see for it what you will in the hearts' deep

Arunachala is a symbol
and Arunachala is a Reality,
a high-place of the Dravidian land,
all ruddy, aruna, in the rays of the rising sun,
where is worshipped the linga of fire,
the elemental sign of the Living God,
he who appeared to Moses in the burning bush
and on the summit of Mount Horeb,
Fire that burns and Fire that gives light,Deus Ignis consumens
Lux mundi
Paramjyoti
Phos hilaron
the joyful light of the immortal glory
of the Blessed One,
Bhagavan!

For there at the dawn of time was standing
the column of fire
of which Brahma could not reach the summit
nor could Vishnu find its foot,
symbol as it was of unfathomable Love--
Anbe Shivam--
which is the very ground of Being.

Later it took the form of a sapphire;
and then, in the evil times of our kaliyuga,
the Linga of fire became stone
for the blessing of mankind,
the sacred Mountain,
achala,
which the Lord set firmly on its foundation
and which is never shaken.

To its caves, age after age, there has come a succession
of those who are hungry for wisdom and renunciation,
whom the Mountain, the divine Magnet,
draws to its bosom,
to teach them in its own silence
the royal path of the supreme Silence,
and how to be established in the Self--
achala, atmanishtha.

From its sides there flow springs
sublimely named--
“The spring of the milk of grace”
“Milk from the breast of the divine Mother”--
where pilgrims come
to bathe and drink.

And finally, from its crest on the great day of Thibam,
when the Sun sinks in the west,
and the full moon of Karttiki
rises above the horizon,
there shoots up the Column of Fire,
which reveals the secret of Light.
hidden in the heart of the Mountain!

*

From the very Depth of Arunachala's Heart
there sounds a call
to him who speeds towards the Depth
of the Heart of Arunachala;
but he who enters into the Depth
of the Heart of Arunachala,
has lost even his own name
and all that till then he was;
so that henceforth he is only the dweller in the Depth,
the one who lives within the Cave
of the Heart of Arunachala;
he has entered his own Depth,
has been swallowed up in the Self,
having discovered at the deepest centre of himself
the secret of Arunachala.

But for him who at last reaches the Depth
of the Heart of Arunachala,
does there still remain a Depth?
Is there still an Arunachala?
What has become of the Mountain,
rosy-coloured Arunachala?
Where now are the springs
on the sides of Arunachala?
What has happened to the Light,
on the crest of Arunachala?

The caves themselves have vanished,
and with them the hermits of Arunachala;
has not he himself also disappeared,
swallowed up in the Depth
of the Heart of Arunachala,
merged in the Self,
the Unique Arunachala?



                               ABHISHIKTANANDA

                               Pere Henri Le Saux OSB








.....

on avian vanities

 

 

 

 

The Peacocks of Andalusia                  

 

 

 

Smugness is the great Catholic sin. I find it in myself
                                           and don’t dislike it any less.”

                                                    —Flannery O’Connor



On the Southern farm with the Spanish name,
the peacocks wear their feathers like a stylish hat
and strut as if they’re each the king of birds.

How unlike the pelican, who was thought
to wound herself to feed her young,
and so an emblem of the King of Kings.

Her birds are more like His believers,
stubborn folks with hearts as hard as wooden legs,
who wrestle guiding angels to the floor.

They are a fable’s beast of foolish pride.
Their calls sound like a desperate infant’s cries
but, followed by their train and retinue,
they preen without a passing thought of you.








                                           Christopher Scalia




.............................



















..

tedium intensified

Bent Tones                                                                              





                    There was a dance at the black school.
In the shot houses people were busy.

A woman washed her boy in a basin, sucking
a cube of ice to get the cool.

The sun drove a man in the ground like a stake.
Before his short breath climbed the kitchen's steps

She skipped down the walk in a clean dress.
Bad meat on the counter. In the sky, broken glass.

When the local hit the trestle everything trembled —
The trees she blew out of, the shiver owl,

Lights next door — With her fast eye
She could see Floyd Little
Changing his shirt for the umpteenth time. 




                                           C.  D.  Wright     (  + January 2016  )










......

involuntary eavesdropping

Crying Man                                        





                                       

At O’Hare, after a first jump west to California,
I thought my father was dying, as I waited

for the connecting flight.  Being hungry
I ate pizza with the people eating pizza.

Feeling uninformed, I bought newspapers,
opened magazines at a bookshop wall.

Near my gate, I pretended not to watch
a dozen others waiting, as they pretended

not to watch me.  But finally, in a hectic airport
restroom, I heard the crying man in his stall.

Oh God, he cried, behind a stained steel door.
He didn’t sound old. And in his privacy, not shy.

Oh Dear God, rang harshly in the close tiled room.
I stood alongside others, a simple traveler

at a public urinal.  Behind me the restless waited
their turns.  Oh dear life came the third cry.

I shook myself, zipped, found a vacant sink for washing.
Spurting water dwindled to a trickle on my hands.

I lathered and rinsed as I’d been taught.  Grabbed
for paper towel.  Didn’t linger at the mirror.


                                          Charles Douthat











......

ash wednesday meditation

   










Fasting                                                                                                                            



There's hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less.
If the soundbox is stuffed full of anything, no music.
If the brain and belly are burning clean with fasting,
every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears,
and new energy makes you run up the steps in front of you.
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
When you're full of food and drink,
Satan sits where your spirit should,
an ugly metal statue in place of the Kaaba.
 When you fast,
good habits gather like friends who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon's ring.
 Don't give it to some illusion and lose your power,
but even if you have,
if you've lost all will and control,
they come back when you fast,
like soldiers appearing out of the ground,
pennants flying above them.
A table descends to your tents,
Jesus' table.
Expect to see it when you fast,
this table spread with other food,
better than the broth of cabbages.




                             Rumi










......

Joseph's testimony

Perhaps you think the Creator sent you here
to dispose of us as you see fit.

If I thought you were sent by the Creator,
I might be induced to think you had a right to dispose of me.

Do not misunderstand me, but understand fully
with reference to my affection for the land.

I never said the land was mine to do with as I choose.

The one who has a right to dispose of it is the one who has created it.

I claim a right to live on my land
and accord you the privilege to return to yours.

Brother, we have listened to your talk coming from the father in Washington,
and my people have called upon me to reply to you.

And in the winds which pass through these aged pines
we hear the moaning of their departed ghosts.

And if the voices of our people could have been heard,
that act would never have been done.

But alas, though they stood around,
they could neither be seen nor heard.

Their tears fell like drops of rain.

I hear my voice in the depths of the forest,
but no answering voice comes back to me.

All is silent around me.

My words must therefore be few. I can say no more.

He is silent, for he has nothing to answer when the sun goes down.




                                ...of the Nimi'ipuu

perception is always precarious

 

 

 

Degas´s Wax Horses                                          

He left the ears off
one, the drippings like scar
tissue forming the breast sinews,
clinging to it a beautiful deformity;
another the jaw ajar
revealing bone death,
stick legs on which all the weight
balanced.
Compare these to knickknacks,
so daring,
on my kitchen counter, for instance;
the wooden cow smiling,
the udders hanging to real life scale would be
like fifty pound tits and still
the cow smiles a black curlicue.
(Art ain’t perfect.)
I know he was working with drippings,
dealing wax is precarious,
but still the ears are ostensibly
not there;
which took nerve to look at
that horse without ears, then
walk away.





      Michael Rectenwald


.....