mystical poetry thread

[Arda]

my brother once asked what it was like

I said it was like an onion because

Cut into it and it brings you to tears

Eat it and it is potent, many health benefits!

Go see a friend afterwards and speak it

They'll immediately recognize the smell It makes words pungent

Because nobody likes a person who speaks too much with the smell of onion

They don't like how it smells. you only smell like it if you eat it though

Brothers of mine, I think it to be like an onion.

Edited November 16, 2014 by Arda

[steve]

Meditation?

I've got enough shit on my mind to worry about meditation...

 

- my father

[steve]

The Bones of My Mother

 

I once had a glimpse, a very special insight.

I felt my bones, the bones of my mother,

and the sunset poured from my eyes!

No words, only laughter and tears,

and absolute trust.

 

After a time I fell back to sleep

and got on with my life.

Space filling with noise, confusion, longing,

... and pain.

No words, only memory of warmth and love

... fading.

 

A teacher appeared in this life, living simple words -

love, compassion, devotion.

Opening not one door but three.

Each leading to that sacred space

where I might, once again, feel my bones.

The bones of my mother.

 

- me 6/26/14

[ThisLife]

.

 

 

Just Sit There

 

Just sit there right now

Don’t do a thing. Just rest.

 

For your separation from God

Is the hardest thing in the world.

 

Let me bring you trays of food

And something

That you like to drink.

 

You can use my words

As a cushion

For your head.

 

 

Hafiz

[IntuitiveWanderer]

Like the candle stick
which melts in searing heat
so do all thaw
in the everflowing infinite.

Edited November 20, 2014 by IntuitiveWanderer

[IntuitiveWanderer]

"Neither is there Bodhi-tree,

Nor yet a mirror bright;

Since in reality all is void,

Whereon can the dust fall?...."

- Hui-Neng, the sixth patriarch of Zen

Edited November 21, 2014 by IntuitiveWanderer

[Cookie Monster]

.

Edited May 5, 2021 by Ocean Form

[zerostao]

Dank the darkness on the cliff-side;
Faintly outlined from below,
In their modest maiden gladness,
Glaciers in the dawn's blush glow.

What new life upon me blowing,
Breathes from yonder snowy height,
From that depth of limpid turquoise
Flashing in the morning light?

There, I know, dread Terror dwelleth.
Track of man there is not there;
Yet my heart in answer swelleth
To the challenge, "Come thou here!"

 

maykov

[Taomeow]

The jaguar's head ring on my finger

glares at the cars ahead with fierce ruby eyes.

 

The artist said it's for protection.

 

I am thinking of the city

of a million roses,

I am rhyming them

with noses, hoses, striking poses,

 

I am dreaming of the city

of a million jaguars,

 

each of them protecting one

citizen from bombs and missiles.

 

Glowing glaring roaring swearing

sharing

all the pain with all the roses.

 

I am thinking of the causes

true and bogus, rhymed and free,

free and chained, and in the night

tiger, tiger burning bright

 

was the hero of another

poem of a million roses.

This one is for jaguars.

 

Sinking deep into the well

of my heart

where jaguars dwell...

Edited November 26, 2014 by Taomeow

[zerostao]

just a "minor poem" from dear emily

but it is thanksgiving week

 

One day is there of the series
Termed “Thanksgiving Day”
Celebrated part at table
Part in memory -
Neither Ancestor nor Urchin
I review the Play -
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday
Had There been no sharp subtraction
From the early Sum -
Not an acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room
Not a mention whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto such, were such Assembly,
‘Twere “Thanksgiving day” -

[Taomeow]

W.H. Auden

 

(...)

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

[Silent Answers]

[Taomeow]

***

The snowless winter, not as warm as here,

behind your shattered window, underneath

a bluer, louder sky, with holes and tears

in its worn out fabric --

overhead,

the canopy of shards of flying metal

much sharper than the palm tree leaves, or wit,

beyond all reason,

you, my alter ego,

are meeting what would come were you to stay.

 

Were you more cautious then.

It's strange how caution

is fond of flipping birdies in our face.

My alter ego, war behind your window

was in the stars, and stripes, and up their sleeve.

I'm sorry.

We are one, and yet divided

by time and place and choice -- the fork of fate.

I raise my glass to you tonight, my virtual,

futilely cautious self, for both of us.

Edited December 26, 2014 by Taomeow

[Daeluin]

I dreamed a coin

with shifting face --

so many youthful visages

so many costly dreams,

and it rolled and rang

'round the gilded rim

of a chalice

made for gems

 

 

Life of Dreams

Ilbares the Hag

 

 

Steven Erikson

Gardens of the Moon

Malazan Book of the Fallen

[Yasjua]

Shapes shift, light and shadows alternate,
facades appear and disappear as Love
plays the masquerade of hearts
and souls, lips and fingers,
forms and faces.

From Her oceanic depths
a flowing dream of waves arises
in Love’s disguises born of water.

Still, as bedazzling as Love’s masks
may be, we won’t stop at any
liquid image – we’ll go
further.

When our desire becomes as urgent
as that of a drowning man gasping
for air, we will become available
for Love’s true revelation, which
is not at all what any might
imagine, believe, hope,
or even fear.

Until then, Love is mostly
an empty word for those who
are still deaf to the transmission
emanating from the depths of
their own Heart’s yearning.

Most who come this way stop
at the Image, worshipping an Icon,
carved by conditions, sanded by time,
polished by devotion to a yet tyrant mind.

All the while, Love’s arrow buries itself
deeper, burrowing further, until, in
the abundance of graces, Love
recognizes Itself in our
smiling faces!

Just so, my Pearl, tonight
let’s get fetal with each other;

let’s curl up in that wooing
womb of emptiness,

wound together in the
wild wonder of our loving,

afloat in the amniotic fluids of
Love’s supremely cuddly satisfaction,

dizzy in the vernal perfume of our
unborn bliss, the simplicity of
the blessed revelation that
we are This,

our dharma of desire flowering into
letting go of what’s gone, gone beyond
any letting go of whatever never was,
just rolling in the gone-ness of
non-getting, grasping for
nothing, clinging
to same,

just smiling that smile we smile
when you see me, I see you,
and only Love is Seeing,
being Seen, loving . . .

See — Love is
the Midwife of our Delight,
attending this Mystery of
innocent Light!

Yes, Love is
the cause and result of Love,
Mother of the radiant Children of Love,
the conception, womb, and labor of Love,

and there is nothing
in the beautiful Body of Love
that is not the perfect expression of Love.

All form is but the dress of Love,
the wondrous random design of Love,
though seeking it only postpones true Love.

When we die to that search
we arise in Love;

when we empty ourselves
we are filled by Love!

All glory, praise,
and thanks to Love –

this is our song
and it’s sung
by Love!

[sillybearhappyhoneyeater]

i've always loved the remoteness of things,

of being in a hotel by myself in a town i don't know,

of walking alone in the countryside with no cars going by,

I've always liked to move away from the touch of others,

to be remote and distant,

to be in my own sphere,

my own island,

 

but I've always loved to be close,

to share with others things that are good,

to spread to them,

what I have found in the remote places

which i love.

[Taomeow]

First we look at the hills in the painting,

Then we look at the painting in the hills.

 

Li Liweng

[Taomeow]

Pair by pair, little swallows on the bookshelves hop.

Dot by dot, little petals on the ink-slab drop.

Reading the Book of Changes I sit near a window,

Forgetful how much longer spring will with us stop.

 

Yeh Li, "A Scene in Late Spring"

[Silent Answers]

^^ that one really is very good.

[Taomeow]

Things on earth are dense.

Things in the sky are sparse.

A bird, a plane, a Superman,

 

a cloud, a chemtrail, a UFO,

the sun and moon and stars,

and that's about it.

 

Today I spoke to the hawk.

I asked him,

"hunting or bringing omens?"

 

He circled above

with a cry of triumph:

"I'm hunting! I'm bringing omens!"

[zerostao]

i stepped out my campus apartment soon after dark this evening and when i climbed down the stairs

and came into the clearing the moon and venus were waiting for me, acknowledged me, and i them,

then it came to me. it was ten years ago tonight when my dad passed away. the final few weeks i spent with him

(and we had a difficult relationship) i would read poetry to him at his bedside. it was very surreal.

 

tonight if i could i would read these 2 poems to him.

 

Let Evening Come

BY JANE KENYON

Let the light of late afternoon

shine through chinks in the barn, moving

up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing

as a woman takes up her needles

and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned

in long grass. Let the stars appear

and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.

Let the wind die down. Let the shed

go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop

in the oats, to air in the lung

let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t

be afraid. God does not leave us

comfortless, so let evening come.

Eagle Poem

BY JOY HARJO

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.

edit> http://earthsky.org/tonight

Edited January 22, 2015 by zerostao

[9th]

loose lips sink ships

but what do sunken ships lose

when the matter of perception

flows into liquidity

serendipity is a chest full

of treasure, of gold

sizzling center critical

key stones non-unturned

for course correction praxis

abraxas labels the cycles

of cosmic form, of time

flashing in the void

you saw the light of venus

reflected in swamp gas

from a weather balloon that was

trapped in a thermal pocket

there were no aliens

[liminal_luke]

Silence

 

and a deeper silence

 

when the crickets

 

hesitate

 

 

Leonard Cohen

[Silent Answers]

^ That's probably the best 9 words strung together that I've ever seen.

[Daeluin]

In a quiet courtyard in the spring, with evening's light filtering through the leaves,
guests relax on the veranda and watch as two compete at wéiqí.
Each calls into themselves the divine and the infernal,
sculpting mountains and rivers into their world.
Across the board, dragons and serpents array for battle,
geese scatter as collapsing fortresses are sacked;
masses die, pushed into pits by Qin's soldiers,
and the drama's audience is left in awe of its General Jin.
To sit at the board is to raise halberd and taste combat,
to endure the freezing and brave the flames in the constant changes;
life and death each will come to both masters,
but victory and defeat must each go to one.
On this road, one strips away the other's disguises,
in life, one must erect one's own facade;
dreadful is a wound to the exposed belly or heart,
merely painful is an injury to the face, which can be cured;
Effective is a blow that strikes home in an opponent's back,
successful are schemes that use repeated feints and deceit.
Look at the activity on the streets of our capital,
if you were to go elsewhere, wouldn't it be the same?

 

Shao Yong