Category: Other poems and quotes


(To the people of Little Willow)

sh-photo-cottonwoods-at-zions

A poem by Raven Chiong

 

There’s something to be said…

Go, step into the long lost well of sacred silence. With courage, dive, free and deep into Oceans of open space, listen to your own Voice, follow your own drum.

There’s something to be said…

above the din of “progress”, above the cacophony of Other.

Dry Grasses beckon, Ancient Canyons echo with no syllable or rhyme:

Disconnect, unplug, return to Earth Mother, come Home, weary traveler, to your Self.

Walk.

Slow.

Sit.

Stay.  

Attune to the Place where symphony of Cottonwoods meets sweet silence of Sage, where Rocks speak, Rivers sing, and Shooting Stars have Voices.

There’s something to be said…

Who’s resonating?

Who’s calling?

There’s something to be said…

Are you listening?

Can you hear?

There’s something to be said…

Only the Dreamer, Awake, can say.

 

 August 11, 2011

 

Photo:  Sharon St Joan / Young cottonwoods at Zion National Park

 

Cygnus_olor_2_(Marek_Szczepanek)

Between the Poles of the Conscious

BETWEEN the poles of the conscious and the unconscious, there has the mind made a swing:

Thereon hang all beings and all worlds, and that swing never ceases its sway.

Millions of beings are there: the sun and the moon in their courses are there:

Millions of ages pass, and the swing goes on.

All swing! the sky and the earth and the air and the water; and the Lord

Himself taking form:

And the sight of this has made Kabîr a servant.

***

Hiding In This Cage

Hiding in this cage

of visible matter

is the invisible

lifebird

pay attention

to her

she is singing

your song

***

I Have Attained The Eternal Bliss

I have attained the Eternal Bliss.

There is no time for sorrow or pain,

for now I enjoy singing His glory.

The tree of His pleasure has neither root, nor seed,

as revealed by the grace of the true Guru.

Now there is effulgence of a million suns,

my swan has dipped in the lake of His knowledge.

Says Kabir, listen, O wise brother,

Now comings and goings have come to an end.

***

Photo: Marek Szczepanek / Wikipedia Commons / “Permission is granted to copy, distribute and/or modify this document under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2 or any later version published by the Free Software Foundation.”

***

This is the translation of Kabir’s poems, as it appears on the site, PoemHunter.com 

 

 400px-Mourning_Dove_2006

Poems by Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, thirteenth century Persian poet

Translated by Coleman Barks

Shadow and Light Source Both

How does a part of the world leave the world?

How does wetness leave water? Dont’ try to

put out fire by throwing on more fire! Don’t

wash a wound with blood. No matter how fast

you run, your shadow keeps up. Sometimes it’s

in front! Only full overhead sun diminishes

your shadow. But that shadow has been serving

you. What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is

your candle. Your boundaries are your quest.

I could explain this, but it will break the

glass cover on your heart, and there’s no

fixing that. You must have shadow and light

source both. Listen, and lay your head under

the tree of awe. When from that tree feathers

and wings sprout on you, be quieter than

a dove. Don’t even open your mouth for even a coo.

From Soul of Rumi

by Coleman Barks

 

 

Who Says Words With My Mouth?

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.

Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?

I have no idea.

My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,

and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.

When I get back around to that place,

I’ll be completely sober.  Meanwhile,

I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.

The day is coming when I fly off,

but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?

Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?

I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry, I never know what I’m going to say.

I don’t plan it.

When I’m outside the saying of it,

I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

From Essential Rumi

by Coleman Barks

 

 

 

Essential Rumi and Soul of Rumi are available at Amazon.com

 

Photo: http://www.naturespicsonline.com / Wikimedia Commons / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic license. / Mourning Dove, Cabin Lake Viewing Blinds, Deschutes National Forest, Near Fort Rock, Oregon

 

For more poetry by Rumi, click here.     

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“You were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?”

– Rumi

 

Photo: © Koh Sze Kiat | Dreamstime.com

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I ask for a moment’s indulgence to sit by thy side. The works 
that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.

Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.

Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quiet, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

 

Rabindranath Tagore  (1861 – 1941)

 

Photo: © Kirat Grewal | Dreamstime.com 

Add your thoughts here… (optional)

leaf and twig


the entrance to the marsh
calls
be part of the peacefulness

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By William Butler Yeats

 

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

 

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

1892

Photo: Sharon St Joan