Tuesday, July 29, 2014

mid-air flight







.





Death is a favour to us,
But our scales have lost their balance.
The impermanence of the body
Should give us great clarity, deepening the wonder in our
Senses and eyes
Of this mysterious existence we share
And surely are just travelling through.


If I were in the tavern tonight,
Hafiz would call for drinks
And as the Master poured, I would be reminded
That all I know of life and myself is that
We are just a mid-air flight of golden wine
Between His Pitcher and His cup.

If I were in the tavern to night,
I would buy freely for everyone in this world
Because our marriage with the Cruel Beauty
Of time and space cannot endure very long. 

Death is a favour to us,
But our minds have lost their balance. 
The miraculous existence and impermanence of
Form
Always makes the illumined ones
Laugh and sing.



–Hafiz






.










Monday, July 28, 2014

I will not die an unlived life








 .




 

I will not die an unlived life.

I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.

I choose to inhabit my days

To allow my living to open me
To make me less afraid, more accessible.

To loosen my heart
Until it becomes
A wing, a torch, a promise.

I choose to risk my significance

To live so that which came to me as seed
Goes to the next as blossom

And that which came to me as blossom
Goes on as fruit.


–Dawna Markova







.











Sunday, July 27, 2014

not to worry


 



.
 





Each day, we wake slightly altered, and the person we were yesterday is dead. 

So why, one could say, be afraid of death, when death comes all the time?


–John Updike
Self-Consciousness

















for your Sunday







.
 



below is a great track performed on this occasion
but omitted from the video














Prabhujee Dayaa Karo,
Maname Aana Baso.
Tuma Bina Laage soonaa,
Khaali Ghatame Prema Bharo.

Tantra Mantra Poojaa Nahi Jaanu,
Mai To Kevala Tumako Hi Maanu.
Sare Jaga Me Dhundaa Tumako,
Aba To Aakara Baahan Dharo. 


Divine being, have mercy on me.
Come, reside in my heart.
Without you, I feel an emptiness.
Fill up my hollow entity with love.
I don’t know the rituals, chants, and prayers.
I just know that I believe in you.
I searched the whole world for you.
Now, please come, take my hand and lead me.








.













 

Saturday, July 26, 2014

from One Hundred Years of Solitude













A person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.


—Gabriel Garcia Marquez






















Friday, July 25, 2014

true nature







 .
 





I am of the nature to grow old.
There is no way to escape growing old.
I am of the nature to have ill-health.
There is no way to escape having ill-health.

I am of the nature to die.
There is no way to escape death.

All that is dear to me and everyone I love
is of the nature to change.

There is no way to escape being separated from them.
My actions are my only true belongings.

I cannot escape the consequences of my actions.
My actions are the ground on which I stand.


–Buddha






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Thursday, July 24, 2014

The Prophet, excerpt







.





THEN Almitra spoke, saying,
"We would ask now of Death."





And he said:

You would know the secret of death.

But how shall you find it unless you seek it
in the heart of life?


The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day
cannot unveil the mystery of light.


If you would indeed behold the spirit of death,
open your heart wide unto the body of life.


For life and death are one,
even as the river and the sea are one.


In the depth of your hopes and desires lies
your silent knowledge of the beyond;


And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow
your heart dreams of spring.


Trust the dreams,
for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.


Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd
when he stands before the king whose hand is to be
laid upon him in honour.


Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling,
that he shall wear the mark of the king?


Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind
and to melt into the sun?


And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath
from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand
and seek God unencumbered?


Only when you drink from the river of silence
shall you indeed sing.


And when you have reached the mountain top,
then you shall begin to climb.


And when the earth shall claim your limbs,
then shall you truly dance.



–Kahlil Gibran








.










Wednesday, July 23, 2014

People Like Us








.



There are more like us. All over the world
There are confused people, who can't remember
The name of their dog when they wake up, and people
Who love God but can't remember where

He was when they went to sleep. It's
All right. The world cleanses itself this way.
A wrong number occurs to you in the middle
Of the night, you dial it, it rings just in time

To save the house. And the second-story man
Gets the wrong address, where the insomniac lives,
And he's lonely, and they talk, and the thief
Goes back to college. Even in graduate school,

You can wander into the wrong classroom,
And hear great poems lovingly spoken
By the wrong professor. And you find your soul
And greatness has a defender, and even in death
you're safe.

–Robert Bly



.







Monday, July 21, 2014

not to worry







.






You are immortal; you’ve existed for billions of years in different manifestations, because you are Life, and Life cannot die. 

You are in the trees, the butterflies, the fish, the air, the moon,
the sun. 


Wherever you go, you are there, waiting for yourself.


—Don Miguel Ruiz







.

Dariusz Klimczak












Sunday, July 20, 2014

you can not lose life








.




You are Life,
passing through your body,

passing through your mind,
passing through your soul.

Once you find that out, not with logic, not with the intellect, but because you can feel that Life, you find out that you are the force that makes the flowers open and close, that makes the hummingbird fly from flower to flower.
You find out that you are in every tree,  and you are in every animal, vegetable, and rock. You are that force that moves the wind and the wind breathes through your body.

The whole universe is a living being that is moved by that force, and that is what you are.
You are Life.



—Don Miguel Ruiz








.











Saturday, July 19, 2014

remember me



























Hawk Roosting


  
 
 
 .
  
 
 
 
I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.
 

–Ted Hughes 
  

 

 

.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Friday, July 18, 2014

now







.





Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.

And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.

Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.


–T. S. Eliot








Thursday, July 17, 2014

the secret








.
 



It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not die, but only retire a little from sight and afterwards return again. 

Nothing is dead; men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals and mournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out of the window, sound and well, in some new strange disguise.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson




.










Wednesday, July 16, 2014

the dead (animated poetry)







.





The dead are always looking down on us, they say.
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.


They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a long afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them,
which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.



–Billy Collins





.








you are marvelous


 




 .
 




your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.

be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.

be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.

you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.

your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous.
the gods wait to delight
in you.


–Charles Bukowski
the laughing heart







.













Tuesday, July 15, 2014

nothing



 
 
 
.
 




For me there is no materiality to apparent materiality. In our bodies, 3 billion cells a minute are dying and being reborn. So our bodies look solid, but they aren't. How many minutes have just gone by and how many cells have died and been reborn? We're like a fountain. A fountain of water looks solid, but you can put your fingers right through it. Our bodies look like things, but there's no thingness to them.


–Li-Young Lee






 
 

Monday, July 14, 2014

For Jane: With All the Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough:







 .





I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
but
they will not
give her back to me.



–Charles Bukowski








.













Sunday, July 13, 2014

not to worry






.





The wise Prophet has said that no one who dies and dismounts from the steed of the body feels grief on account of departure and death, but only for missed opportunities and having failed in good works.

Truly everyone who dies wishes that their arrival at their destination might have come sooner: the wicked, in order that their wickedness might have been less; and the devoted, in order that they might have reached home more quickly.


–Rumi






.









Saturday, July 12, 2014

listen, touch, let go










 
.













wild iris







.





 At the end of my suffering  
 there was a door.

 Hear me out: that which you call death
 I remember.

 Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
 Then nothing. The weak sun
 flickered over the dry surface.

 It is terrible to survive
 as consciousness
 buried in the dark earth.

 Then it was over: that which you fear, being
 a soul and unable
 to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
 bending a little.  And what I took to be
 birds darting in low shrubs.

 You who do not remember
 passage from the other world
 I tell you I could speak again: whatever
 returns from oblivion returns
 to find a voice:

 from the center of my life came
 a great fountain, deep blue
 shadows on azure sea water.


–Louise Glück






.











Thursday, July 10, 2014

i and death


 





.
 





My body saw death
Without fear.
My heart conquered death
With love.
 
My soul embraced death
With compassion.
 
I employ death
With no hesitation.



–Sri Chinmoy







.












Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Panthea, excerpt







.





We are resolved into the supreme air,
We are made one with what we touch and see,
With our heart's blood each crimson sun is fair,
With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree
Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range
The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change.
With beat of systole and of diastole
One grand great life throbs through earth's giant heart,
And mighty waves of single Being roll
From nerve-less germ to man, for we are part
Of every rock and bird and beast and hill,
One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill. . . .

One sacrament are consecrate, the earth
Not we alone hath passions hymeneal,
The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth
At daybreak know a pleasure not less real
Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood
We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good. . . .

Is the light vanished from our golden sun,
Or is this daedal-fashioned earth less fair,
That we are nature's heritors, and one
With every pulse of life that beats the air?
Rather new suns across the sky shall pass,
New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass.

And we two lovers shall not sit afar,
Critics of nature, but the joyous sea
Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star
Shoot arrows at our pleasure! We shall be
Part of the mighty universal whole,
And through all Aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!

We shall be notes in that great Symphony
Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,
And all the live World's throbbing heart shall be
One with our heart, the stealthy creeping years
Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,
The Universe itself shall be our Immortality!


–Oscar Wilde








.











Tuesday, July 8, 2014

 My Viking, excerpt






.





Say this is your final chapter.

Two, say it’s a quiet chapter, ripe with meaning.

Prime your reader for an ending made soft,
plush, and instant.


—Angie DeCola








.
fablesofthereconstruction
.











Monday, July 7, 2014

not to worry








.





I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way. 
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.


–Rumi
 



.
 









Sunday, July 6, 2014

for your Sunday







.





I love you night and day
As a star in the distant sky.
And I mourn for this one thing alone
That to love, our lifetime was so short.

A long road to heaven's shining meadow
And I never could reach its end.
But a longer road leads to your heart
Which to me seems distant as a star.

High above the arch of heaven bends
A light so clear is falling.
Like a flow'ring tree the world is blooming
Over whelmed, my heart both cries and laughs.



–Paulina Bard
Elaine Singley/Loyd Sublime translation








.













Friday, July 4, 2014

This Hour and What Is Dead



 




.
 





Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking
through bare rooms over my head,
opening and closing doors.
What could he be looking for in an empty house?
What could he possibly need there in heaven?
Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches?
His love for me feels like spilled water
running back to its vessel.

      At this hour, what is dead is restless
      and what is living is burning.

      Someone tell him he should sleep now.

My father keeps a light on by our bed
and readies for our journey.
He mends ten holes in the knees
of five pairs of boy’s pants.
His love for me is like his sewing:
various colors and too much thread,
his stitching uneven. But the needle pierces
clean through with each stroke of his hand.

      At this hour, what is dead is worried
      and what is living is fugitive.

      Someone tell him he should sleep now.

God, that old furnace, keeps talking
with his mouth of teeth,
a beard stained at feasts, and his breath
of gasoline, airplane, human ash.
His love for me feels like fire,
feels like doves, feels like river-water.

      At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind
      and helpless. While the Lord lives.

Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.
I’ve had enough of his love
that feels like burning and flight and running away.


–Li-Young Lee
The City in Which I Love You






















Thursday, July 3, 2014

moment


 

 




 

Don't move.

Just die over and over.

Don't anticipate.  

Nothing can save you now,
because this is your last moment. 

Not even enlightenment will help you now,
because you have no other moments. 

With no future, be true to yourself
—and don't move.



–Shunryu Suzuki Roshi







.

your moment of zen
hengki koentjoro
largerloves

.
 











Wednesday, July 2, 2014

the oven bird






 .
 




There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.

He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.

He says the early petal-fall is past,
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.

He says the highway dust is over all.

The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.

The question that he asks in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.


–Robert Frost







.