travels, reflections, poems….
(Photo by Khamkéo Vilaysing on Unsplash) Poems about Wind by Dawn Pisturino ~ In French and English: Au Vent To the Wind Souffles, O vent, Blow, O wind, Dis à mon oreille Speak into my ear Un doux mot d’amour; A sweet word of love; Emportes mes rêves, Carry away my dreams, Rapportes mes souhaits, […]
Poems about Wind — Dawn Pisturino’s Blog
When the world wind weeps around you. May the universe dry your eyes. And happiness make you smile once more. Sarvesham Svastir Bhavatu. I cannot keep you safe from the conflict. Or the wars within you. But I offer you peace, from that of which I’ve known. Sarveśām Shāntir Bhavatu. You are taken from the […]
Everything (सर्वेषां स्वस्तिर्भवतु ।) — Havoc and Consequence
“This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks” – H.W. Longfellow. Born on February 27, 1807, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was a poet, educator, translator, and environmentalist. In a three-part series titled “Longfellow’s Nature Poetry”, the National Park Service explores Longfellow’s connection to the land and how it influenced his writing.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s Nature Poetry — Naturalist Weekly
(To the people of Little Willow)
A poem by Raven Chiong
There’s something to be said…
Go, step into the long lost well of sacred silence. With courage, dive, free and deep into Oceans of open space, listen to your own Voice, follow your own drum.
There’s something to be said…
above the din of “progress”, above the cacophony of Other.
Dry Grasses beckon, Ancient Canyons echo with no syllable or rhyme:
Disconnect, unplug, return to Earth Mother, come Home, weary traveler, to your Self.
Walk.
Slow.
Sit.
Stay.
Attune to the Place where symphony of Cottonwoods meets sweet silence of Sage, where Rocks speak, Rivers sing, and Shooting Stars have Voices.
There’s something to be said…
Who’s resonating?
Who’s calling?
There’s something to be said…
Are you listening?
Can you hear?
There’s something to be said…
Only the Dreamer, Awake, can say.
August 11, 2011
Photo: Sharon St Joan / Young cottonwoods at Zion National Park
Between the Poles of the Conscious
BETWEEN the poles of the conscious and the unconscious, there has the mind made a swing:
Thereon hang all beings and all worlds, and that swing never ceases its sway.
Millions of beings are there: the sun and the moon in their courses are there:
Millions of ages pass, and the swing goes on.
All swing! the sky and the earth and the air and the water; and the Lord
Himself taking form:
And the sight of this has made Kabîr a servant.
***
Hiding In This Cage
Hiding in this cage
of visible matter
is the invisible
lifebird
pay attention
to her
she is singing
your song
***
I Have Attained The Eternal Bliss
I have attained the Eternal Bliss.
There is no time for sorrow or pain,
for now I enjoy singing His glory.
The tree of His pleasure has neither root, nor seed,
as revealed by the grace of the true Guru.
Now there is effulgence of a million suns,
my swan has dipped in the lake of His knowledge.
Says Kabir, listen, O wise brother,
Now comings and goings have come to an end.
***
Photo: Marek Szczepanek / Wikipedia Commons / “Permission is granted to copy, distribute and/or modify this document under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2 or any later version published by the Free Software Foundation.”
***
This is the translation of Kabir’s poems, as it appears on the site, PoemHunter.com
Poems by Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, thirteenth century Persian poet
Translated by Coleman Barks
Shadow and Light Source Both
How does a part of the world leave the world?
How does wetness leave water? Dont’ try to
put out fire by throwing on more fire! Don’t
wash a wound with blood. No matter how fast
you run, your shadow keeps up. Sometimes it’s
in front! Only full overhead sun diminishes
your shadow. But that shadow has been serving
you. What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is
your candle. Your boundaries are your quest.
I could explain this, but it will break the
glass cover on your heart, and there’s no
fixing that. You must have shadow and light
source both. Listen, and lay your head under
the tree of awe. When from that tree feathers
and wings sprout on you, be quieter than
a dove. Don’t even open your mouth for even a coo.
From Soul of Rumi
by Coleman Barks
Who Says Words With My Mouth?
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry, I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
From Essential Rumi
by Coleman Barks
Essential Rumi and Soul of Rumi are available at Amazon.com
Photo: http://www.naturespicsonline.com / Wikimedia Commons / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic license. / Mourning Dove, Cabin Lake Viewing Blinds, Deschutes National Forest, Near Fort Rock, Oregon
For more poetry by Rumi, click here.
I ask for a moment’s indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.
Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.
Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.
Now it is time to sit quiet, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.
Rabindranath Tagore (1861 – 1941)
Photo: © Kirat Grewal | Dreamstime.com
By William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
1892
Photo: Sharon St Joan
