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#4048 - Monday, October 18, 2010 - Editor: Gloria Lee

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  • Gloria Lee
    #4048 - Monday, October 18, 2010 - Editor: Gloria Lee The Nonduality Highlights - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights Incomparable Verse Valley The
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 18, 2010
      #4048 - Monday, October 18, 2010 - Editor: Gloria Lee
      The Nonduality Highlights - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights


      Incomparable Verse Valley
      The sounds of the stream
           splash out
                the Buddha's sermon
      Don't say
           that the deepest meaning
                comes only from one's mouth
      Day and night
           eighty thousand poems
                arise one after the other
      and in fact
           not a single word
                has ever been spoken


      by Muso Soseki
      (1275 - 1351) Timeline


      English version by
      W. S. Merwin

      Original Language

      from Sun at Midnight: Muso Soseki - Poems and Sermons, Translated by W. S. Merwin / Translated by Soiku Shigematsu


      In the school of mind you
      In the school of mind you
      learn a lot, and become
      a true scholar for many to look up to.
      In the school of Love, you become
      a child to learn again.


      by Abu-Said Abil-Kheir
      (967 - 1049) Timeline

      English version by
      Vraje Abramian

      Original Language



      Love Should Grow Up Like a Wild Iris in the Fields
      Love should grow up like a wild iris in the fields,
      unexpected, after a terrible storm, opening a purple
      mouth to the rain, with not a thought to the future,
      ignorant of the grass and the graveyard of leaves
      around, forgetting its own beginning.
      Love should grow like a wild iris
      but does not.

      Love more often is to be found in kitchens at the dinner hour,
      tired out and hungry, lingers over tables in houses where
      the walls record movements, while the cook is probably angry,
      and the ingredients of the meal are budgeted, while
      a child cries feed me now and her mother not quite
      hysterical says over and over, wait just a bit, just a bit,
      love should grow up in the fields like a wild iris
      but never does
      really startle anyone, was to be expected, was to be
      predicted, is almost absurd, goes on from day to day, not quite
      blindly, gets taken to the cleaners every fall, sings old
      songs over and over, and falls on the same piece of rug that
      never gets tacked down, gives up, wants to hide, is not
      brave, knows too much, is not like an
      iris growing wild but more like
      staring into space
      in the street
      not quite sure
      which door it was, annoyed about the sidewalk being
      slippery, trying all the doors, thinking
      if love wished the world to be well, it would be well.

      Love should
      grow up like a wild iris, but doesn't, it comes from
      the midst of everything else, sees like the iris
      of an eye, when the light is right,
      feels in blindness and when there is nothing else is
      tender, blinks, and opens
      face up to the skies.
      ~ Susan Griffin ~
      (Like the Iris of an Eye)




      Dedicated to the memory of Karen Silkwood and Eliot Gralla

      "From too much love of living,
      Hope and desire set free,
      Even the weariest river
      Winds somewhere to the sea--"

      But we have only begun
      To love the earth.

      We have only begun
      To imagine the fullness of life.

      How could we tire of hope?
      -- so much is in bud.

      How can desire fail?
      -- we have only begun

      to imagine justice and mercy,
      only begun to envision

      how it might be
      to live as siblings with beast and flower,
      not as oppressors.

      Surely our river
      cannot already be hastening
      into the sea of nonbeing?

      Surely it cannot
      drag, in the silt,
      all that is innocent?

      Not yet, not yet--
      there is too much broken
      that must be mended,

      too much hurt we have done to each other
      that cannot yet be forgiven.

      We have only begun to know
      the power that is in us if we would join
      our solitudes in the communion of struggle.

      So much is unfolding that must
      complete its gesture,

      so much is in bud.

      By Denise Levertov
      (1923 - 1997)

      -- from Candles in Babylon, by Denise Levertov




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