Czeslaw Milosz: "This Only"

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map leads him there.
Or perhaps memory. Once long ago in the sun,
When snow first fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast in motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

  

"This Only" by Czeslaw Milosz, from The Collected Poems, 1931-1987, translated by Robert Hass. © Ecco Press, 1988.

Photography credit: "Horse and Rider Riding Off," by Joe Boyle (originally black and white).

Lawrence Ferlinghetti: "# 46"

And every poem and every picture
                       a sensation in the eye and heart
Something that jolts you awake
                from the rapt sleep of living
        in a flash of pure epiphany
                     where all stands still
                                  in a diamond light
        transfixed
                      revealed
                                  for what it truly is
                                                           in all its mystery
So a bird is an animal
                       flown into a tree
                                            singing inscrutable melodies
As a lover stands transparent
              Screened against the sun
                            Smiling darkly in the blinding light

"# 46" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, from A Coney Island of the Mind: Poems. © New Directions, 1968.

Image credit: "Radiance," acrylic on canvas, by Simon Cook (originally color).


 

Sidney Hall, Jr.: "Something about the Wind"

There's something about the wind coming off
the ocean, the waves washing the rocks

that makes a person who is quickly annoyed
by cigarette smoke and men
putting nails into roofs

forgetful and unconcerned.

If you are easily disturbed
you need to get an ocean.

"Something about the Wind" by Sidney Hall, Jr., from Fumbling in the Light. © Hobblebush Books, 2008.

Photography credit: "Wave Crashing Against Rocks," by Aaron Feinberg (originally color).


 

Barbara Crooker: "All That Is Glorious Around Us"

is not, for me, these grand vistas, sublime peaks, mist-filled
overlooks, towering clouds, but doing errands on a day
of driving rain, staying dry inside the silver skin of the car,
160,000 miles, still running just fine. Or later,
sitting in a café warmed by the steam
from white chicken chili, two cups of dark coffee,
watching the red and gold leaves race down the street,
confetti from autumn's bright parade. And I think
of how my mother struggles to breathe, how few good days
she has now, how we never think about the glories
of breath, oxygen cascading down our throats to the lungs,
simple as the journey of water over a rock. It is the nature
of stone / to be satisfied / writes Mary Oliver, It is the nature
of water / to want to be somewhere else, rushing down
a rocky tor or high escarpment, the panoramic landscape
boundless behind it. But everything glorious is around
us already: black and blue graffiti shining in the rain's
bright glaze, the small rainbows of oil on the pavement,
where the last car to park has left its mark on the glistening
street, this radiant world.



"All That Is Glorious Around Us" by Barbara Crooker, from Radiance. © Word Press, 2005.

Photography credit: "Wet Graffiti," by Todd Tripp © 2009 (originally color).

Muriel Rukeyser: "Poem White Page White Page Poem"

Poem      white page      white page      poem
something is streaming out of a body in waves
something is beginning from the fingertips
they are starting to declare for my whole life
all the despair and the making music
something like wave after wave
that breaks on a beach
something like bringing the entire life
to this moment
the small waves bringing themselves to white paper
something like light stands up and is alive

"Poem White Page White Page Poem" by Muriel Rukeyser, from A Muriel Rukeyser Reader, edited by Jan Heller Levi. © W. W. Norton & Company, 1995.  

Image credit: "Writing My Heart Out," acrylic on canvas, by Gladiola Sotomayor (originally color).


 

William Slaughter: "Laozi in Indiana"

Whatever it is
presents itself
to you,
accept it.
Beneficence
is at work
in the universe.
Live with it
awhile.
It has much
to teach you.
Patience
is its first
and second virtue.
Do not
spend yourself
carelessly.
It requires
nothing of you.
Be glad.
Patience
is its third
and last virtue.

"Laozi in Indiana" by William Slaughter, from The Politics of My Heart. © Pleasure Boat Studio, 1996. (Published elsewhere as "Lao-tse in Indiana.")

Image credit: "Gone Fishing," oil, by Donald Zolan (originally color).

Curator's Note: My Bowl Is Not My Bowl

I want to publicly thank artist Lynda Lowe for recognizing A Year of Being Here through her beautiful Patra Passage project. I can't wait to see the bowl with which you have gifted me, which I will then be able to pass on, when the moment seems right.

According to its website, Patra Passage is

an art-based experiment in the ongoing act of giving and receiving. The word patra refers to the name of alms bowls that monks carry in various cultures and translates as the vessel that never goes empty. Whatever is received in the bowl is enough for the day, a reminder of the offerings of the present moment....
The Passage centers on the gifting of 108 hand-built ceramic vessels to participants who will re-gift them to others. The giftism cycle will continue for one year until each bowl has been presented and received at least three times, creating a community of over 324 participants. At the end of their circulation, the Patra will be returned and exhibited at the Museum of Glass in Tacoma, WA, sold, and all proceeds given to charity.

Learn more about Patra Passage, which is (among other things) all about mindfulness, at the project's website.

Thanks again, Lynda!

Burton D. Carley: "September Meditation"

I do not know if the seasons remember their history or if the days and
nights by which we count time remember their own passing.

I do not know if the oak tree remembers its planting or if the pine
remembers its slow climb toward sun and stars.

I do not know if the squirrel remembers last fall's gathering or if the
bluejay remembers the meaning of snow.

I do not know if the air remembers September or if the night remembers
the moon.

I do not know if the earth remembers the flowers from last spring or if
the evergreen remembers that it shall stay so.

Perhaps that is the reason for our births—to be the memory for
creation.

Perhaps salvation is something very different than anyone ever expected.

Perhaps this will be the only question we will have to answer:
"What can you tell me about September?"

"September Meditation" by Burton D. Carley. © Burton D. Carley. [Curator's Note: The source of this poem is often listed online as the 1997 UUMA Worship Materials Collection, but I can't locate the poem in that document. I therefore have no good authority for the format of the poem's presentation in this post.]

Image credit: "Oak Tree in Autumn," hand-painted in watercolors with ink out-lines on Arches watercolor paper (hot press), by Lisa Winne © 2011 (originally color).


 

Naomi Shihab Nye: "Breaking the Fast"

1.

Japanese teacher says:
At first light, rise.
Don’t hover between
sleep and waking,
this makes you heavy,
puts a stone inside your heart.

The minute you drift back to shore,
anchor. Breathe.
Remember your deepest name.

2.

Sometimes objects stun me,
bamboo strainer, gray mug,
sitting exactly where
they were left.

They have not slept
or dreamt of lost faces.

I touch them carefully,
saying, tell me what you know.

3.

Cup of waves,
strawberry balanced
in a seashell.

In morning the water seems
clear to the bottom.

No fish blocks my view.



"Breaking the Fast" by Naomi Shihab Nye, from Red Suitcase. © BOA Editions, 1994.

Image credit: "Waking Up," acrylic on canvas, by Douglas Simonson (originally color).

Sonia Sanchez: Untitled (from Morning Haiku)

Let me wear the day
Well so when it reaches you
You will enjoy it.

Untitled by Sonia Sanchez, from Morning Haiku. © Beacon Press, 2010.

Image credit: "Freedom Painting," by vivainstitute (originally color).


 

Wendell Berry: "Sabbaths 2001, VIII"

The question before me, now that I
am old, is not how to be dead,
which I know from enough practice,
but how to be alive, as these worn
hills still tell, and some paintings
of Paul Cézanne, and this mere
singing wren, who thinks he's alive
forever, this instant, and may be.

"Sabbaths 2001, VIII" by Wendell Berry. Published in Poetry, October/November 2002.

Image credit: "Curtain, Jug and Fruit," oil on canvas, by Paul Cézanne, 1894 (originally color).


 

Sara Teasdale: "September Midnight"

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
       Ceaseless, insistent.  

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
       Tired with summer.  

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
       Snow-hushed and heavy.  

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
       Lest they forget them.

"September Midnight," by Sara Teasdale. Published in Poetry, March 1914.

Photography credit: Untitled, by Zachary Koontz (originally color).

David Wagoner: "Lost"

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

"Lost" by David Wagoner, from Collected Poems, 1956-1976 © Indiana University Press, 1976.

Photography credit: "A Grove of Sequoia Trees," by mit19237 (originally color).


 

Rainer Maria Rilke: "A Walk"

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.

"A Walk" by Rainer Maria Rilke, from Selected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Robert Bly. © Harper Perennial, 1981.

Photography credit: "Hilly Road," by Joseph Austin (originally color).


 

May Sarton: "Now Voyager"

Now voyager, lay here your dazzled head.
Come back to earth from air, be nourished,
Not with that light on light, but with this bread.

Here close to earth be cherished, mortal heart,
Hold your way deep as roots push rocks apart
To bring the spurt of green up from the dark.

Where music thundered let the mind be still,
Where the will triumphed let there be no will,
What light revealed, now let the dark fulfill.

Here close to earth the deeper pulse is stirred,
Here where no wings rush and no sudden bird,
But only heart-beat upon beat is heard.

Here let the fiery burden be all spilled,
The passionate voice at last be calmed and stilled
And the long yearning of the blood fulfilled.

Now voyager, come home, come home to rest,
Here on the long-lost country of earth’s breast
Lay down the fiery vision, and be blest, be blest.

"Now Voyager" by May Sarton, from Collected Poems, 1930-1993. © W. W. Norton & Company, 1992.

Photography credit: "Rock Splitting Tree," by Phil Taylor, the Faffer (originally color).


 

Todd Davis: "The Sound of Sunlight"

On the far side
of the canyon
light
is burning
through two
draws
like water
rushing
into an empty
riverbed.

A canyon wren
opens
her mouth
and a coyote
stops
midtrail
before vanishing
among juniper.

As we descend
the eastern wall
we look
down
onto
ponderosa
pine
and witness
the shadow
of a merlin
chase
the merlin
itself.

Behind us
in the meadow
where we lay
last night
the squall
of an elk
picks up
the sound
of sunlight
and joins it
in a flood
of bugling.

"The Sound of Sunlight" by Todd Davis, from In the Kingdom of the Ditch. © Michigan State University Press, 2013.  

Photography credit: "Light and shadow play with each other across the cliffs of the Grand Canyon," by Bhaskar Krishnamurthy (originally color).

Larry Schug: "A Lesson in Mindfulness"

A Buddhist monk

is trying to teach me

mindfulness

from a book

but my stomach

is too full of ice cream

for me to breathe properly.

Outside my window,

a hungry green heron,

perched perfectly still,

fully in his moment,

surveys the pond

for frogs and fish.

The teacher

has grown green wings,

the book having folded up

its feathers for the night.

"A Lesson in Mindfulness" by Larry Schug. © Larry Schug.

Photography credit: "Green Heron," by unknown photographer (originally color).



 

Changming Yuan: "Bird vs. Sea"

As if straight from heaven
A young snowy seagull charges down
Like a lightning strike
Trying to pick up the entire ocean
With its bold beak
As the tide raises
All its fierce fists
To protect against earth’s agitation
In foamy darkness

Far away, no one seems to stand
On the beach, watching

"Bird vs. Sea" by Changming Yuan. © Changming Yuan.

Photography credit: Detail from "Seagull Taking the Plunge," by AlbOst (originally color).



 

Mary Oliver: "Praying"

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

"Praying" by Mary Oliver, from Thirst: Poems. © Beacon Press, 2007.

Photography credit: Times-Picayune archive (originally color).



 

James Broughton: "Here's to It"

(A Metaphysical Drinking Song)

Here’s to that thing

we won’t admit! 

Here’s to the omnipresent

It!

Here’s to the IT

in which we sit

and stand and walk

and laugh and spit.

It’s in every act

that we commit. 

It’s our inescapable

requisite.

Here’s to the It,

our benefit

that makes the world

immediate. 

It is the cloth

most finely knit.

It’s all of a piece

but composite. 

It is the suit

with the perfect fit.

It always includes

its opposite.

It’s not the device

of a Jesuit.

It’s much older than

Holy Writ.

It’s not a mechanical

counterfeit.

It’s a metaphysical

hunting kit. 

It’s infinitely definite

and definitely infinite.

And It’s always here

so Here’s to It!

And all It says is

Submit

   to it!

                          

 

"Here's to It" by James Broughton, from Packing Up for Paradise: Selected Poems 1946-1996. © Black Sparrow Press, 1997.

Image credit: "Teenagers Contemplating Sunset," painting produced by computer software, by G.D. Zulch (originally color).