Forever Oneness, Bee Lake

Forever Oneness,

who sings to us in silence,

who teaches us through each other.

Guide my steps with strength and wisdom.

May I see the lessons as I walk,

honor the Purpose of all things.

Help me touch with respect,

always speak from behind my eyes. 

Let me observe, not judge.

May I cause no harm,

and leave music and beauty after my visit.

When I return to forever

may the circle be closed

and the spiral be broader.

 

 ~ Bee Lake ~

 

(an Aboriginal poet)

Sea and Rain: Lake Michigan, Keith Taylor

Sea and Rain: Lake Michigan   Keith Taylor

after James McNeill Whistler, 1865 There is a dance at water’s edge, a movement between the lake, its sand and the horizon where lake becomes cloud. Between those lines our world’s a thin wash of muted tones, beige and gray with a hint of white, almost abstract, until the dancer steps out into the pool. She makes the whole thing real

Mindful, Mary Oliver

Mindful

Every day

I see or hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight,

that leaves me

like a needle

in the haystack

of light.

It was what I was born for -

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world -

to instruct myself

over and over

in joy,

and acclamation.

Nor am I talking

about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,

the very extravagant - 

but of the ordinary,

the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.

Oh, good scholar,

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these -

the untrimmable light

of the world,

the ocean's shine,

the prayers that are made

out of grass?

~ Mary Oliver ~

 

(Why I Wake Early)

Dreamwood, Adrienne Rich

 Dreamwood

BY ADRIENNE RICH

In the old, scratched, cheap wood of the typing stand

there is a landscape, veined, which only a child can see

or the child's older self, a poet,

a woman dreaming when she should be typing

the last report of the day. If this were a map,

she thinks, a map laid down to memorize

because she might be walking it, it shows

ridge upon ridge fading into hazed desert

here and there a sign of aquifers

and one possible watering-hole. If this were a map

it would be the map of the last age of her life,

not a map of choices but a map of variations

on the one great choice. It would be the map by which

she could see the end of touristic choices,

of distances blued and purpled by romance,

by which she would recognize that poetry

isn't revolution but a way of knowing

why it must come. If this cheap, mass-produced

wooden stand from the Brooklyn Union Gas Co.,

mass-produced yet durable, being here now,

is what it is yet a dream-map

so obdurate, so plain,

she thinks, the material and the dream can join

and that is the poem and that is the late report.

October/November 1987

Source: Poetry (June 2012)

Straight TLk From Fox, Mary Oliver

Straight Talk From Fox

 

Listen says fox it is music to run

over the hills to lick

dew from the leaves to nose along

the edges of the ponds to smell the fat

ducks in their bright feathers but

far out, safe in their rafts of

sleep. It is like

music to visit the orchard, to find

the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the

rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself

is a music. Nobody has ever come close to

writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot

be told. It is flesh and bones

changing shape and with good cause, mercy

is a little child beside such an invention. It is

music to wander the black back roads

outside of town no one awake or wondering

if anything miraculous is ever going to

happen, totally dumb to the fact of every

moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't

peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons

making love, arguing, talking about God

as if he were an idea instead of the grass,

instead of the stars, the rabbit caught

in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought

home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is

responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not

give my life for a thousand of yours.

 

~ Mary Oliver ~

 

(Red Bird)

 

Notice, Steve Kowit

Notice

This evening, the sturdy Levi's

I wore every day for over a year

& which seemed to the end

in perfect condition,

suddenly tore.

How or why I don't know,

but there it was: a big rip at the crotch.

A month ago my friend Nick

walked off a racquetball court,

showered,

got into his street clothes,

& halfway home collapsed & died.

Take heed, you who read this,

& drop to your knees now & again

like the poet Christopher Smart,

& kiss the earth & be joyful,

& make much of your time,

& be kindly to everyone,

even to those who do not deserve it.

For although you may not believe 

it will happen,

you too will one day be gone,

I, whose Levi's ripped at the crotch

for no reason,

assure you that such is the case.

Pass it on.

 

~ Steve Kowit

The Further You Go. Andrew Colliver

The Further You Go
By Andrew Colliver
(1953 - )

Mercy, there have been revelations.
Grace, there has been realisation. Still, you must
travel the path of time and circumstance.

The further you go, the more it comes back to paying attention.
The rough skin of the tallowwood, the trade routes of lorikeets, a sky lifting
behind afternoon clouds. Staying close to the texture of things.

People can go before you and talk all they want,
but only one thing makes sense: the way the world enters
and finds its voice in you: the place you are free.