Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.
--Naomi Shihab Nye
from "The Words Under the Words: Selected Poems"
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Water Women
We do not want
to rock the boat,
you say, mistaking
our poise
for something safe.
We smile secretly:
for some time
we have not been
in the boat.
We jumped
or were pushed
or fell
and some leaped
overboard.
Our bodies form
a freedom fleet
our dolphin grace
is power
each woman's hands
are water wings.
Some of us have become
mermaids or Amazon whales
and are swimming for our lives.
Some of us
do not know how to swim.
We walk on water.
--Alla Bozarth-Campbell
to rock the boat,
you say, mistaking
our poise
for something safe.
We smile secretly:
for some time
we have not been
in the boat.
We jumped
or were pushed
or fell
and some leaped
overboard.
Our bodies form
a freedom fleet
our dolphin grace
is power
each woman's hands
are water wings.
Some of us have become
mermaids or Amazon whales
and are swimming for our lives.
Some of us
do not know how to swim.
We walk on water.
--Alla Bozarth-Campbell
In Blackwater Woods
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
--Mary Oliver
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
--Mary Oliver
Robin McKinley: the Hero and the Crown
A blast of grief, of the deaths of children, of crippling diseases that took beauty at once but withheld death; of unconsummated love, of love lost or twisted and grown to hate; of noble deeds that proved useless, that broke the hearts of their doers; of betrayal without reason, of guilt without penance, of all the human miseries that have ever occurred; all this struck them, like the breath of a slaughterhouse, or the blow of a murderer. Tor fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands, the beasts cringed back, moaning. Aerin put out her hand, leaned against the doorframe; just this she had feared, had half expected, yet the reality was much worse than what her tired mind had been able to prepare her for.
Greetings, said Maur's head. I did not think to have the pleasure of seeing you again.
It is you, responded Aerin. She opened her mouth to gasp, and despair rushed in, bitter as aloes. Tears filled her eyes, but she pushed herself away from the threshold and bent slowly and carefully to pick up the candle Tor had set down before he opened the door. She shook her head to clear her vision, held the candle aloft, and stepped inside the high vaulted room, despite the silent keening of the air.
I know despair, she said. There is nothing more that you can show me.
Oh?
The keening changed tone and madness edged it, drifted across her skin, fluttered in her hair like bats' wings; she ducked and the candle guttered and almost went out. Maur laughed. She remembered that silent hollow laugh.
Angry, she said: Nothing!
Greetings, said Maur's head. I did not think to have the pleasure of seeing you again.
It is you, responded Aerin. She opened her mouth to gasp, and despair rushed in, bitter as aloes. Tears filled her eyes, but she pushed herself away from the threshold and bent slowly and carefully to pick up the candle Tor had set down before he opened the door. She shook her head to clear her vision, held the candle aloft, and stepped inside the high vaulted room, despite the silent keening of the air.
I know despair, she said. There is nothing more that you can show me.
Oh?
The keening changed tone and madness edged it, drifted across her skin, fluttered in her hair like bats' wings; she ducked and the candle guttered and almost went out. Maur laughed. She remembered that silent hollow laugh.
Angry, she said: Nothing!
Death poems
Kiba, 1868, ae. 90
My old body:
a drop of dew
grown heavy at the leaf tip
Joseki, 1779, ae. 85
This must be
my birthday
there
in paradise
Ensei, 1725, ae. 69
A parting gift to my body:
just when it wishes
I'll breathe my last.
Fukaku, 1753, ae. 92
Empty cicada shell:
as we come
we go back naked
Kin'u, 1817, ae. 62
How leisurely
the cherry blossoms
bloom this year
unhurried
by their doom
Renseki, 1789, ae. 88
I cleansed the mirror of my heart
now it reflects the moon
Yamazaki Sokan, ~1540
Should someone ask where Sokan went,
just say,
he had some business in the other world
Kyoriku, 1715, ae. 59
Till now I thought that death
befell the untalented alone.
If those with talent, too, must die,
surely they make
a better manure?
Zosan Junku, 1308, ae. 76
You must play the tune of non-being yourself--
nine summits collapse, eight oceans go dry.
Inseki, 1765, ae. 67
I give my name back
as I step in
this Eden of flowers.
Toko, 1795, ae. 86
Death poems
are mere delusion:
death is death.
Japanese Death poems, Yoel Hoffman, Tuttle Publishing.
(It was traditional for Zen masters to compose poems as they were dying.)
My old body:
a drop of dew
grown heavy at the leaf tip
Joseki, 1779, ae. 85
This must be
my birthday
there
in paradise
Ensei, 1725, ae. 69
A parting gift to my body:
just when it wishes
I'll breathe my last.
Fukaku, 1753, ae. 92
Empty cicada shell:
as we come
we go back naked
Kin'u, 1817, ae. 62
How leisurely
the cherry blossoms
bloom this year
unhurried
by their doom
Renseki, 1789, ae. 88
I cleansed the mirror of my heart
now it reflects the moon
Yamazaki Sokan, ~1540
Should someone ask where Sokan went,
just say,
he had some business in the other world
Kyoriku, 1715, ae. 59
Till now I thought that death
befell the untalented alone.
If those with talent, too, must die,
surely they make
a better manure?
Zosan Junku, 1308, ae. 76
You must play the tune of non-being yourself--
nine summits collapse, eight oceans go dry.
Inseki, 1765, ae. 67
I give my name back
as I step in
this Eden of flowers.
Toko, 1795, ae. 86
Death poems
are mere delusion:
death is death.
Japanese Death poems, Yoel Hoffman, Tuttle Publishing.
(It was traditional for Zen masters to compose poems as they were dying.)
poems written on retreat
Walking in wet grass:
a million rainbows
quiver
at my feet.
----------
Beneath the cherry boughs
upturned faces
blossom.
----------
this breath
a thread:
the fabric
my life.
a million rainbows
quiver
at my feet.
----------
Beneath the cherry boughs
upturned faces
blossom.
----------
this breath
a thread:
the fabric
my life.
The Dakini speaks
My friends, let’s grow up.
Let’s stop pretending we don’t know the deal here.
Or if we truly haven’t noticed, let’s wake up and notice.
Look: everything that can be lost, will be lost.
It’s simple–how could we have missed it for so long?
Let’s grieve our losses fully, like ripe human beings,
But please, let’s not be so shocked by them.
Let’s not act so betrayed,
As though life had broken her secret promise to us.
Impermanence is life’s only promise to us,
And she keeps it with ruthless impeccability.
To a child she seems cruel, but she is only wild,
And her compassion is exquisitely precise:
Brilliantly penetrating, luminous with truth,
She strips away the unreal to show us the real.
This is the true ride — let’s give ourselves to it!
Let’s stop making deals for a safe passage:
There isn’t one anyway, and the cost is too high.
We are not children any more.
The true human adult gives everything for what cannot be lost.
Let’s dance the wild dance of no hope!
--Jennifer Welwood
Let’s stop pretending we don’t know the deal here.
Or if we truly haven’t noticed, let’s wake up and notice.
Look: everything that can be lost, will be lost.
It’s simple–how could we have missed it for so long?
Let’s grieve our losses fully, like ripe human beings,
But please, let’s not be so shocked by them.
Let’s not act so betrayed,
As though life had broken her secret promise to us.
Impermanence is life’s only promise to us,
And she keeps it with ruthless impeccability.
To a child she seems cruel, but she is only wild,
And her compassion is exquisitely precise:
Brilliantly penetrating, luminous with truth,
She strips away the unreal to show us the real.
This is the true ride — let’s give ourselves to it!
Let’s stop making deals for a safe passage:
There isn’t one anyway, and the cost is too high.
We are not children any more.
The true human adult gives everything for what cannot be lost.
Let’s dance the wild dance of no hope!
--Jennifer Welwood
Ookpik
An Ookpik is nothing but hair.
If you shave him, he just isn't there.
He's never locked in the zoo.
He lives in a warm igloo.
He can whistle and dance on the walls.
He can dance on Niagara Falls.
He has nothing at all on his mind.
If you scratch him, he wags his behind.
He dances from morning to night.
Then he blinks. That turns out the light.
(Dennis Lee: From "Alligator Pie", 1974.)
If you shave him, he just isn't there.
He's never locked in the zoo.
He lives in a warm igloo.
He can whistle and dance on the walls.
He can dance on Niagara Falls.
He has nothing at all on his mind.
If you scratch him, he wags his behind.
He dances from morning to night.
Then he blinks. That turns out the light.
(Dennis Lee: From "Alligator Pie", 1974.)
The Buddha's instructions on gratitude to parents
A person of integrity is grateful & acknowledges the help given to him. This gratitude, this acknowledgment is second nature among fine people.
...there are two people who are not easy to repay. Which two? Your mother & father. Even if you were to carry your mother on one shoulder & your father on the other shoulder for 100 years, and were to look after them by anointing, massaging, bathing, & rubbing their limbs, and they were to defecate & urinate right there [on your shoulders], you would not in that way pay or repay your parents. If you were to establish your mother & father in absolute sovereignty over this great earth, abounding in the seven treasures, you would not in that way pay or repay your parents. Why is that? Mother & father do much for their children. They care for them, they nourish them, they introduce them to this world. But anyone who rouses his unbelieving mother & father, settles & establishes them in conviction; rouses his unvirtuous mother & father, settles & establishes them in virtue; rouses his stingy mother & father, settles & establishes them in generosity; rouses his foolish mother & father, settles & establishes them in discernment: To this extent one pays & repays one's mother & father.
Kataññu Suttas
http://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/an/an02/an02.031.than.html
...there are two people who are not easy to repay. Which two? Your mother & father. Even if you were to carry your mother on one shoulder & your father on the other shoulder for 100 years, and were to look after them by anointing, massaging, bathing, & rubbing their limbs, and they were to defecate & urinate right there [on your shoulders], you would not in that way pay or repay your parents. If you were to establish your mother & father in absolute sovereignty over this great earth, abounding in the seven treasures, you would not in that way pay or repay your parents. Why is that? Mother & father do much for their children. They care for them, they nourish them, they introduce them to this world. But anyone who rouses his unbelieving mother & father, settles & establishes them in conviction; rouses his unvirtuous mother & father, settles & establishes them in virtue; rouses his stingy mother & father, settles & establishes them in generosity; rouses his foolish mother & father, settles & establishes them in discernment: To this extent one pays & repays one's mother & father.
Kataññu Suttas
http://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/an/an02/an02.031.than.html
Father, you are ancient
Father, you are ancient,
grinning your goofy smile.
One hundred and sixteen times
my age, you are today; yes,
I cannot help but smile
when you make those funny,
complicated sounds.
I wave my tiny arms
and feel your joy
splashing onto me,
your warm breath on my cheeks
and your gentle caress
making my bright eyes brighter.
Father, you are ancient.
I will forget this moment,
only because I cannot help it,
but please, retell it to me
when I am able to remember,
so that I can be reminded
that you loved me always,
Father, ancient
and never more alive.
-- William Dickenson Cohen
grinning your goofy smile.
One hundred and sixteen times
my age, you are today; yes,
I cannot help but smile
when you make those funny,
complicated sounds.
I wave my tiny arms
and feel your joy
splashing onto me,
your warm breath on my cheeks
and your gentle caress
making my bright eyes brighter.
Father, you are ancient.
I will forget this moment,
only because I cannot help it,
but please, retell it to me
when I am able to remember,
so that I can be reminded
that you loved me always,
Father, ancient
and never more alive.
-- William Dickenson Cohen
Love
Love
but not the kind that runs
on glowing feet
to and from quick meetings
hunting and hunted down
wounded and wounding
not the kind that gets high
on painful good-byes
but the love
which gives peace and rest
which warms and protects
Love
but not the kind
which has hardly stilled its hunger
before a new one arises
not the frantic one
whipped by demands
often more painful than divine
not the love filled with anxiety
scared of being burned
at the same time scared of not getting to burn
but the mildly flowing love
which dares to rest
and, when the time is right,
to arise from rest.
Maria Wine, translated from the Swedish by Christina Lindström Andersson (last line tweaked by me)
but not the kind that runs
on glowing feet
to and from quick meetings
hunting and hunted down
wounded and wounding
not the kind that gets high
on painful good-byes
but the love
which gives peace and rest
which warms and protects
Love
but not the kind
which has hardly stilled its hunger
before a new one arises
not the frantic one
whipped by demands
often more painful than divine
not the love filled with anxiety
scared of being burned
at the same time scared of not getting to burn
but the mildly flowing love
which dares to rest
and, when the time is right,
to arise from rest.
Maria Wine, translated from the Swedish by Christina Lindström Andersson (last line tweaked by me)
Wendell Berry: Do not be ashamed
You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
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