Aching knees and throbbing back? What's for lunch?
Aura Meets Mondrian
What am I doing here? I can't stand this another minute! That is how to cultivate steadfastness. Though the air is full of singing my head is loud with the labor of words. Though the season is rich with fruit, my tongue hungers for the sweet of speech. Though the beech is golden I cannot stand beside it mute, but must say 'It is golden,' while the leaves stir and fall with a sound that is not a name. It is in the silence that my hope is, and my aim.
- Modern American Poetry.
- Essays on Poetry?
- Lockheed P-38, F-4 & F-5 Lightning U.S.A.A.F., E.T.O. & M.T.O., 1942-1945.
- from What About This: Collected Poems of Frank Stanford | Poetry | Poems, Poetry, Dreaming of you.
- While we have you....
- Mindful Poetry | UCSD Center for Mindfulness.
- Microreviews: February/March 2002.
A song whose lines I cannot make or sing sounds men's silence like a root. Let me say and not mourn: the world lives in the death of speech and sings there. Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
Browse by Poet
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air - An armful of white blossoms, A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies, Biting the air with its black beak? Did you hear it, fluting and whistling A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds - A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river? And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for? And have you changed your life? It takes a long time. It lasts for always. There's a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn't change. People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread.
Studies on Seamus Heaney - Seamus Heaney: the makings of the poet - Presses universitaires de Caen
But it is hard for others to see. While you hold it you can't get lost. Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and get old. Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding. You don't ever let go of the thread. Those who will not slip beneath the still surface of the well of grief turning downward through its black water to the place we cannot breathe will never know the source from which we drink, the secret water, cold and clear, nor find in the darkness glimmering the small round coins thrown away by those who wished for something else.
And I wept. And I said to myself: 'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you? As the story goes, there was once a farmer and his only son in the days just before the Civil War. Having only one horse, the farmer and son worked long hard days, sun up to sun down, just to get by, with nothing left to spare. One day as the father and son plowed the fields, their horse got spooked and ran off. The son was devastated; "What bad luck, now what will we do? Then one day their horse comes running back over the hill with 6 other horses.
The son exclaimed, "What great luck, now we have all the horses we'll ever need! The son cried: "Oh father, I am so sorry, now you have to work the farm all by yourself. What bad luck! The farmer's son, having a broken leg, was forced to stay at home. After the leg had healed, the father had the only farm around with a son to help and seven horses to boot.
They worked the farm and prospered. Good luck, bad luck. It's too soon to tell. The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win? Willing to experience aloneness, I discover connection everywhere; Turning to face my fear, I meet the warrior who lives within; Opening to my loss, I gain the embrace of the universe; Surrendering into emptiness, I find fullness without end.
Each condition I flee from pursues me, Each condition I welcome transforms me And becomes itself transformed Into its radiant jewel-like essence.
- The 2000-2005 World Outlook for Petroleum Pipeline Facilities (Strategic Planning Series).
- Wildlife Resources: A Global Account of Economic Use;
- Ghost of His Past.
- See a Problem??
I bow to the one who has made it so, Who has crafted this Master Game; To play it is purest delight - To honor its form, true devotion. The range of what we think and do is limited by what we fail to notice. And because we fail to notice there is little we can do to change until we notice how failing to notice shapes our thoughts and deeds. It was many years ago that the villagers of Downstream recall spotting the first body in the river.
Some old timers remember how spartan were the facilities and procedures for managing that sort of thing. Sometimes they say, it took hours to pull 10 people from the river, and even then only a few would survive. Though the number of victims in the river has increased greatly in recent years, the good folk of Downstream have responded admirably to the challenge. Their rescue system is clearly second to none: most people discovered in the swirling waters are reached within 20 minutes-many less than Only a small number drown each day before help arrives - a big improvement from the way it use to be.
Talk to the people of Downstream and they'll speak with pride about the new hospital by the edge of the waters, the flotilla of rescue boats ready for service at a moment's notice, the comprehensive plans for coordinating all the manpower involved, and the large numbers of highly trained and dedicated swimmers always ready to risk their lives to save victims from the raging currents. So it cost a lot, say to the Downstreamers, but what else can descent people do except to provide whatever is necessary when human lives are at stake.
Oh, a few people in Downstream have raised the question now and again, but most folks show little interest in what's happening Upstream. That's the way things are sometimes.
Fly Free. The Freedom To Talk Is The Freedom To Fly Free
Wage peace with your breath. Breathe in firemen and rubble, breathe out whole buildings and flocks of red wing blackbirds. Breathe in terrorists and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields. Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.
Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact. Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud. Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers. Make soup. Play music, memorize the words for thank you in three languages. Learn to knit, and make a hat. Think of chaos as dancing raspberries, imagine grief as the outbreath of beauty or the gesture of fish.
onunanabic.tk Swim for the other side.
Related Poems From InnerRESOURCES 8 Ideas
Copyright 2019 - All Right Reserved