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1964#1964 - Friday, November 29, 2004 - Editor: Gloria

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  • Gloria Lee
    Oct 30, 2004
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      #1964 - Friday, November 29, 2004 - Editor: Gloria

      The question is not
      what you look at
      but what you see.

           - Henry David Thoreau


      “A sudden perception

      that subject and object are one

      will lead you to a deeply mysterious

      wordless understanding.

      You will awaken to the truth of Zen.”


      - Huang-Po



      “Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare,

      life heightened and its deepest mystery probed?”


      - Annie Dillard



      “The wise man does not discriminate; he gathers together all shreds of light,

      from wherever they may come.”

      - (Agliè) Umberto Eco, Foucault’s Pendulum


        posted on AlphaWorld


             The problems in your life are in direct proportion
             to your unwillingness to swallow absolutely
             everything that's on your Path.

             The problem is not in what's showing up for you.

             The problem is in your resistance to what's
             showing up for you.

             It's in your shouting out to the Cosmos, "This
             should not be so!"
             When you swallow the entire "you-niverse,"
             then you're not resisting "what is."

             If you're patient, though, then everything that
             shows up for you will eventually become edible.

             However, don't expect it all to taste just like

                                 - Chuck Hillig
      posted on Along the Way


      The Fragile Vial




      I need a mouth as wide as the sky

      to say the nature of a True Person, language

      as large as longing.


      The fragile vial inside me often breaks.

      No wonder I go mad and disappear for three days

      every month with the moon.


      For anyone in love with you,

      it's always these invisible days.


      I've lost the thread of the story I was telling.

      My elephant roams his dream of Hindustan again.

      Narrative, poetics, destroyed, my body,

      a dissolving, a return.


      Friend, I 've shrunk to a hair trying to say your story.

      Would you tell mine?

      I've made up so many love stories.

      Now I feel fictional.

      Tell me!

      The truth is, you are speaking, not me.

      I am Sinai, and you are Moses walking there.
      This poetry is an echo of what you say.

      A piece of land can't speak, or know anything!

      Or if it can, only within limits.


      The body is a device to calculate

      the astronomy of the spirit.

      Look through that astrolabe

      and become oceanic.


      Why this distracted talk?

      It's not my fault I rave.

      You did this.

      Do you approve of my love-madness?


      Say yes.

      What language will you say it in, Arabic or Persian,

      or what? Once again, I must be tied up.

      Bring the curly ropes of your hair.

      Now I remember the


      A True Man stares at his old shoes

      and sheepskin jacket. Every day he goes up

      to his attic to look at his work-shoes and worn-out coat.

      This is his wisdom, to remember the original clay

      and not get drunk with ego and arrogance.


      To visit those shoes and jacket

      is praise.


      The Absolute works with nothing.

      The workshop, the materials

      are what does not exist.


      Try and be a sheet of paper with nothing on it.

      Be a spot of ground where nothing is growing,

      where something might be planted,

      a seed, possibly, from the Absolute.


      Mathnawi V: 1884-1920, 1959-64

      'The Essential Rumi' Coleman Barks/John Moyne


      posted on AlphaWorld


      across the lake
      the tree a nest
      the nest an egg
      inside the blue

      the heartbeat of the galaxies
      a promise and a key
      each step observed.
      each land and sea
      how nothing ever ever
       did not come on through
      this narrow lane
      how nothing ever ever
       did not  pass
      this empty handed thief

      to imagine he's
      been asking 'who am I?'
      makes me laugh,
      makes me cry
      with a hammer hitting carefully,
      on who can he
       rely to  be
      A fragile jar
      so utterly
      and plainly obsolete.
      this one and  only
       thought of  it?
      - Alan Larus

      Rainer Maria Rilke
      Slowly the evening changes into the clothes
      held for it by a row of ancient trees;
      you look: and two worlds grow separate from you,
      one ascending to heaven, another, that falls;
      and leave you, belonging not wholly to either one,
      not quite as dark as the house that remains silent,
      not quite as certainly sworn to eternity
      as that which becomes star each night and rises-
      and leave you (unsayably to disentangle) your life
      with all its immensity and fear and great ripening,
      so that, all but bounded, all but understood,
      it is by turns stone in you and star.
      Translated by Cliff Crego
      posted on AlphaWorld

      “Truth disappears with the telling of it.”

      Lawrence Durrell (1912-1990)
      "Clea" [1960], Chapter 2
      posted on AlphaWorld