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The Good Life
When some people talk about money
They speak as if it were a mysterious lover
Who went out to buy milk and never
Came back, and it makes me nostalgic
For the years I lived on coffee and bread,
Hungry all the time, walking to work on payday
Like a woman journeying for water
From a village without a well, then living
One or two nights like everyone else
On roast chicken and red wine
- Tracy K. Smith
Autumn Rose
Autumn rose lays its petals like eyelids on the last evening light,
On the back of sorrow's delicate hand.
It gathers the huge and powerful irony
Of my tiny life,
And places it gently upon.
Amber hush comes for the blossom and the hour both
And because I cannot swim
We slip together
between the walls of time
Where survival is meaningless
And only this rose
Will know my name.
- BSue
The Magi
Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of Silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
- William Butler Yeats
Solstice Poem
The world will not end tonight,
though the wrinkled horsemen
slumped over their antediluvian mounts
are standing by waiting for the cue
and who knows where the trumpeter’s gone by now
itching to wet his whistle ...
though the placards and signs are lined up
against the crumbling walls proclaiming the end is nigh
and the ones on parchment vellum and papyrus
curl in their glass cases as generations
of school kids careen by, oblivious. ...
though the fountain of youth persists beneath
the track at Hialeah or maybe next door
under the ersatz jungle pool at the Four Winds Motel,
plastic pink flamingos fishing the crew cut lawn, ...
though the bomb shelters sink into themselves,
faded labels peeling from crushed and dented cans
whose combined shelf lives equal
a number we have not yet reckoned, ...
though the cryogenic warehouses await occupation
your choice of sheepskin or stainless steel lining
your pod stationed on site or shot into space, ...
though the falling dreams, the flying dreams
the nightly haunting journeys through
an unbound space time confluence...
(Did you ever ride an elevator to the moon? )
though the green leaves furl crimson and gold
and fall in the gusty autumn afternoon
and the sky stalls, a stark white glare
under the wraiths of cloud, the shroud of fog....
though the brewing rain a deluge in the drought, ...
though we are saturate of blood and oil,
the tape loops of disgruntlement,
the strung beads of grievance,
the squandered slain of battlefield and school
and though we grieve the sacrificial lambs,
petals strewn on blind archaic altars,
though we toll the bells and count our losses,
cast our nets, jump from cliffs,
or dive into the cold dark heart to find the molten light,
The world will not end tonight.
- Carla Steinberg
Isn't it time for Yeats to be reborn? We need him badly!Quote:
Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
Dog Ate Joseph
Every other figurine is there in place:
the sheep, their herders, the mother and the infant
But there is no Joseph... the dog ate Joseph
And all I can do is leave an empty space
as we wait until we find a man
to fill the job
to find him finally,
missing in action,
deployed Joseph,
Joseph crushed with anger and fear,
junky Joseph,
crazed Joseph.
The wood woman has no idea she’s a single mother
for in her world, there’s no other kind.
The wise men bring a purple heart, the yellow vest, a folded flag.
The partial creche in the candle light, solemn, serene,
has no idea what is to come.
Because the God-damned dog ate Joseph
Chewed him up and spat him out a splintered stick of a man
who cannot find his way back home.
Chris Dec
2001
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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
Love this, Chris Dec., makes me want to both cry and laugh.Quote:
Posted in reply to the post by Chris Dec:
Fantastic poem, Chris! A fitting companion to Yeats.
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Posted in reply to the post by Chris Dec:
Beannacht
("Blessing")
On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.
And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.
When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.
- John O'Donohue
For Bill Kortum (1927-2014) - one of the good ones!
I Have Walked Along Many Roads
I have walked along many roads,
and opened paths through brush,
I have sailed over a hundred seas
and tied up on a hundred shores.
Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve seen
excursions of sadness,
angry and melancholy
drunkards with black shadows,
and academics in offstage clothes
who watch, say nothing, and think
they know, because they do not drink wine
in the ordinary bars.
Evil men who walk around
polluting the earth. . .
And everywhere I’ve been I’ve seen
men who dance and play,
when they can, and work
the few inches of ground they have.
If they turn up somewhere,
they never ask where they are.
When they take trips, they ride
on the backs of old mules.
They don’t know how to hurry,
not even on holidays.
They drink wine, if there is some,
if not, cool water.
These men are the good ones,
who love, work, walk and dream.
And on a day no different from the rest
they lie down beneath the earth.
- Antonio Machado
(translated by Robert Bly)
Toward the Winter Solstice
Although the roof is just a story high,
It dizzies me a little to look down.
I lariat-twirl the cord of Christmas lights
And cast it to the weeping birch’s crown;
A dowel into which I’ve screwed a hook
Enables me to reach, lift, drape, and twine
The cord among the boughs so that the bulbs
Will accent the tree’s elegant design.
Friends, passing home from work or shopping, pause
And call up commendations or critiques.
I make adjustments. Though a potpourri
Of Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Jews, and Sikhs,
We all are conscious of the time of year;
We all enjoy its colorful displays
And keep some festival that mitigates
The dwindling warmth and compass of the days.
Some say that L.A. doesn’t suit the Yule,
But UPS vans now like magi make
Their present-laden rounds, while fallen leaves
Are gaily resurrected in their wake;
The desert lifts a full moon from the east
And issues a dry Santa Ana breeze,
And valets at chic restaurants will soon
Be tending flocks of cars and SUVs.
And as the neighborhoods sink into dusk
The fan palms scattered all across town stand
More calmly prominent, and this place seems
A vast oasis in the Holy Land.
This house might be a caravansary,
The tree a kind of cordial fountainhead
Of welcome, looped and decked with necklaces
And ceintures of green, yellow, blue, and red.
Some wonder if the star of Bethlehem
Occurred when Jupiter and Saturn crossed;
It’s comforting to look up from this roof
And feel that, while all changes, nothing’s lost,
To recollect that in antiquity
The winter solstice fell in Capricorn
And that, in the Orion Nebula,
From swirling gas, new stars are being born.
- Timothy Steele
A Christmas Carol
Away in a manger
or a crack house
or under a bridge
or in a bombed-out village
or a refugee camp
or in the mesquite shade close to the border wall
some Mary is giving birth.
Even as you read this
a child is being born.
What if one of these were the promised one,
the beacon of hope,
the seed of a new light
in a dark time?
What if they all were?
What gifts would you bring
if you were wise?
- Larry Robinson
Beautiful. Thank you!
Sharing it onward.
Blessed [and Blessing!] Christmas!
Larry, your gifts are beyond price. Thank you for your wisdom.
Roland
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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
Larry,
I appreciate your poetry selections so much -- read Chris Dec's "Dog Ate Joseph" at the Healdsburg Literary Guild's Third Sunday Salon this past Sunday, because it was too good not to share. And have passed on many others. And now this wonderful poem, from you. Thank you so much for giving us this beautiful message of hope.
And for lighting our days with poetry.
-- Michelle
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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
The Coming of Light
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.
- Mark Strand
Christmas Trees
(A Christmas Circular Letter)
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,
“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”
“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”
“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”
He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”
Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.
- Robert Frost
The Night Before Christmas redux
twas the day after christmas and all the thru the store
people were shouting "we need to buy more"
most feared they'd missed out on the best deals of all
so early they got up and drove to the mall
I'm sorry to say it's the 'merican way ...
there's never enough in old Santy Claws sleigh
to fill up that void we buy things we don't need
it's really appalling to witness such greed
I remember when we would behave in this way
only that one late November Friday
we forgot to be grateful for all that we've got
so here's an idea; let's give it a shot
maybe next weekend to start the new year
we can relish our good health and those we hold dear
be grateful for everything good in our lives
our sisters our brothers our husbands and wives
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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
Hymn to Matter
Blessed be you harsh matter, barren rock; you who yield only
to violence, you who force us to work if we would eat. Blessed
be you, perilous matter, violent sea, untamable passion: you who
unless we fetter you, will devour us. Blessed be you, mighty matter, irresistible
march, reality ever new born; you who by constantly
shattering our mental categories, force us to go ever further in our
pursuit of the truth. Blessed be you, universal matter, immeasurable
time, boundless ether, triple abyss of stars and atoms and generations;
you who by overflowing and dissolving our narrow standards of
measurement reveal to us the dimensions of God.
- Teilhard de Chardin
(Translation by Bernard Wall)
Happiness
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
- Jane Kenyon
Just beautiful! Will leave anyone, I believe, feeling like a member of the Human Race. (And I believe to evoke that feeling in readers is one of the main purposes of poetry, for, when expressed at the right "angle of vision" and insight: "the universal", truth, and love are all the same thing; eh?
Deeply appreciated!
What a lovely, lovely gift this holiday season! Jane Kenyon, one of my favorite poets, is gone too soon from this plane for my liking, but what a treasure trove she left in her wake. Thank you, Larry, for your impeccable sense of what to share with us all. namaste. Cynthi
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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
As Ferguson Burns
As Ferguson burns,
I hear the outrage of a people
with lives rendered valueless
once and for all.
A people with hearts that can bleed
onto the streets
without recourse.
As Ferguson burns,
I hear the anguish of a mother
twice destroyed.
First by one man, then by a country
whose justice
does not extend to her flesh.
As Ferguson burns,
I hear the conscience of millions
INDICTED.
Who hoped for more
but expected nothing less.
Who will wait for the flames to be extinguished
during the commercial break.
As Ferguson burns,
I hear the voices of unchecked power
and shudder at the knowledge
that they will come for me one day.
That my day, too, will come
to bleed onto the street
without recourse.
And so,
as Ferguson burns,
I hear the voice inside me chant,
“Burn on.”
Let the fires burn
until every ear
is ripped open.
Let the fires burn
until the weak
the disadvantaged
the oppressed
are not alone
in their hot rage
at the brutal confirmation
of their own expendability.
Let the fires burn
until every city, every town
is on its knees.
Until there is no choice
but for all of us
to burn alone
or rise again
together.
As Ferguson burns,
I hear my voice cry out.
“Burn on.”
- Angel Butts
Wonderful Poem, Larry. This poem expresses the sentiment of many people today.
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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
They carved “Nigger Lover”
On the hood of our car
After Dad came back from Selma
He went because he said he had to
Just like he’d done in ’44
To him it was the same war
Fought in a different uniform
But you there
Breaking windows
Just remember:
You have no right to right
If you do wrong yourself
And revenge is not justice
Just wrong turned inside out
- Mark Steensland
I (personally) was in the riots (as a victim) of the late 60s as a high school student. At the time I felt that these protestors had every right to protest. After all, they are humans and they should be given the same respect and dignity as any other person, (yet they weren’t).Quote:
Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
I had truly hoped that we would have turned the corner on this Racism, (a long-longtime ago) but today as we can witness, haters still exist and so does racism. (See GOP comments regarding Pres. Obama). This is such a terrible reflection of Society in America. My best friend and I both joined the US Air Force on our18th birthdays to fight for this freedom. I didn’t go, he returned from Vietnam in a casket. It seems to me that we fight too many foreign wars (for big corporations to expand) yet we cannot fight a real war here at home for Freedom to actually ring in clarity for every citizen here in America. It’s such a pity being #1…(from the bottom).
PRISONERS OF HATE
To create an enemy:
Start with an empty canvas.
Sketch in broad outline the forms of men, women and children.
Obscure the sweet individuality of each face.
Erase all hints of the myriad loves, hopes, fears that play through the kaleidoscope of every finite heart.
Twist the smile until it forms the downward arc of cruelty.
Exaggerate each feature until man is metamorphasized into beast, vermin, and insect.
Fill the background with malignant figures from ancient nightmares – devils, demons, and myrmidons of evil.
When your icon of the enemy is complete you will be able to kill without guilt and slaughter without shame.
Quote by Sam Keen “Faces of the Enemy" (1986)
(From “Prisoners of Hate” By: Aaron T. Beck, M.D., 1999)
©2009 Tim Gega Alpha Moonprayers
Emotional Awareness & Literacy
For a great vision of corporations and their relation to war, see the film "War Inc."
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Posted in reply to the post by Timothy Gega:
Thank you Sara, (Auntie Wacco) for your constant support here. I will check out this movie, "War Inc."Quote:
Posted in reply to the post by Sara S:
The Light Beneath Sleep
Sometimes, underneath deep sleep
is a certain diffused glow,
as, in the rainforest, luminous toadstools
glow green among the leaf litter
and beetles crawl about with winking abdomens.
One night when I followed this glow
I came to an upturned tree
that was a kind of cathedral for glowworms
and the light beat against my face, my chest and my hands.
At the end of the corridor of sleep, a dream stands.
It may be that at the end of the corridor of death
there is the walking slightly uphill
through the green fields;
and then the light underneath sleep
is both in front and behind.
- John Tarrant
as the days grow longer
my spirit soars
I look forward to
a/nother year filled with
these goods:
- family
- food
- friends
- health
- times
add a dash of prosperity
sprinkle liberally with love
share with all who wish to partake
Preparing for the Sacrament of Holy Unity
I will need a birch tree, a maple, a redwood, a white pine, a sequoia, a
cedar, a palm tree.
I want soil from Nigeria, Palestine, the Himalayas, Mississippi,
Auschwitz, Newtown, Alcatraz.
I want water from the Ganges River, Glacier Bay, the Sea of Galilee, the
Tigris and Euphrates, the Pacific and the Atlantic, the River Jordan,
the Dead Sea, Lake Bonaparte.
I want air from Kathmandu, Calcutta, Cairo, Nazareth, Athens, the Arctic
Circle,
Mexico City, Port-au-Prince, Baghdad, Kabul.
I want near me a bison, a wolf, an eagle, a silverback gorilla, a
giraffe, a kitten, a
fawn, a black bear, a polar bear, a golden retriever.
From the waters, I want a humpback whale, a porpoise, a sea turtle, a
manta ray, a
flounder, a harp seal.
From the heavens I want a comet, a rainbow, a lightning bolt, a blue
moon, a summer
storm, a snowy night, a mauve and golden sunrise.
I want fire from my morning candle, the farthest star in the Milky Way,
a campfire
in the Adirondacks, the altar at St. Joseph's Provincial House, the
funeral pyres in
Varanasi, the Buddhist temples in Kyoto.
I want a vestment made of materials from Gujarat, India; Lhasa, Tibet;
Cape Town,
South Africa; St. John's, Newfoundland; Oslo, Norway; northern Ireland;
central
Australia; East Germany; and South Central Los Angeles.
I want co-celebrants from an Ethiopian village, a Harlem tenement, a
nursing home in Selma, a prisoner in Guantanamo, a Harvard Law class,
the Smokey Mountain garbage dump in Manila, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
I want bread kneaded and pressed by the hands of millionaires,
chambermaids,
sherpas, Bolivian tin workers, emigrants and immigrants from a hundred
countries,
three Fortune 500 CEOs, nine Exxon board members, 14 Chicago gang
members,
and seven out of work shrimpers from the Gulf of Mexico.
I want a choir of Chinese peasants, Israeli kindergartners, Japanese
Bonsai masters,
Navajo weavers, Zuni potters, Tlingit totem pole makers, and African
diamond miners.
Once assembled, we will celebrate the sacrament that contains them all.
We will sing till the earth wobbles in her orbit, give praise and thanks
till wine runs from the sugar maple. We will bow to the holiness we see
in each other forgiving the past, blessing the present, committing to a
future that is good for everyone.
And this will be the sacrament of Holy Unity
a welcome to the dawning of an Uncommon Era.
- Jan Phillips
A perfect New Year's Blessing. Thank you, Larry!
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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
You and Art
Your exact errors make a music
that nobody hears.
Your straying feet find the great dance,
walking alone.
And you live on a world where stumbling
always leads home.
Year after year fits over your face -
when there was youth, your talent
was youth;
later, you find your way by touch
where moss redeems the stone;
and you discover where music begins
before it makes any sound,
far in the mountains where canyons go
still as the always-falling, ever-new flakes of snow.
- William Stafford
Rumi’s Caravan returns to the Glaser Center in Santa Rosa on Saturday, February 7. Good seats still remain for both the matinee and evening performances. Tickets make great gifts for you and anyone who enjoys the beauty and wisdom of mystic poetry performed in the ecstatic tradition. Please join us.
Get more info here: https://www.facebook.com/events/1585583911671679/
All Her Life, She was Old
All my life, my Nana was old.
She was born old, quiet and thoughtful.
She always had false teeth, that
Clicked when she talked.
She always wore glasses with thick
Yellowed lenses.
A corona of white hair
Always framed her wizened, wrinkled face.
My Nana, born old,
Always gathered with other
Old women, my aunts, or neighbors
Or neighbors who were my aunts—
Women she’d known
All my life—born old, too.
They sat on couches
Or stoops and gossiped
About the weather, each other or
Old men and grandchildren.
If they worried,
I was unaware.
Life was lived, nothing more,
Which is all that is necessary
If one is born old.
- Rebecca del Rio
Rumi’s Caravan returns to the Glaser Center in Santa Rosa on Saturday, February 7. Good seats still remain for both the matinee and evening performances. Tickets make great gifts for you and anyone who enjoys the beauty and wisdom of mystic poetry performed in the ecstatic tradition. Please join us.
Get more info here: https://www.facebook.com/events/1585583911671679/
This is how I always saw my Nana.
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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
A Note to the Alien on Earth
Here, in the interest of time, some words to work with,
assuming you’re pretending to be a man
or woman and understand English. If this should find you,
know that I’m glad to help any way I can.
A letter beginning “Dear Friend” is not from a friend.
A “free gift” is redundant and not free.
A teenager is sex with skin around it.
The one word used as much as “I” is “me.”
People who are politically correct,
which means never offending by what they say,
will lie about other things, too. Be careful with them.
And people insulting groups of people may
look in the mirror too much or not enough.
What you say is not what anyone hears.
Be wary of one who is always or never sad.
And try to be patient with us. It looks bad,
but we’ve only had a few hundred thousand years.
- Miller Williams
(1930-2014)
Nothing is Forever
and
Everything is Forever.
They are the same in memory
like hopes that never arrive
beaming at my door
or do
and stay far into evening’s shadows.
Letting go of having
and not-having
allows a wonderful freedom
as my tight-bound heart discovers
it has been trapped by the long muscles of its own wings
and there is nowhere to go
but free.
- Karl Frederick
Rumi’s Caravan returns to the Glaser Center in Santa Rosa on Saturday, February 7. Good seats still remain for both the matinee and evening performances. Tickets make great gifts for you and anyone who enjoys the beauty and wisdom of mystic poetry performed in the ecstatic tradition. Please join us.
https://www.facebook.com/Rumi.Caravan
“So…what are you?”
Lot’s of people ask when they first meet me.
“I mean, you got hair like sheepskin
eyes that could terrorize
skin like a supremacist
and a ghetto booty
sooo….what are you?”
And I tell them:
I am a breathing math equation
SUBTRACTION
I am the difference
between a cornered woman
and her right to consent
I am what is left
After forced penetration
into fertile motherland
I am sweet yams dug from their beds
and replanted in a foreign climate
MULTIPLICATION
I am the product
of variable factors
Algebraic solution
A substitution of cultures
I am teepee burned to the ground,
and log cabin built in its place
DIVISION
I am a mixed
number, a percentage
of a people, I am a fraction
of a stereotype
My blood is a canal
running between two cities
and I am the bridge
that few from either side
dare to cross
ADDITION
I am the sum of two positive integers
unshackled from a negative history
Their hands outstretched
from opposite sides of a chasm
split by burning crosses and swastikas
I am born from the embrace
of two horizontal bodies
who believe fear is the only problem
worth solving
You ask, what am I?
I am one plus one equals one
I am both sides of a full moon
A human equinox
The changing of seasons
My home is the quiet moment
between dusk and dawn–
the end of one day.
The beginning of the next.
- Kristine Hadeed
Clear Silhouettes
Let go the torments of your mind
beside a tree
your aches and pains
embrace it as a friend who gives
you ease
suddenly double wings flit
into the canopy
its silhouetted leaves
leap out
clear as your soul itself
with each breath the day meets
you afresh
- Raphael Block
Drake in the Southern Sea
For Rafael Heliodoro Valle
I set out from the Port of Acapulco on the twenty-third of March
And kept a steady course until Saturday, the fourth of April, when
A half hour before dawn, we saw by the light of the moon
That a ship had come alongside
With sails and a bow that seemed to be of silver.
Our helmsman cried out to them to stand off
But no one answered, as though they were all asleep.
Again we called out: “WHERE DID THEIR SHIP COME FROM?”
And they said: Peru!
After which we heard trumpets, and muskets firing,
And they ordered me to come down into their longboat
To cross over to where their Captain was.
I found him walking the deck,
Went up to him, kissed his hands and he asked me:
“What silver or gold had I aboard that ship?”
I said, “None at all,
None at all, My Lord, only my dishes and cups.”
So then he asked me if I knew the Viceroy.
I said I did. And I asked the Captain,
“If he were Captain Drake himself and no other?”
The Captain replied that
“He was the very Drake I spoke of.”
We spoke together a long time, until the hour of dinner,
And he commanded that I sit by his side.
His dishes and cups are of silver, bordered with gold
With his crest upon them.
He has with him many perfumes and scented waters in crystal vials
Which, he said, the Queen had given him.
He dines and sups always with music of violins
And also takes with him everywhere painters who keep painting
All the coast for him.
He is a man of some twenty-four years, small, with a reddish beard.
He is a nephew of Juan Aquinas,* the pirate.
And is one of the greatest mariners there are upon the sea.
The day after, which was Sunday, he clothed himself in splendid garments
And had them hoist all their flags
With pennants of divers colors at the mastheads,
The bronze rings, and chains, and the railings and
The lights on the Alcazar shining like gold.
His ship was like a gold dragon among the dolphins.
And we went, with his page, to my ship to look at the coffers.
All day long until night he spent looking at what I had.
What he took from me was not much,
A few trifles of my own,
And he gave me a cutlass and a silver brassart for them,
Asking me to forgive him
Since it was for his lady that he was taking them:
He would let me go, he said, the next morning, as soon as there was a breeze;
For this I thanked him, and kissed his hands.
He is carrying, in his galleon, three thousand bars of silver
Three coffers full of gold
Twelve great coffers of pieces of eight:
And he says he is heading for China
Following the charts and steered by a Chinese pilot whom he captured ...
- Ernesto Cardenal
(Translated by Thomas Merton)
When You Dance
When you dance the whole universe dances.
All the realms spun around you in endless celebration.
Your soul loses its grip.
Your body sheds its fatigue.
Hearing my hands clap and my drum beat,
You begin to whirl.
- Jellaludin Rumi (translated by Shahram Shiva)
Rumi's Caravan is delighted to welcome Sufi dancer Chelsea Rose who will perform the sublime turn of the whirling dervish at the 7 p.m. performance on Saturday, Feb. 7.
Chelsea is a student of Zen and Sufism. She teaches salsa dancing in Santa Rosa and endeavors to merge movement with passion, prayer, and a healthy dose of fun. She is honored to collaborate with the talented performers of Rumi's Caravan and share the gift of the turn.
TICKETS are available now and make great gifts.
rumiscaravan2015.brownpapertickets.com
LEARN MORE: www.facebook.com/events/1585583911671679/
Night
how vast
how enormous
how great
this empire
of darkness
and yet
disarmed
by one
needle
of light
- Francisco Alarcon
To A Friend Whose Work Has Come To Nothing
Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honor bred, with one
Who were it proved he lies
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbors' eyes;
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.
- William Butler Yeats
Each Moment a White Bull Steps Shining into the World
If the gods bring to you
a strange and frightening creature,
accept the gift
as if it were one you had chosen.
Say the accustomed prayers,
oil the hooves well,
caress the small ears with praise.
Have the new halter of woven silver
embedded with jewels.
Spare no expense, pay what is asked,
when a gift arrives from the sea.
Treat it as you yourself
would be treated, brought speechless and naked
into the court of a king.
And when the request finally comes,
do not hesitate even an instant----
stroke the white throat,
the heavy trembling dewlaps
you'd come to believe were yours,
and plunge in the knife.
Not once
did you enter the pasture
without pause,
without yourself trembling,
that you came to love it, that was the gift.
Let the envious gods take back what they can.
- Jane Hirshfield
Song of a Man Who Has Come Through
Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed
By the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world
Like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
Driven by invisible blows,
The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides.
Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
I would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.
What is the knocking?
What is the knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm.
No, no, it is the three strange angels.
Admit them, admit them
- D.H. Lawrence
Thank you so much, Larry. One of my favorites.
Roland
Quote:
Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
Love Letter from Baghdad
Call me Rabia. I was
named for the Sufi Saint.
Blood pumps through the four
chambers of my heart,
swift and scarlet with joy or slow
and bruised black with sorrow.
We are the same.
This morning, as I pin up wash
in my rubbled court yard,
the long fingers of the sun reach
over the desert and sting my sleepless
eyes like dust, like diesel fumes.
There’s an explosion.
Did you hear it?
My neighbor sinks to the ground
in the folds of her burka,
a dark flower, rocking and keening,
her bloodied grandchild in her arms.
The earth trembles with
the terrible sound of her grief.
We are the same.
I want to share sweet memories
with you, of date palm and pomegranate,
the hay fragrance of saffron, the song
of the nightingale. I invite you
to share yours with me.
We are the same.
Come sister, let’s raise our arms
and begin. We’ll spin
and dance like the Sufis.
It will take as many turns
as there are stars
to make this right.
We do not yet know the steps.
- Gail Barker
Doha
“Life is an impossible dare”
With eyes fixed on the top of the mountain
Dare to rest in not knowing and gaze instead
On the blank page
the lump of clay
the empty stage
the still fountain
They await only your remembering…..
How you once followed your own curiosity
When each act was an exploration
Back before a thought was an idea
before an urge became a plan
When you were free to doodle, peering
Into the expanse of expression
No hesitating, no fearing
It didn’t matter then how you looked
in other people’s eyes
And it doesn’t matter now….
After all our work, perhaps we can just show up,
honestly and without expectation.
So, with a light touch and much tenderness
Let us proceed, one sound at a time,
Stepping inside the world of each song,
Holding it all so gently,
Grateful for an audience.
- Fran Carbonaro
Hold Out
Don't squander your precious longing
On what could never fulfill you.
Hold out!
Hold out for the great heart's desire.
And then spend everything you've got;
Like a drunken sailor in port at last;
Like the river leaping wantonly into the arms of the sea!
- Larry Robinson
Rumi’s Caravan returns to the Glaser Center in Santa Rosa on Saturday, February 7. Good seats still remain for both the matinee and evening performances. Tickets make great gifts for you and anyone who enjoys the beauty and wisdom of mystic poetry performed in the ecstatic tradition. Please join us.
Get more info here: https://www.facebook.com/events/1585583911671679/