I had sweet company
Because I sought out none
But took who came to me,
All by the magnet drawn.
AE
(George Russell)
Showing posts with label Poetry (Others). Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry (Others). Show all posts
Thursday, 16 June 2016
Friday, 25 March 2016
Blind
The Calf-Path
I.
One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
II.
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day,
By a lone dog that passed that way.
And then a wise bell-wether sheep,
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep;
And drew the flock behind him too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade.
Through those old woods a path was made.
III.
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged, and turned, and bent about;
And uttered words of righteous wrath,
Because 'twas such a crooked path.
But still they followed - do not laugh -
The first migrations of that calf.
And through this winding wood-way stalked,
Because he wobbled when he walked.
IV.
This forest path became a lane,
that bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load,
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half,
They trod the footsteps of that calf.
V.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare;
And soon the central street was this,
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half,
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.
VI.
Each day a hundred thousand rout,
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went,
The traffic of a continent.
A Hundred thousand men were led,
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way,
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent,
To well established precedent.
VII.
A moral lesson this might teach,
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind,
Along the calf-paths of the mind;
And work away from sun to sun,
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.
They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move.
But how the wise old wood gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah! many things this tale might teach -
But I am not ordained to preach.
Sam Walter Foss
One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
II.
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day,
By a lone dog that passed that way.
And then a wise bell-wether sheep,
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep;
And drew the flock behind him too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade.
Through those old woods a path was made.
III.
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged, and turned, and bent about;
And uttered words of righteous wrath,
Because 'twas such a crooked path.
But still they followed - do not laugh -
The first migrations of that calf.
And through this winding wood-way stalked,
Because he wobbled when he walked.
IV.
This forest path became a lane,
that bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load,
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half,
They trod the footsteps of that calf.
V.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare;
And soon the central street was this,
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half,
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.
VI.
Each day a hundred thousand rout,
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went,
The traffic of a continent.
A Hundred thousand men were led,
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way,
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent,
To well established precedent.
VII.
A moral lesson this might teach,
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind,
Along the calf-paths of the mind;
And work away from sun to sun,
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.
They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move.
But how the wise old wood gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah! many things this tale might teach -
But I am not ordained to preach.
Sam Walter Foss
Thursday, 18 February 2016
Longing
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Kahlil Gibran
Tuesday, 2 February 2016
Astonish
We can still astonish the gods in humanity
And be the stuff of future legends,
If we but dare to be real,
And have the courage to see
That this is the time to dream
The best dream of them all.
That this is the time to dream
The best dream of them all.
Ben Okri
Friday, 15 January 2016
Desolate
In this parched place of desolate wilderness,
This war-torn, hate-split world, oh, who will bless
Bless and redeem the blood-stained, tear-drenched ground
So once again the healing sun will blaze,
The small birds sing, the flowers be found,
And lion and lamb in loving joy may graze?
This war-torn, hate-split world, oh, who will bless
Bless and redeem the blood-stained, tear-drenched ground
So once again the healing sun will blaze,
The small birds sing, the flowers be found,
And lion and lamb in loving joy may graze?
Who is there left the truth of love to guess?
How shall we stand the violence of the sun?
How hate redeem, how brother’s love confess?
What will be left when wind and fire are done?
Only on love’s terrible other side
Is found the place where lion and lamb abide.
How shall we stand the violence of the sun?
How hate redeem, how brother’s love confess?
What will be left when wind and fire are done?
Only on love’s terrible other side
Is found the place where lion and lamb abide.
Madeleine L'Engle
Tuesday, 22 December 2015
Silent
I love the silent hour of night,
For blissful dreams may then arise,
For blissful dreams may then arise,
Revealing to my charmed sight,
What may not bless my waking eyes.
Anne Brontë
Friday, 30 October 2015
Square
He always wanted to say things but no one understood.
He always wanted to explain things but to no one cared.
So he drew.
Sometimes he would just draw and it wasn’t anything.
He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky.
He would lie out on the grass and look up at the sky and it
would be only him and the sky, and the things that needed saying.
And it was after that, that he drew the picture.
It was a beautiful picture.
He kept it under the pillow and would let no one see it.
He would look at it every night and think about it.
And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed, he could still see it.
It was all of him and he loved it.
When he started school he brought it with him.
Not to show anyone, but just to have like a friend.
It was funny about school.
He sat in a square brown desk, like all the other square
brown desks, and he thought it should be red.
And his room was a square brown room like all the other rooms.
It was tight and close, and stiff.
He hated to hold the pencil, and the chalk, with his arm stiff
and his feet flat on the floor, stiff with a teacher watching
and watching.
And then he had to write numbers.
And they weren’t anything.
They were worse than the letters which could be something
if you put them together.
The numbers were tight and square and he hated the whole thing.
The teacher came and spoke to him.
She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys.
He said he didn’t like them and she said it didn’t matter.
After that they drew.
He drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about morning.
And it was beautiful.
The teacher came and smiled at him.
“What’s this?” she said.
“Why don’t you draw something like Ken’s drawing?
Isn’t that beautiful?”
It was all questions.
After that his mother bought him a tie and he always drew
aeroplanes and rocket ships like everyone else.
And he threw the old picture away.
And when he lay out alone looking at the sky it was big and blue.
And all of everything, but he wasn’t any more.
He was square inside and brown, and his hands were stiff,
and he was like anyone else.
And the thing inside him that needed saying didn’t need saying anymore.
It had stopped pushing.
It was crushed, stiff.
Like everything else.
He always wanted to explain things but to no one cared.
So he drew.
Sometimes he would just draw and it wasn’t anything.
He wanted to carve it in stone or write it in the sky.
He would lie out on the grass and look up at the sky and it
would be only him and the sky, and the things that needed saying.
And it was after that, that he drew the picture.
It was a beautiful picture.
He kept it under the pillow and would let no one see it.
He would look at it every night and think about it.
And when it was dark, and his eyes were closed, he could still see it.
It was all of him and he loved it.
When he started school he brought it with him.
Not to show anyone, but just to have like a friend.
It was funny about school.
He sat in a square brown desk, like all the other square
brown desks, and he thought it should be red.
And his room was a square brown room like all the other rooms.
It was tight and close, and stiff.
He hated to hold the pencil, and the chalk, with his arm stiff
and his feet flat on the floor, stiff with a teacher watching
and watching.
And then he had to write numbers.
And they weren’t anything.
They were worse than the letters which could be something
if you put them together.
The numbers were tight and square and he hated the whole thing.
The teacher came and spoke to him.
She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys.
He said he didn’t like them and she said it didn’t matter.
After that they drew.
He drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about morning.
And it was beautiful.
The teacher came and smiled at him.
“What’s this?” she said.
“Why don’t you draw something like Ken’s drawing?
Isn’t that beautiful?”
It was all questions.
After that his mother bought him a tie and he always drew
aeroplanes and rocket ships like everyone else.
And he threw the old picture away.
And when he lay out alone looking at the sky it was big and blue.
And all of everything, but he wasn’t any more.
He was square inside and brown, and his hands were stiff,
and he was like anyone else.
And the thing inside him that needed saying didn’t need saying anymore.
It had stopped pushing.
It was crushed, stiff.
Like everything else.
Anonymous
Sunday, 18 October 2015
Still
The outer world is so loud
And filled with self-importance.
Yet the secret places hidden
Deep inside
Hold vast treasure.
Pause and listen within
Make space for stillness
Wisdom will surface.
And filled with self-importance.
Yet the secret places hidden
Deep inside
Hold vast treasure.
Pause and listen within
Make space for stillness
Wisdom will surface.
Nancy Lankston
Saturday, 5 September 2015
Guest
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of furniture, still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of furniture, still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Rumi
Thursday, 23 July 2015
Field
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.
and rightdoing there is a field.
I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.
Rumi
Sunday, 14 June 2015
Meadows
Seek meadows where desire feeds
Leave constricted ways - be as you are
Come to the ease of your full beauty
Rest in the apple orchard of your wild spirit
Grow fresh wild ways in cool moon air
Push love’s roots down deep in the shadow
of your
soil
Dream with your fallen leaves sleeping in
the earth
Seek meadows where desire feeds
Become the wild May bloom
Waft the allure of your honeyed scent
Medbh take nectar of ease - delicately pour
Fill the beauty of her cup
Mingle
Joy
With
Celebration
Leave constricted ways - be as you are
Come to the ease of your full beauty
Rest in the apple orchard of your wild spirit
Grow fresh wild ways in cool moon air
Push love’s roots down deep in the shadow
of your
soil
Dream with your fallen leaves sleeping in
the earth
Seek meadows where desire feeds
Become the wild May bloom
Waft the allure of your honeyed scent
Medbh take nectar of ease - delicately pour
Fill the beauty of her cup
Mingle
Joy
With
Celebration
Howard Campbell
Friday, 12 June 2015
Passage
Immortal instinct runs underground
In spiraling pools,
Holding mountains to its breast in the dark.
Streams of centuries spill
Over tapestried cliffs,
While in the far distant world of man,
Voices cry out
That we are only a body that will end.
But we have listened to the river –
Dreaming of the sea –
And know otherwise.
In spiraling pools,
Holding mountains to its breast in the dark.
Streams of centuries spill
Over tapestried cliffs,
While in the far distant world of man,
Voices cry out
That we are only a body that will end.
But we have listened to the river –
Dreaming of the sea –
And know otherwise.
Trish Tuley and Myra Dutton
Saturday, 2 May 2015
Stars
If Only
If she could only be one of those,
those who gild their wording in gold
who speak in rustic,
autumnal hues
and bring forth the world, one thought at a time.
Her voice emerges slowly
carved in inky blacks and ashen whites
fracturing the laden air, dissipating.
She is the unread,
mispronounced and unrefined.
She wishes to reach out and touch
with fingers tinted in poetry,
painted in midnight blues by circumstance,
to talk of the stars, to believe she could reach them.
If she could only be one of those,
those who gild their wording in gold
who speak in rustic,
autumnal hues
and bring forth the world, one thought at a time.
Her voice emerges slowly
carved in inky blacks and ashen whites
fracturing the laden air, dissipating.
She is the unread,
mispronounced and unrefined.
She wishes to reach out and touch
with fingers tinted in poetry,
painted in midnight blues by circumstance,
to talk of the stars, to believe she could reach them.
Jade Kennedy
Friday, 24 April 2015
Monday, 20 April 2015
If
If I Could Be
If I could be the Sun for a day …
Will I shine as bright?
If I could be a seed for a day …
Will I be as patient?
If I could be the first morning rain of Spring …
Will I be as humble?
If I could be the wind for a day …
Will I sing songs from the sky?
If I could be fire for a day …
Will I be the warmth of a loving home?
If I could be the Earth for a day …
Will I be as loving and forgiving?
If I could be the Universe for a day …
Will I remember every star?
If I could be the Sun for a day …
Will I shine as bright?
If I could be a seed for a day …
Will I be as patient?
If I could be the first morning rain of Spring …
Will I be as humble?
If I could be the wind for a day …
Will I sing songs from the sky?
If I could be fire for a day …
Will I be the warmth of a loving home?
If I could be the Earth for a day …
Will I be as loving and forgiving?
If I could be the Universe for a day …
Will I remember every star?
If I could be you for a day?
…
I would be part of a Greater Whole
Olga Denton
Monday, 13 April 2015
Lost
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
David Wagoner
Thursday, 2 April 2015
Footsteps
May the great oak fold you in its mantle of wisdom
May the sun shine bright upon your day
May you walk by flowing streams of peace and love
As you journey on your pilgrim way.
May the soft breeze keep you ever gentle
And the warm rain freshen paths gone dry
May the earth spring up beneath your footsteps
May the Spirit guide you, ever high.
May the sun shine bright upon your day
May you walk by flowing streams of peace and love
As you journey on your pilgrim way.
May the soft breeze keep you ever gentle
And the warm rain freshen paths gone dry
May the earth spring up beneath your footsteps
May the Spirit guide you, ever high.
Mary Gouthro & Leonarda McNeil
Sunday, 29 March 2015
After
The Morning After
The sun rises from its slumber
and bids the moon farewell;
then, peeking through the curtains,
begins to cast its spell.
My eyes are barely open
and my vision still impaired;
the silence only broken
by the calling of a bird
seeking shelter in the hedgerow -
alone but undeterred.
It sings its song so softly yet
that’s all that can be heard
on this, the morning after, when
my lips no more do tell
of dreams from which I’ve woken
for time has rung its bell.
The sun rises from its slumber
and bids the moon farewell;
then, peeking through the curtains,
begins to cast its spell.
My eyes are barely open
and my vision still impaired;
the silence only broken
by the calling of a bird
seeking shelter in the hedgerow -
alone but undeterred.
It sings its song so softly yet
that’s all that can be heard
on this, the morning after, when
my lips no more do tell
of dreams from which I’ve woken
for time has rung its bell.
John Walton
Tuesday, 24 March 2015
Eagle
To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear
Can’t know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty,
In beauty.
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear
Can’t know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty,
In beauty.
Joy Harjo
Sunday, 22 March 2015
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