Now That The Walls
For today, this poem by Mark Nepo:
Now That I Feel
how little time there is, I’m
falling in love with everything:
the stranger whose name I’ll
never know, and the crow
pecking at the half bagel
she left for him.
Now that the walls I didn’t
know were walls have come
down, I want to care for
everything. And the sun
warming in all directions
without preference is
showing me how.
Today my heart aches,
not because something is
lacking, but because the love
I’ve carried all along is bursting
through all the gates of choice.
Given the Illusion
I leave early Saturday morning for my 2-month retreat. I haven’t started the actual packing just yet (first I have to wash everything I own — in case I decide, at the last minute, there’s something I hadn’t thought of that now I can’t live without), but I’m definitely in departure mode.
So for today, I offer:
American Airlines #371
by Billy Collins
Pardon my benevolence,
but given the illusion that my fellow passengers and I
are now on our way to glory,
rising over this kingdom of clouds
(airy citadels! unnamable goings-on within!)
and at well over 500 miles per hour,
which would get you to work in under one second,
I wish to forgive the man next to me
who so annoyed me before the wine started arriving
by turning each page of his newspaper
with a kind of crisp, military snap,
and the same goes for that howling infant,
and for the child in the row begin me
who persisted in hitting that F above high C
that all of her kind know perfectly how to hit
while rhythmically kicking the back of my seat.
Yes, I have softened and been rendered
even grateful by the ministrations of Eva,
uniformed wine bearer in the sky,
and if we are not exactly being conveyed to Paradise,
at least we are vectoring across the continent
to Los Angeles–orange tree in the backyard,
girl on a motorcycle roaring down Venice Boulevard.
And eventually we will begin our final descent
(final descent! I want to shout to Eva)
into the city of a million angels,
where the world might terminate or begin afresh again,
which is how I tend to feel almost every day–
life’s end just around another corner or two,
yet out of the morning window
the thrust of a new blossom from that bush
whose colorful name I can never remember.
And This Was Called History
(Note: I wasn’t able to post yesterday because I was overcome by a particularly noxious bout of food poisoning. Ah, but now that has passed. Sometimes impermanence is your friend!)
For today, I offer:
The Future
by Billy Collins
When I finally arrive there–
and it will take many days and nights–
I would like to believe others will be waiting
and might even want to know how it was.
So I will reminisce about a particular sky
or a woman in a white bathrobe
or the time I visited a narrow strait
where a famous naval battle had taken place.
Then I will spread out on a table
a large map of my world
and explain to the people of the future
in their pale garments what it was like–
how mountains rose between the valleys
and this was called geography,
how boats loaded with cargo plied the rivers
and this was known as commerce,
how the people from this pink area
crossed over into this light-green area
and set fires and killed whoever they found
and this was called history–
and they will listen, mild-eyed and silent,
as more of them arrive to join the circle,
like ripples moving toward,
not away from, a stone tossed into a pond.
Seek an End to Bondage
In honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. — the man and the day — I offer this poem from Appalachian Elegy, by bell hooks:
37.
stained black
Kentucky oak
plank fences
mark boundaries
ghost riders
where the dead live
on the edge of time
slaves worked here
long ago
caressing horse flesh
breathing shared dreams
cared for them
when witnessing
the breaking of yet
another animal spirit
born to be wild and free
a bond forged
whisper to forgotten souls
run run
go as fast as you can
run run
seek an end to bondage
***
(image: casket of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. during funeral procession in King’s hometown of Atlanta, Georgia)
Put Out A Sign
An Open Hand
by Mark Nepo
The mind is not a storeroom
with mirrors where we retreat
to convince ourselves
that we exist.
The mind is a livingroom with
windows and more than one chair,
so friends can come and look out
and discuss what they see.
Not a fortress where we frisk and
strip others of what they believe
in order to share our secrets.
More a porch with birdfeeders
and coffee or tea where before
hello, you have to share a story.
Pull the curtains! Open the
windows! Brew the coffee!
Put out a sign: Other Views
Wanted!
Carry Nothing on Your Back
from Appalachian Elegy
by bell hooks
23.
bring Buddha
to rest home
in Kentucky hills
that outside each window
a light may shine
not a guilt teaching tradition
be balanced
know loving kindness
end suffering
rejoice in the oneness of life
then let go
carry nothing on your back
travel empty
as you climb steep mountain paths
When the Plain World Comes
Tomorrow is my birthday. In anticipation of which, my attention turns to:
The Other Earth
by Jane Hirshfield
At first we embrace trees.
Lie with the swan, the bull, become stars.
Blackbirds form bridges across the sky:
we pass, lightly placing our feet.
The god enters our rooms in a shower of gold.
Into the intricate maze a white thread,
a woman, a fish come to guide our way out.
Docile as horses, we go.
When the plain world comes,
with its explanations
smooth and cool as a marble statue’s skin,
we go, rising out of the dark.
Being careless and proud, we look back
towards the other earth:
how it wavers and goes out,
like a girl with an errand to do in another room.
In This World of Nature
The news. I want to stay informed. But sometimes it’s just too much. Still, things are as they are. It does not help to look away.
from Appalachian Elegy
by bell hooks
35.
winds of fate
take the air
push it past the known
in this world of nature
no one can undo
mystery abounds
harsh cold burns skin
fire waits
raging tempests
sweep us
carry us toward
destiny recorded
written down
past present future
change comes
For Whose Sake We Practice
With Singing and Banners
by Jane Hirshfield
Demonsthenes, a wise man, filled his mouth
with pebbles before speaking;
and a stream which has run ten feet over rocks
is clear, they say, and safe to drink.
Yet still we forget what is owed our failures–
blessings, to praise the stumbled on stone.
And forget what we once knew, how to properly greet
old enemies, for whose sake we practice and parry,
become strong:
with singing and banners, with gladness.
Everyday the Blessing of Weather
From Appalachian Elegy by bell hooks:
31.
returning to sacred places
where all is one
embraced belonging
an intense field of possibility
wondrous goodness
fills the air
grant us great spirits
another chance
to reclaim and nurture earth
glorious sky
divine water
in everyday the blessing of weather
offering change
a constant passing
of life into death
and back again