Shards of the World
תיקון עולם
05 March 2012
Wislawa Szymborska, RIP
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with precisely the same kisses.
One day, perhaps some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.
The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.
With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.
01 February 2012
31 January 2012
29 January 2012
11 January 2012
09 January 2012
07 January 2012
05 January 2012
Gathering the scattered pieces of light
27 December 2011
12 December 2011
02 December 2011
17 September 2011
Ain't no use jiving. Ain't no use joking.
God created the world by forming vessels of light to hold the Divine Light. But as God poured the Light into the vessels, they catastrophically shattered, tumbling down toward the realm of matter. Thus, our world consists of countless shards of the original vessels entrapping sparks of the Divine Light.
15 September 2011
You're literate, so words are what you feel.
They Accuse Me of Not Talking, by Hayden Carruth
North people known for silence. Long
dark of winter. Norrland families go
months without talking, Eskimos also,
except bursts of sporadic eerie song.
South people different. Right and wrong
all crystal there and they squabble, no
fears, though they praise north silence. "Ho,"
they say, "look at them deep thinkers, them strong
philosophical types, men of peace."
But take
notice please of what happens. Winter on the brain.
You're literate, so words are what you feel.
Then you're struck dumb. To which love can you speak
the words that mean dying and going insane
and the relentless futility of the real?
from Hayden Carruth, Collected Shorter Poems. © Copper Canyon Press, 1992.
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