from: THE BOOK OF HOURS

variations on a theme by RILKE                                                                   








A  certain day  became a  presence to  me;
there it was,  confronting me  --  a sky, air, light:
a being.   And before it started to descend
from the height of noon,  it leaned over
and  struck my shoulder  as if with
the  flat of a sword,  granting me
honor  and a task.    The day's blow
rang out, metallic -- or it was I,  a bell awakened,
and what I heard was my whole self
 saying and singing what it knew:    I can.






                                          Denise Levertov
















.....

the electoral asses

       translated by Daniel Platt                                          









They'd had enough of freedom now,
The republic of animals clamored
For one single regent with absolute rule,
Of this they were enamored.
Every species assembled itself,
Proceeded with fevered devotion,
Parties were organized, ballots drawn up,
Intrigues were set into motion.

The steering committee for asses was
By the Old-Long-Ears directed,
They had upon each of their heads a cockade,
The Schwarz-Rot-Gold, affected.

A little horse's-party there was,
Yet they did not dare be voting,
They feared the cry of the Old-Long-Ears,
The thought filled them all with foreboding.

As one, however, the candidacy
Of the horses put forth, a bit later,
An Old-Long-Ears in a fury broke in
And cried: Sir, you are a traitor!

You are a traitor! There's not one drop
Of donkey-blood in you, really,
You are no donkey, I almost believe
You were foaled by a Latin filly.

You come from a strain of zebra, perhaps,
Your skin is striped zebräic,
And also the nasal tone of your voice
Sounds somewhat Egyptic-Hebräic.

And were you no foreigner, you would be just
A secular donkey, a cold one,
You don't know the depths of the donkey mystique,
How the tones of its psalter enfold one.

But I have immersed my soul in that
Sweet mystery that surpasses,
I am an ass, and upon my tail
Is every hair an ass's.

I 'm no little Roman, I am no Slav,
I'm a German ass forever,
Just like my fathers, they were so upright,
So unassuming, so clever.
They did not play with gallantry,
They sought no vice nor thriller,
They trotted each day, frisky, faithful and free,
Bearing their sacks to the miller.

The fathers are not dead! The grave
Can only hold the carcass.
They look down upon us from heaven above,
It gives them pleasure to mark us.

Transfigured asses in heaenly light!
We'll follow you forever.
And not a single finger-breadth
From duty's path shall we waver.

And oh, what rapture, to be an ass!
To be born to the Long-Ear classes!
From every rooftop I want to cry:
I come from a line of asses.
The mighty donkey that sired me
Was German, and no other,
And I was suckled on ass's milk
By my German ass of a mother.

I am an ass, and will faithfully
Adhere, like my fathers before me,
To the dear, old asininity,
To the fabled donkey glory.

And as I'm an ass, I advise you to choose
An ass as the king of the land here;
We're founding the mighty donkey-realm,
Where only the asses command here.
We all are asses! Hee-haw, hee-haw!
We'll never be horse's flunkies.
Down with the stallions! Long live, hurrah!
The king from the race of the donkeys!

So spake the patriot. In the hall
Applause rang to the ceiling.
The asses were all nationalists
And stamped their hooves with feeling.
They placed upon the speaker's head
A wreath of oak so timely.
He mutely beamed his gratitude
And wagged his tail sublimely.




              Heinrich Heine
























.....

keeping perspective

To the monks of the temple of mist






Not yet to  the  shore of   wu  wei -
 it's silly to be sad you're not moored yet...
 The eastern mountain's white clouds beckon:
  keep on moving,
even if it's evening,
even if it's autumn.






                              Chiao Jan   (  8th century Chinese bard   )


















.....

anishinaabe song

       WHEN NAMES ESCAPED US                                                

The boy painted himself white and ran into the darkness.

We let the words “he may be dead, bury him,”

bury him.

We took his clothes to the rummage sale

in the basement of the mission

We put his photographs and drawings

in a birdcage and covered it with a starquilt.

For four nights voices carried clear to the river.

After winter so many storms moved in

strangers came among us

They danced

They shoveled in the shadows of trees

Then, somehow we all felt

all of us were of this one boy.

                            Gordon Henry Jr
















/

o the forlorn promptings of the heart

     Down by the River                                                                           




I would not have touched all my father’s silver coins
or his golden watch and chain.
But love takes so much—down by the river
I heard soft lips explain.

I would not have dressed in my mother’s velvet gown
or her diamond broach so fine.
But love costs so much—down by the river
I felt his lips on mine.

Oh, I brushed the gentle water,
and, my love, you touched my hair.
And my heart was washed away like water,
on the day, my love, that I saw you there.

I would not have harmed all my brothers as they slept
or my sisters safe in bed.
But love burns so much—down by the river
I saw his lips so red.

I would not have seen all these people gathered ’round
or these gallows raised so high.
But love needs so much—down by the river
hard lips kissed me goodbye.








                            Joseph Bottum lyrics






















......

nocturne

 

 

 

 

 

Night Over Birkenau                                                                                   

Night again. Again the grim sky closes
circling like a vulture over the dead silence.
Like a crouching beast over the camp
the moon sets, pale as a corpse.

And like a shield abandoned in battle,
blue Orion- lost among the stars.
The transports growl in darkness
and the eyes of the crematorium blaze.

It's steamy, stifling. Sleep is a stone.
Breath rattles in my throat.
This lead foot crushing my chest
is the silence of three million dead.

Night, night without end. No dawn comes.
My eyes are poisoned from sleep.
Like God's judgment on the corpse of the earth,
fog descends over Birkenau.

 

 

 

 

Tadeusz Borowski

(Trans: Tadeusz Pióro)

 

 

 

 

 

/

 

 

 

sonnet

 


                        BENEDICT                                            




You sought to start a simple school of prayer,
A modest, gentle, moderate attempt,
With nothing made too harsh or hard to bear,
No treating or retreating with contempt,
A little rule, a small obedience
That sets aside, and tills the chosen ground,
Fruitful humility, chosen innocence,
A binding by which freedom might be found

You call us all to live, and see good days,
Centre in Christ and enter in his peace,
To seek his Way amidst our many ways,
Find blessedness in blessing, peace in praise,
To clear and keep for Love a sacred space
That we might be beginners in God’s grace.



                               Malcolm Guite










.......

July 11 Feast of St Benedict - memorial

Poem: Medal of St. Benedict


I wear a prayer around my neck
Symbolic of my spiritual trek.
The peace of Jesus in my heart.
His grace and love never depart.
The poison cup I'll never taste.
From vanity I'll run with haste.
To Satan I shall never cower,
With help from God's almighty power.
The raven carried bread away,
Saving our father on that day.
And so I hope I'm saved as well
From the dragon's deepest Hell.
The Cross, forever be my light.
Keep it ever in my sight,
While asking God to guard my soul,
With eyes affixed on Heaven, my goal



                                      anon.











.....

everything resigns

  I’ve learned to live in wise simplicity                







I’ve learned to live in wise simplicity,
To look into the heavens and to pray,
And wear away this vain anxiety
With lengthy walks before the end of day.

When burdock vibrates in the valley, terse
And rustling, orange rowan berries bent
In clusters, I compose delighting verse
On perishable life, life excellent.

When I return, the downy cat will lick
my palm, purr sweetly. I will be aware
On the tower of the sawmill by the lake,
An iridescent fire is aflare.

Flying from the roof, the cry of storks
Will interrupt the hush occasionally,
And if you were to knock upon my door,
I may not even hear, it seems to me.


                             Anna Akhmatova
                                trans. Jennifer Reeser







/










....






          

Ode to a City

   







    EDINBURGH                                                                                   





                   
Beautiful city of Edinburgh!
Where the tourist can drown his sorrow
By viewing your monuments and statues fine
During the lovely summer-time.
I'm sure it will his spirits cheer
As Sir Walter Scott's monument he draws near,
That stands in East Prince's Street
Amongst flowery gardens, fine and neat.

And Edinburgh Castle is magnificent to be seen
With its beautiful walks and trees so green,
Which seems like a fairy dell;
And near by its rocky basement is St Margaret's Well,
Where the tourist can drink at when he feels dry,
And view the castle from beneath so very high,
Which seems almost towering to the sky.

Then as for Nelson's monument that stands on Calton Hill,
As the tourist gazes thereon, with wonder his heart does fill
As he thinks on Admiral Nelson who did the Frenchmen kill,
Then, as for Salisbury Crags, they are most beautiful to be seen,
Especially in the month of June, when the grass is green;
There numerous mole-hills can be seen,
And the busy little creatures howking away,
Searching for worms among the clay;
And as the tourist's eye does wander to and fro
From the south side of Salisbury Crags below,
His bosom with admiration feels all aglow
As he views the beautiful scenery in the valley below;
And if, with an observant eye, the little loch beneath he scans,
He can see the wild ducks about and beautiful white swans.

Then, as for Arthur's Seat, I'm sure it is a treat
Most worthy to be seen, with its rugged rocks and pastures green,
And the sheep browsing on its sides
To and fro, with slow-paced strides,
And the little lambkins at play
During the livelong summer day,
Beautiful city of Edinburgh! the truth to express,
Your beauties are matchless I must confess,
And which no one dare gainsay,
But that you are the grandest city in Scotland at the present day!




                            William Topaz McGonagall

                            - supposedly the worst poet ever to write in English










......

fundamental questions

 

 

 

 

 

 

                SPRING RAIN                                                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This black life
this conversing with shadows

& what about reality
or economic aspects, restricting movement,
halting growth

                  or the children in a room apart
torturing themselves?

are we not mutations
reconciling diverse things?

 

is not water
a symbol of life
& life of death?

 

is not that haze
before my eyes
spring rain?

 

 

 

                William Hawkins

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...

sadness in the flesh

       These Are My Days   ( Dark and Lonely )                                       




The tears i shed
they fall in vain
my sorrow's fed
to gain more pain

Its all the same
Like every day
My life's a game
My soul wont stay

And so i wait
I wonder why
is this my fate?
This, i cant buy

Why i feel My life's a tease
With all the pain I'm on my knees

(These are my Days)




              William Hawkins  +July 4 2016




---while looking into some biography of this poet I happened upon a news story
      from the CBC indicating that William Hawkins died today











....

4th of july poem

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there - I do not sleep.
I am the thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints in snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
As you awake with morning's hush
I am the swift-up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there - I did not die.




                 ancient people of the land








.....