from The Essential Rumi,
translations by Coleman Barks with John Moyne, 1995. :
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the
doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
Daylight, full of small dancing particles
and the one great turning, our souls
are dancing with you, without feet, they dance.
Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?
Roses, Late Summer
by
Mary Oliver
What happens
to the leaves after
they turn red and golden
and fall
away? What happens
to the singing birds
when they can't sing
any longer? What happens
to their quick wings?
Do you think there is any
personal heaven
for any of us?
Do you think anyone,
the other side of that
darkness,
will call to us, meaning
us?
Beyond the trees
the foxes keep teaching
their children
to live in the valley.
So they never seem to
vanish, they are always there
in the blossom of light
that stands up every
morning
in the dark sky.
And over one more set of
hills,
along the sea,
the last roses have opened
their factories of sweetness
and are giving it back to
the world.
If I had another life
I would want to spend it
all on some
unstinting happiness.
I would be a fox, or a tree
full of waving branches.
I wouldn't mind being a
rose
in a field of roses.
Fear has not yet occurred
to them, nor ambition.
Reason they have not yet
thought of.
Neither do they ask how
long they must be roses, and then what.
Or any other foolish question.
Ask Much, The Voice Suggested
By Jane Hirshfield
Ask much, the voice suggested, and I startled.
Feeling my body like the trembling body of a horse
tied to its tree while the strange noise
passes over its ears.
I who in extremity had always wanted less,
even of eating, of sleeping.
Agile, the voice did not speak again, but
waited.
“Want more”—
a cure for longing I had not thought of.
But that is how it is with wells.
Whatever is taken refills to the steady
level.
The
voice agreed, though softly, to quiet the feet of the horse:
A cup taken out, a cup reappears; a bucketful
taken, a bucket.
(Thanks to Bill
Nathan for sending this poem.)
'The
temple bell stops -
but
the sound keeps coming
out of
the flowers.'
-
Basho (1644 -94)
(tr
Robert Bly)
Today’s song
By Deb Baretz
from the piano
your music
haunting
my tears arise from
this
wordless song
drifting
through an open window
my waiting
heart
today
it happens
now
I’m about to do it…
to forgive
you
every wrong
(real… or imagined)
breathing in
your
song
breathing out
mine
soft peach
sweet juice
flows
from torn skin
tasting
a lightened
heart
Pantoum
for the Moon
By Deb Baretz
Behind the misty cloud
crystal sliver of a moon
unseen in deep softness
its cool fragrant presence
crystal sliver of a moon
will return with a nod
its cool fragrant presence
deep stillness illuminating
will return with a nod
with glow cast over shiny crust
dark stillness illuminating
onyx roots an offering to steely depths
with glow cast over shiny crust
on snow-covered fields
onyx roots an offering to steely depths
crisp air so cold it hurts
on snow-covered fields
smoke rings of breath
crisp air so cold it hurts
when life stops it stops
smoke rings of breath
for now I watch for a silver crescent
when life stops it stops
so watch for the moonglow
for now I watch for a silver crescent
floating above glossy crispness
so watch for the moonglow
in the glow I will breathe
floating above glossy crispness
behind the misty cloud
in the glow I breathe
unseen in dark softness