Friday, November 4, 2016

The Song of Love, by Manuela Popovici

 



In the Beginning there was the Song,
            the Song of Love singing:
Let there be a world to love
and be loved by,
to call me Beloved and
Beloved to call.

As it was then, so it is now:
the soul of the Earth
                        is a song of love.

Anima mundi, the soul of the world,
            is braided by women who sit at the core.

They sit in circles round fire stones,
they drum the heart and they braid the soul,
they sing the beginning and they sing the end
            of the Braid circle of Beloved love,
at the place where song is love is light is Song.

Gentle and fierce, women gather the threads:
            the willow sway and salmon flip,
                        the duck waddle and the lion glare,
            the soft word and sunset flare,
                        and courageous peonies,
each a song, a thread alight
with clean gratitude and love.
The women gather songs into the Braid
            that is the anima that is the Song
that unravels round the Earth –
            and the bear dreams of winter stars,
                        the loon serenades the gale,
            mountains offer deeper roots, and
                        hearts find motive for the dawn.

The hawk mother calls and calls
            from the tree across the vale
                        until the babe left in the nest
            bursts out and finds the air and wings
have not forgotten their old song.

The hawk remembers,
and so does the bear,
            and the mountain,
and the loon,
                        to return their songs and be braided once again
            into the one Braid of love
                        that is Beloved that is the soul.

There’s only Life inside the Braid, because
            in the Beginning there was the Song, and     
only and always, as then, so it is now:
            the soul is light is song of love.

The Earth Mother calls and calls
            from the tree outside your room,
                        through the drums inside each tune,
            from the feathers dropped in flight,
                        and the dance of dust in light,
The Earth Mother calls and calls
from the toddle of your babe,
                        through the braid across your back,
            from the fragrance of your tea
                        and the gliding on your bike,
Through the wind and through the breath,
            and the peach taste and the breast
                        and the walk and the night rest
            and the shy glance and the glint
                        and the skin and the slow blink,
The Earth Mother calls and calls.

The Earth Mother calls,
            the women lean in,
                        all waiting for you,
Beloved, to take a deep breath
            and release your song
                        and complete the Braid
            that animates the world.

That is the Love.

That is the Song.




* I dedicate and offer this poem to Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, whose writings on spiritual ecology, anima mundi, and bringing the sacred back into creation have opened my heart to both the cry and the sacredness of the Earth. Thank you. This poem is also a prayer.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

Orpheus Alone, by Mark Strand


Gabriel Fauré - Requiem Op.48
with Atlanta Symphony Orchestra & Chorus

It was an adventure much could be made of: a walk
On the shores of the darkest known river,
Among the hooded, shoving crowds, by steaming rocks
And rows of ruined huts half buried in the muck;
Then to the great court with its marble yard
Whose emptiness gave him the creeps, and to sit there
In the sunken silence of the place and speak
Of what he had lost, what he still possessed of his loss,
And then, pulling out all the stops, describing her eyes,
Her forehead where the golden light of evening spread,
The curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, everything
Down to her thighs and calves, letting the words come,
As if lifted from sleep, to drift upstream,
Against the water's will, where all the condemned
And pointless labour, stunned by his voice's cadence,
Would come to a halt, and even the crazed, disheveled
Furies, for the first time, would weep, and the soot-filled
Air would clear just enough for her, the lost bride,
To step through the image of herself and be seen in the light.
As everyone knows, this was the first great poem,
Which was followed by days of sitting around
In the houses of friends, with his head back, his eyes
Closed, trying to will her return, but finding
Only himself, again and again, trapped
In the chill of his loss, and, finally,
Without a word, taking off to wander the hills
Outside of town, where he stayed until he had shaken
The image of love and put in its place the world
As he wished it would be, urging its shape and measure
Into speech of such newness that the world was swayed,
And trees suddenly appeared in the bare place
Where he spoke and lifted their limbs and swept
The tender grass with the gowns of their shade,
And stones, weightless for once, came and set themselves there,
And small animals lay in the miraculous fields of grain
And aisles of corn, and slept. The voice of light
Had come forth from the body of fire, and each thing
Rose from its depths and shone as it never had.
And that was the second great poem,
Which no one recalls anymore. The third and greatest
Came into the world as the world, out of the unsayable,
Invisible source of all longing to be; it came
As things come that will perish, to be seen or heard
Awhile, like the coating of frost or the movement
Of wind, and then no more; it came in the middle of sleep
Like a door to the infinite, and, circled by flame,
Came again at the moment of waking, and, sometimes,
Remote and small, it came as a vision with trees
By a weaving stream, brushing the bank
With their violet shade, with somebody's limbs
Scattered among the matted, mildewed leaves nearby,
With his severed head rolling under the waves,
Breaking the shifting columns of light into a swirl
Of slivers and flecks; it came in a language
Untouched by pity, in lines, lavish and dark,
Where death is reborn and sent into the world as a gift,
So the future, with no voice of its own, nor hope
Of ever becoming more than it will be, might mourn.



from The Continuous Life: Poems (Alfred A Knopf, 1990), © Mark Strand 1990 
poem found at the Poetry Archive

Thursday, March 31, 2016

Shoveling Snow With Buddha, by Billy Collins


Franz Schubert - Piano Sonata No 13 in A major, D 664
with Sviatoslav Richter

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.



poem from Poemhunter.com