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#3401 - Saturday, January 3, 2009

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  • markwotter704
    Archived issues of the NDHighlights are available online: http://nonduality.com/hlhome.htm Nonduality Highlights: Issue
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 4, 2009
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      Archived issues of the NDHighlights are available online: http://nonduality.com/hlhome.htm

      Nonduality Highlights: Issue #3401, Saturday, January 3, 2009


      sometimes I am a lonely little poem

      sometimes i am a lonely little poem
      that no one reads
      and i fall into a heap
      in the bottom of a bird cage

      sometimes i grow wings.


      silly little man

      you silly little man
      how you grovel at my feet!
      adore my image
      while you bury your loved one
      in the pyramid of your desire,
      do not try to buy my favors
      with your shiny little prayers
      do not walk on water
      and sell your soul,
      don't torment yourself
      with words that will never come to you,
      I am no bride
      to lie down by your side,
      I am a poem,
      your hard-hearted lover.



      when the dead of winter
      heavy on the ground
      the silence of my being
      mocks me with awareness
      and the wind howls
      with delight,
      a New Year will enter
      another page of history
      and softly will end
      this night.

      - Anna Ruiz, posted to The_Now2


      the hard hearted little poem grows wings

      I read not its silence
      but its copper-bottomed promise
      of love at work
      and risk being accused of trying to buy its favours

      - John Bailey, posted to The_Now2

      Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?

      Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
      It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
      The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
      The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
      But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
      feet of the trees
      whose mouths open.
      Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
      Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
      until at last, now, they shine
      in your own yard?
      Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.
      When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
      outward, to the mountains so solidly there
      in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
      to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
      that was also there,
      beautiful as a thumb
      curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
      little love-ring,
      as he whirled,
      oh jug of breath,
      in the garden of dust?

      - Mary Oliver

      The Lilies Break Open Over the Dark Water

      that mud-hive, that gas-sponge,
      that reeking
      leaf-yard, that rippling

      dream-bowl, the leeches'
      flecked and swirling
      broth of life, as rich
      as Babylon,

      the fists crack
      open and the wands
      of the lilies
      quicken, they rise

      like pale poles
      with their wrapped beaks of lace;
      one day
      they tear the surface,

      the next they break open
      over the dark water.
      And there you are
      on the shore,

      fitful and thoughtful, trying
      to attach them to an idea -
      some news of your own life.
      But the lilies

      are slippery and wild - they are
      devoid of meaning, they are
      simply doing,
      from the deepest

      spurs of their being,
      what they are impelled to do
      every summer.
      And so, dear sorrow, are you.

      - Mary Oliver

      By looking in a mirror, one perceives his own identity;
      But that identity was already there.

      In the same way, relative knowledge gives the understanding
      Of the identity of the world and the Self -
      But it is like using a knife
      To cut another knife.

      Fire, in the process of annihilating camphor,
      Annihilates itself as well;
      This is exactly what happens to knowledge
      In the process of destroying ignorance.

      The cresting of a wave is but its fall;
      The flash of a bolt of lightning
      Is but its fading.

      Likewise, knowledge,
      Drinking up the water of ignorance,
      Grows so large
      That it completely annihilates itself.

      This absolute Knowledge is like
      The intrinsic fullness of the moon,
      Which is unaffected
      By its apparent waxing and waning.

      Likewise, that which is Consciousness Itself
      Does not possess the quality of being conscious,
      And is, therefore, not conscious of Itself.

      If absolute Knowledge required the aid
      Of some other kind of knowledge to know Itself,
      It would be nothing but ignorance.

      Of course, light is not darkness;
      But, to itself, is it even light?

      If there is a pot, a pot is perceived,
      And if the pot is broken, its brokenness is perceived;
      If there is no pot at all,
      Is not its absence perceived as well?

      It can be seen, therefore,
      That he who perceives that there is nothing
      Does not himself become nothing.
      The Self has this same unique kind of existence,
      Beyond both existence and non-existence.

      The ultimate Reality
      Is neither an object to Itself
      Nor is It an object to anyone else.
      Should it then be regarded as non-existent?

      In a tank the water may be so clear
      That it appears non-existent;
      Though one who looks into the tank may not see it,
      Still it is there.

      The ultimate Reality exists in Itself,
      And is beyond the conceptions
      Of existence or non-existence.

      When a jar is placed on the ground,
      We have the ground with a jar;
      When the jar is taken away,
      We have the ground without a jar;

      But when neither of these conditions exists,
      The ground exists in its unqualified state.
      It is in this same way
      That the ultimate Reality exists.

      - Excerpt from chapter 4 of Amritanubhav (The Nectar of Mystical Experience), by Jnaneshvar, published in: The Life and Works of the Celebrated Thirteenth Century Indian Mystic-Poet, by S. Abhayananda.

      A disciple travelled to the temple and stood before the statue of Shiva. The Warden came to him and said "It is our tradition that we do not point our feet towards Shiva". The disciple replied "Certainly Sir, if you will point to where Shiva is not".

      - posted to NondualitySalon

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