Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

heart-rose-5x71

I am appending below a portion of what I discovered on David Whyte’s Facebook wall yesterday.  I think there’s a wide variance of emotions that come up during the holidays, especially for those who have had a loved one transition.  But beyond that, heartbreak, is something we all go through, it’s a natural consequence of living life with an open, yet vulnerable heart.  Perhaps our true work isn’t to heal heartbreak, as much as it is to embrace that we have all been inescapably and forever touched by the tender, outstretched hands of life.

“Heartbreak is inescapable; yet we use the word heartbreak as if it only occurs when things have gone wrong: an unrequited love, a shattered dream, a child lost before their time. Heartbreak, we hope, is something we can avoid; something to guard against, a chasm to be carefully looked for and then walked around; the hope is to find a way to place our feet where the elemental forces of life will keep us in the manner to which we want to be accustomed and which will keep us from the losses that all other human beings have experienced without exception since the beginning of conscious time. But heartbreak may be the very essence of being human, of being on the journey from here to there, and of coming to care deeply for what we find along the way…”

From the upcoming Third Readers’ Circle Essay,
‘HEARTBREAK’
©2013 David Whyte

Read Full Post »

winter_OK

No one but me by the fire,
my hands burning
red in the palms while
the night wind carries
everything away outside.

All this petty worry
while the great cloak
of the sky grows dark
and intense
round every little thing.

What is precious
inside us does not
care to be known
by the mind
in ways that diminish
its presence.

What we strive for
in perfection
is not what turns us
into the lit angel
we desire.

What disturbs
and then nourishes
has everything
we need.

What we hate
in ourselves
is what we cannot know
in ourselves but
what is true to the pattern
does not need
to be explained.

Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.

Even with summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.

All those years
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.

All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.

All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.

And the slow
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.

Silence and winter
have led me to that
otherness.

So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.

We speak
only with the voices of those
we can hear ourselves
and the body has a voice
only for that portion
of the body of the world
it has learned to perceive.

And
here
in the tumult
of the night
I hear the walnut
above the child’s swing
swaying
its dark limbs
in the wind
and the rain now
come to
beat against my window
and somewhere
in this cold night
of wind and stars
the first whispered
opening of
those hidden
and invisible springs
that uncoil
in the still summer air
each yet
to be imagined
rose.

~David Whyte~
River Flow: New and Selected Poems

Read Full Post »

grains4

 

This week’s inquiry … courtesy of my teacher and mentor, Jean Haner.  Months ago, she posted it on her Facebook page as part of a longer piece.  The question felt so compelling that I wrote it down, and thought to share it with you today.

“What if the only thing wrong with you, is that you think something is wrong with you?”

Partnering today’s question is the following quote from David Whyte*:

What is precious
inside us does not
care to be known
by the mind
in ways that diminish
its presence.

*stay tuned, as my next post later this week, will be the poem, in its entirety, that this was pulled from.

 

Read Full Post »

36

 

Recently I was gifted an audio of David Whyte’s spoken poetry set to music, and I adored it.  I realized among all the poetry books I own, I had none of his, so I ordered one.  It’s so hard to choose one poem, so I may post more of his poems in the near future.

As I write, Panhala, a poetry group I have subscribed to for years is on sabbatical and it may be permanent, so I may have to fill my cup (and perhaps, yours) with the swell of the human heart spilling out onto these pages.

Inside this sitting here: ---
this mind pulling knees up
           close to the chest
           with tense hands.

Inside this
movement of anxiety for the body
and its worries of money
and its teeth grinning falsely
to the solution of all things surrounding

is the seed
and the hands pressing down into the soil
and the dreams of generation
in the seed about to wake.

Tonight I will sleep with my worries
through dreams dark with soil
and the heavy cataclysm of the spade
turning earth round me
not speaking of air
or light fused with greenness
but of darkness
and the first leaves
like hands in prayer
clasped inside the seed.

~David Whyte~
River Flow: New and Selected Poems
“INSIDE”

Read Full Post »

moonimages

i

Trust is completely paradoxical:

The thing with which to begin when
you have nothing.

The end point, which
somehow you must find first.

The smallest of present moments,
measured haltingly into a past.

Both question and answer, when every
word of your acquaintance has fled.

ii

You think the arc of the horizon
should split, one side jaggedly askew,
one forever gone.

The horizon doesn’t split.
Its edges remain.

You think the ocean should dry to sand because
all the tears it held, you have used up.
You have stolen water even from the clouds.

But the ocean is not dried, nor the clouds
gone, though you have cried them both,
multiplied, and more.

You rub your eyes that grains still ripen,
plums turn blue, still the moon increases.

You thought all of this was gone.
Such is the unimaginable you have lived.
You thought everything was gone.

iii

But,
without your doing, the world is fashioned
in this way: moments
become other moments; steps
lead somewhere; all things breathe,
even without remembering.

One day, after a very long time,
without rubbing your eyes you see
the arc of the horizon still
an arc; the ocean, full.

And you are not betrayed, but glad.

~ Meditations: Nancy Shaffer ~
Instructions in Joy

Read Full Post »

Kintsukuroi

kintsukuroi3

 

I just returned from a healing retreat and was struck by how, as unique and individual we are, so many of us share the same struggle with being hard on ourselves.

I’ve come to find for myself that the only way out of something is actually to move towards it. I posted earlier this year about it in ‘Letting Myself Have’.  The voices of self-criticism don’t need our further rejection, they need our love and acceptance.

Today I share with you kintsukuroi, the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver. The concept of our broken places having made us even more beautiful.

The cracks are the articulation of our journey through life.  The gilding reveals where the inner light, our essence, love, has come to shine through.

May each of us come to savor our own artistic, tender, loving hand at becoming ever more precious.

Japanese Bowl

I’m like one of those Japanese bowls
That were made long ago
I have some cracks in me
They have been filled with gold

That’s what they used back then
When they had a bowl to mend
It did not hide the cracks
It made them shine instead

So now every old scar shows
From every time I broke
And anyone’s eyes can see
I’m not what I used to be

But in a collector’s mind
All of these jagged lines
Make me more beautiful
And worth a much higher price

I’m like one of those Japanese bowls
I was made long ago
I have some cracks you can see
See how they shine of gold

~Peter Mayer

My beloved child, break your heart no longer.

~Bapuji (beloved father of Kripalu yoga)

 

 

Read Full Post »

One Sand Grain

_DSC1202_pi

One Sand Grain Among The Others in Winter Wind

I wake with my hand held over the place of grief in my body.
“Depend on nothing,” the voice advises, but even that is useless.
My ears are useless, my familiar and intimate tongue.
My protecting hand is useless, that wants to hold the single leaf to the tree
and say, Not this one, this one will be saved.

~After: Jane Hirshfield Poems~

Read Full Post »

autumn_leaves

Pods of summer crowd around the door;
I take them in the autumn of my hands.

Last night I heard the first cold wind outside;
the wind blew soft, and yet I shiver twice:

Once for thin walls, once for the sound of time.

~William Stafford~
The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems

Read Full Post »

sunnyhill

My eyes already touch the sunny hill,
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has its inner light, even from a distance—

and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it, we already are;
a gesture waves us on, answering our own wave . . .
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

~Rainer Maria Rilke~
Muzot, March 1924
Translated by Robert Bly

Read Full Post »

sunrise-rays-over-indian-basin

The ordinary miracles begin. Somewhere
a signal arrives: “Now,” and the rays
come down. A tomorrow has come. Open
your hands, lift them: morning rings
all the doorbells; porches are cells for prayer.
Religion has touched your throat. Not the same now,
you could close your eyes and go on full of light.

And it is already begun, the chord
that will shiver glass, the song full of time
bending above us. Outside, a sign:
a bird intervenes; the wings tell the air,
“Be warm.” No one is out there, but a giant
has passed through town, widening streets, touching
the ground, shouldering away the stars.

~William Stafford~
William Tell: Poems by William Stafford

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »