conscious of nothing and blew drowsy bubbles;
  old Simeon’s arms held him like a stout cradle.

It had been revealed to this upright old man
that he would not die until his eyes had seen
the Son of the Lord. And it thus came to pass. And
  He said: “Now, O Lord, lettest thou thy poor servant,

according to thy holy word, leave in peace,
for mine eyes have witnessed thine offspring:  he is
thy continuation and also the source of
  thy light for idolatrous tribes, and the glory

of Israel as well.”  Then old Simeon paused.
The silence, regaining the temple’s clear space,
oozed from all its corners and almost engulfed them,
   and only his echoing words graced the rafters,

to spin for a moment, with faint rustling sounds,
high over their heads in the tall temple’s vaults,
akin to a bird that can soar, yet that cannot
   return to the earth, even if it should want to.

A strangeness engulfed them.  The silence now seemed
as strange as the words of old Simeon’s speech,
And Mary, confused and bewildered, said nothing –
  so strange had his words been.  He added, while turning
directly to Mary:  “Behold, in this child,
now close to thy breast, is concealed the great fall
of many, the great elevation of others,
   a subject of strife and a source of dissension,

and that very steel which will torture his flesh
shall pierce through thine own soul as well.  And that wound
will show to thee, Mary, as in a new vision
  what lies hidden, deep in the hearts of all people.”

He ended and moved toward the temple’s great door.
Old Anna, bent down with the weight of her years,
and Mary, now stooping, gazed after him, silent.
  He moved and grew smaller, in size and in meaning.

to these two frail women who stood in the gloom.
As though driven on by the force of their looks,
he strode through the cold empty space of the temple
  and moved toward the whitening blur of the doorway.

The stride of his old legs was steady and firm.
When Anna’s voice sounded behind him, he slowed
his step for a moment.  But she was not calling
  to him; she had started to bless God and praise Him.

The door came still closer.  The wind stirred his robe
and fanned at his forehead; the roar of the street,
exploding in life by the door of the temple,
   beat stubbornly into old Simeon’s hearing.

He went forth to die.  It was not the loud din
of streets that he faced when he flung the door wide,
but rather the deaf-and-dumb fields of death’s kingdom.
  He strode through a space that was no longer solid.

The rustle of time ebbed away in his ears.
And Simeon’s soul held the form of the child –
its feathery crown now enveloped in glory –
   aloft, like a torch, pressing back the black shadows,

to light up the path that leads into death’s realm,
where never before until this present hour
had any man managed to lighten his pathway.
   The old man’s torch glowed and the pathway grew wider.
                                                                                                            February 16, 1972

Past-Lives Therapy, Charles Simic


Past-Lives Therapy

BY CHARLES SIMIC
They explained to me the bloody bandages
On the floor in the maternity ward in Rochester, N.Y.,   
Cured the backache I acquired bowing to my old master,   
Made me stop putting thumbtacks round my bed.

They showed me an officer on horseback,
Waving a saber next to a burning farmhouse   
And a barefoot woman in a nightgown,
Throwing stones after him and calling him Lucifer.

I was a straw-headed boy in patched overalls.   
Come dark a chicken would roost in my hair.   
Some even laid eggs as I played my ukulele   
And my mother and father crossed themselves.

Next, I saw myself inside an abandoned gas station   
Constructing a spaceship out of a coffin,
Red traffic cone, cement mixer and ear warmers,
When a church lady fainted seeing me in my underwear.

Some days, however, they opened door after door,   
Always to a different room, and could not find me.   
There'd be only a small squeak now and then,   
As if a miner's canary got caught in a mousetrap.

Charles Simic, "Past-Lives Therapy" from The Voice at 3:00 AM: Selected Late and New Poems.Copyright © 2003 by Charles Simic. 

Rainer Maria Rilke


You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything:
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.
 
So many live on and want nothing
and are raised to the rank of prince
by the slippery ease of their light judgments.
 
But what you love to see are faces
that so work and feel thirst....
 
You have not grown old, and it is not too late
to dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.
 
~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

Sunday, February 15, 2015

On Approaching Seventy, Joan Seliger Sidney

On Approaching Seventy
by Joan Seliger Sidney


Watching the hands of my son
kneading challah dough
on the maple cutting board
in my kitchen, a memory


rises of my mother
bending over our kitchen table
in Flatbush, pressing, stretching,
folding flour, water, eggs


into a living elastic.
Sometimes in my dreams, Mom
appears, whispers of her mother
in her kitchen in Zurawno


in the pre-dawn dark,
by the light of the kerosene
lamp, pulling and pushing
the yeasty challah dough


until my son covers it
with a clean white cloth
and leaves it in the warm
electric oven to rise.


"On Approaching Seventy" by Joan Seliger Sidney from Bereft and Blessed. © Antrim House Press, 2014

Invitation to Love

 
Paul Laurence Dunbar