“Ce monde rayonnant de métal et de pierre
Me ravit en extase, et j’aime à la fureur
Les choses où le son se mêle à la lumière.”
“This radiant world of metal and of gems
Transports me with delight; I passionately love
All things in which sound is mingled with light.”
a wholeness I’ll never know.
Maybe that’s the best.” —Hayden Carruth, from “Five Short Shorts” (via tumbleword)
Tenderness does not choose its own uses.
It goes out to everything equally,
circling rabbit and hawk.
Look: in the iron bucket,
a single soul, a single ruby —
all the heavens and hells.
They rattle in the heart and make one sound.
This year’s first sunrise
on the eastern horizon
begins my New Year,
having left you far behind
in a year I have finished.
She’s too far away
this biting cold New Year’s Eve.
Twenty tolls into
the temple bell’s midnight song,
I’ll no doubt be fast asleep.
—Michael Boiano” —
Learn about your inner self from those who know such things
When one is united to the core of another
To speak of,
That is to breathe the name…
How empty of self and filled with love.
As the saying goes,
“The pot drips what is in it”
The saffron spice of connecting, laughter.
The onion smell of separation, crying…
Others have many things and people they love,
This is not the way of friend and friend.
Taught by suffering. Drop by drop, wisdom is distilled from pain.
From The Presocratics, Philip Wheelwright.
Throw away their lives lusting after things,
Never able to satisfy their desires,
Falling into deeper despair
And torturing themselves.
Even if they get what they want
How long will they be able to enjoy it?
For one heavenly pleasure
They suffer ten torments of hell,
Binding themselves more firmly to the grindstone.
Such people are like monkeys
Frantically grasping for the moon in the water
And then falling into a whirlpool.
How endlessly those caught up in the floating world suffer.
Despite myself, I fret over them all night
And cannot staunch my flow of tears.” —— Ryōkan (1758–1831), Zen poet (via 1-2-3-4-5-6-7)
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied-not one is demented with the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor his kind that lived thousands of years ago;
Not one is responsible or industrious over the whole earth.” —“Animals” a poem by Walt Whitman (via socialistscum)
All art is a struggle to be, in a particular sort of way, virtuous.
—Iris Murdoch” —