mystical poetry thread

[Mark Foote]

Raftery

Me Rafteiri, the poet, full of hope and love
with eyes without light, silence without pain,
going down my journey with the light of my heart,
faint and weary at the end of my way;
now see me facing the Wall
playing music for empty pockets'.

("Antoine Ó Raifteirí (also Antoine Ó Reachtabhra, or Anthony Raftery; 30 March 1779 – 25 December 1835)[1] was an Irish language poet who is often called the last of the wandering bards." --Wikipedia)

 

[S:C]

In shadows where thoughts collide,  
the ink spills forth, a restless tide.  
Unruly whispers, tangled and raw,  
echo the chaos, a silent law.  

Each stroke a stumble, a dance unplanned,  
like wandering steps on shifting sand.  
Yet in the mess, a truth may gleam,  
from the depths of the mind, a fractured dream.  

So let the words spill, let them roam,  
for in the wild, we find our home.  
Through the clumsy, the awkward, the flawed,  
we carve our path, and in that, we're awed.  

 

(spontaneous poetry by ChatGPT created to @Nungalis last haiku.)

 

& bye for now.

 

[Taomeow]

J.R.R. Tolkien

 

CAT

 

The fat cat on the mat
 may seem to dream
of nice mice that suffice
 for him, or cream;
but he free, maybe,
 walks in thought
unbowed, proud, where loud
 roared and fought
his kin, lean and slim,
 or deep in den
in the East feasted on beasts
 and tender men.
The giant lion with iron
 claw in paw,
and huge ruthless tooth
 in gory jaw;
the pard dark-starred,
 fleet upon feet,
that oft soft from aloft
 leaps upon his meat
where woods loom in gloom —
 far now they be,
 fierce and free,
 and tamed is he;
but fat cat on the mat
 kept as a pet
 he does not forget.

[心神 ~]

The Blue Bowl by Jane Kenyon

 

Like primitives we buried the cat
with his bowl. Bare-handed
we scraped sand and gravel
back into the hole.

They fell with a hiss
and thud on his side,
on his long red fur, the white feathers
between his toes, and his
long, not to say aquiline, nose.

We stood and brushed each other off.
There are sorrows keener than these.

Silent the rest of the day, we worked,
ate, stared, and slept. It stormed
all night; now it clears, and a robin
burbles from a dripping bush
like the neighbor who means well
but always says the wrong thing.

 

[心神 ~]

In Praise of Craziness, of a Certain Kind by Mary Oliver

 

On cold evenings

my grandmother,

with ownership of half her mind-

the other half having flown back to Bohemia-

 

spread newspapers over the porch floor

so, she said, the garden ants could crawl beneath,

as under a blanket, and keep warm,

 

and what shall I wish for, for myself,

but, being so struck by the lightning of years,

to be like her with what is left, that loving.

[心神 ~]

The Patience of Ordinary Things by Pat Schneider 

 

It is a kind of love, is it not?

How the cup holds the tea,

How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,

How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes

Or toes. How soles of feet know

Where they're supposed to be.

I've been thinking about the patience

Of ordinary things, how clothes

Wait respectfully in closets

And soap dries quietly in the dish,

And towels drink the wet

From the skin of the back.

And the lovely repetition of stairs.

And what is more generous than a window?

 

[心神 ~]

Lost Dog by Ellen Bass

 

It's just getting dark, fog drifting in,

damp grasses fragrant with anise and mint,

and though I call his name

until my voice cracks,

there's no faint tinkling

of tag against collar, no sleek

black silhouette with tall ears rushing

toward me through the wild radish.

 

As it turns out, he's trotted home,

tracing the route of his trusty urine.

Now he sprawls on the deep red rug, not dead,

not stolen by a car on West Cliff Drive.

 

Every time I look at him, the wide head

resting on outstretched paws,

joy does another lap around the racetrack

of my heart. Even in sleep

when I turn over to ease my bad hip,

I'm suffused with contentment.

 

If I could lose him like this every day

I'd be the happiest woman alive.

 

[forestofclarity]

My most constant spiritual companions is my dog. He always gets up early and sits with me when I meditate. I tend toward jnana, but the dogs are always bhaktis. 

 

“The Sweetness of Dogs” by Mary Oliver 

 

What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. It’s full tonight.
So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit, myself

thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up
into my face. As though I were just as wonderful
as the perfect moon.

 

[心神 ~]

Keeping Things Whole by Mark Strand

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

 

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in   
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

 

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

[liminal_luke]

all my friends and I talk about is
getting rid of our phones—
a dystopian dream
dominating dinner conversation,
our phones on the middle 
of the table
  like candles
  like altars
        like tiny gods
we are trying not to worship

we talk about quitting
like smokers do—
        “next week”
        “after this trip”
        “when I found the love of my life on a dating app”

we make promises to each other
the way people talk
about leaving a bad relationship
while still keeping their toothbrush
ready by the sink

we dream of flip phones—
clamshells of another life
decorated with glitter and stones and
dangly 	  little charms
the pixels soft enough to
forgive our youthful acne
and ringtones we bought
by texting MTV

the only calls we received
were from our mother,
telling us to 
  come home,
  dinner was on the table
there was no algorithm
to drill us into compliance
no one to tell us:
  you are behind
    you are cutting your onions wrong
      you need to buy this thing (and this one and this one)
        you are a rat girl joan didion girl soft girl clean girl iphone face never enough girl

we say: let’s go camping
  just us
  and a map
  and maybe a knife
just in case
(but what if we lose our way
what if someone dies
what if I see something
beautiful?)

we delete tiktok but
never at the same time
so someone is always
missing out on 
the joke

we say
we cannot meet the modern world
without a screen
plastered to our hands—
this second self we cradle like a
  self-inflicted wound

and maybe we’re right
maybe we’re too far gone
maybe this thing
knows how to be us
better than we do

somewhere,
there is a version of me
who dared to take the leap
she knows the constellations
  by name
her eyes are soft
from looking
  outwards

i wonder what she wears
i wonder what her hobbies are,
and how she finds her way
i wonder
if she’s ever bored
  or late
    or lonely
      without the glow
to hold her

and i hate it—
     i hate it
this tether
this glass ghost
this thing too big to
understand

i’m tired and
my window to the world
has no curtains

    i want to close my eyes
    i want to become very
        very
           very
              small

-- Quirine Brouwer

[心神 ~]

Of Being by Denise Levertov

 

I know this happiness

is provisional:

 

     the looming presences --

     great suffering, great fear --

 

     withdraw only

     into peripheral vision:

 

but ineluctable this shimmering

of wind in the blue leaves:

 

this flood of stillness

widening the lake of sky:

 

this need to dance,

this need to kneel:

   

      this mystery

Edited June 25 by 心神 ~