Still to sing with heaven's song (Andrew E. Pratt)

HYMN
Words: Andrew E Pratt (born 1948) © 1999 Stainer & Bell Ltd
Tune: Birabus

Hidden God, I long to see you,
long to hear your voice;
here amid the haste and hurry,
need a reason to rejoice.

More than just this global grounding,
more than just a home,
far beyond the raging river,
far beyond this fazing foam.

Blinding light of realisation,
long to catch a trace;
source, and end, of contemplation,
long to sense your saving grace.

But, if I should never glimpse you
help me to go on;
give me hope and motivation
still to sing with heaven's song.

Vespers (John O'Donohue)

Vespers

 

As light departs to let the earth be one with night,

Silence deepens in the mind, and thoughts grow slow;

The basket of twilight brims over with colors

Gathered from within the sacred meadows of the day

And offered like blessings to the gathering Tenebrae.

 

After the day's frenzy, may the heart grow still,

Gracious in thought for all the day brought,

Surprises that dawn could never have dreamed:

The blue silence that came to still the mind,

The quiver of mystery at the edge of a glimpse,

The golden echoes of worlds behind voices.

 

Tense faces unable to hide what gripped the heart,

The abrupt cut of a glance or a word that hurt,

The flame of longing that distance darkened,

Bouquets of memory gathered on the heart's altar,

The thorns of absence in the rose of dream.

 

And the whole while the unknown underworld

Of the mind, turning slowly, in its secret orbit.

May the blessing of sleep bring refreshment and release

And the Angel of the moon call the rivers of dream

To soften the hardened earth of the outside life,

Disentangle from the trapped nets the hurts and sorrow,

And awaken the young soul for the new tomorrow.

 

~ John O'Donohue ~

 

(To Bless the

Miracles (Walt Whitman)

Miracles

 

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge

of the water, 

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with anyone I love, or sleep in the bed

at night with anyone I love,

Or sit at the table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honeybees busy around the hive

of a summer forenoon, 

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining

so quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon

in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread

with the same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim-the rocks-the motion of the waves

-the ships with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?

 

 

~ Walt Whitman ~

 

(Leaves of Grass

A Contribution of Statistcs (Wislawa Szymborska)

 

A Contribution to Statistics

 

Out of a hundred people

 

those who always know better

-- fifty-two

 

doubting every step

-- nearly all the rest,

 

glad to lend a hand

if it doesn't take too long

-- as high as forty-nine,

 

always good

because they can't be otherwise

-- four, well maybe five,

 

able to admire without envy

-- eighteen,

 

suffering illusions

induced by fleeting youth

-- sixty, give or take a few,

 

not to be taken lightly

-- forty and four,

 

living in constant fear

of someone or something

-- seventy-seven,

 

capable of happiness

-- twenty-something tops,

 

harmless singly, savage in crowds

-- half at least,

 

cruel

when forced by circumstances

-- better not to know

even ballpark figures,

 

wise after the fact

-- just a couple more

than wise before it,

 

taking only things from life

-- thirty

(I wish I were wrong),

 

hunched in pain,

no flashlight in the dark

-- eighty-three

sooner or later,

 

righteous

-- thirty-five, which is a lot,

 

righteous

and understanding

-- three,

 

worthy of compassion

-- ninety-nine,

 

mortal

-- a hundred out of a hundred.

Thus far this figure still remains unchanged.

 

 

~ Wislawa Szymborska ~

 

 

(Poems: New and Selected, trans. by S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh

Sonnets To Orpheus, Part One, XII (Rilke)

Sonnets to Orpheus, Part One, XII

 

Bless the spirit that makes connections,

for truly we live in what we imagine.

Clocks move along side our real life

with steps that are ever the same.

 

Though we do not know our exact location,

we are held in place by what links us.

Across trackless distances

antennas sense each other.

 

Pure attention, the essence of the powers!

Distracted by each day's doing,

how can we hear the signals?

 

Even as the farmer labors

there where the seed turns into summer,

it is not his work.  It is Earth who gives.

 

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

 

 

(In Praise of Mortality, translated and edited by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

Spent (Mark Doty)

Spent

by Mark Doty  

 

Late August morning I go out to cut

spent and faded hydrangeas--washed 

greens, russets, troubled little auras 

of sky as if these were the very silks 

of Versailles, mottled by rain and ruin

then half-restored, after all this time...

When I come back with my handful 

I realize I've accidentally locked the door,

and can't get back into the house.

The dining room window's easiest;

crawl through beauty bush and spirea, 

push aside some errant maples, take down 

the wood-framed screen, hoist myself up. 

But how, exactly, to clamber across the sill 

and the radiator down to the tile?

I try bending one leg in, but I don't fold 

readily; I push myself up so that my waist 

rests against the sill, and lean forward, 

place my hands on the floor and begin to slide 

down into the room, which makes me think 

this was what it was like to be born: 

awkward, too big for the passageway...

Negotiate, submit? 

                          When I give myself

to gravity there I am, inside, no harm,

the dazzling splotchy flowerheads

scattered around me on the floor.

Will leaving the world be the same

--uncertainty as to how to proceed, 

some discomfort, and suddenly you're 

--where? I am so involved with this idea 

I forget to unlock the door, 

so when I go to fetch the mail, I'm locked out 

again. Am I at home in this house, 

would I prefer to be out here, 

where I could be almost anyone? 

This time it's simpler: the window-frame, 

the radiator, my descent. Born twice 

in one day! 

                In their silvered jug,

these bruise-blessed flowers: 

how hard I had to work to bring them 

into this room. When I say spent, 

I don't mean they have no further coin.

If there are lives to come, I think

they might be a littler easier than this one

Earth Your Dancing Place (May Swenson)

Earth Your Dancing Place

 

Beneath heaven's vault

remember always walking

through halls of cloud

down aisles of sunlight

or through high hedges

of the green rain

walk in the world

highheeled with swirl of cape

hand at the swordhilt

of your pride

Keep a tall throat

Remain aghast at life

 

Enter each day

as upon a stage

lighted and waiting

for your step

Crave upward as flame

have keenness in the nostril

Give your eyes

to agony or rapture

 

Train your hands

as birds to be

brooding or nimble

Move your body

as the horses

sweeping on slender hooves

over crag and prairie

with fleeing manes

and aloofness of their limbs

 

Take earth for your own large room

and the floor of earth

carpeted with sunlight

and hung round with silver wind

for your dancing place

 

~ May Swenson ~

 

(Nature: Poems Old a