By Jan Zwicky On a bad day, you come in from the weather and lean your back against the door. This time of year it's dark by five. Your armchair, empty in its pool of light. That arpeggio lifts, like warmth, from the fifth of B minor, offers its hand - let me tell you a story...But in the same breath, semitones falling to the tonic: you must believe and not believe; that door you came in you must go out again. In the forest, the woodcutter's son sets the stone down from his sack and speaks to it. And from nothing, a spring wells, falling as it rises, spilling out across the dark green moss. There is sadness in the world, it says, past telling. Learn stillness if you would run clear.
Today I am sharing a tanka written by the Heian-era Japanese female poet Izumi Shikibu around the year 1000. Stay well beautiful readers. Although the wind blows terribly here, moonlight also leaks between the roof planks of this ruined house.
This is written in response to http://patriciasplace.me/2017/12/13/in-other-words-elf/
I’ve never thought much about being an elf.
Mischievous, clever, mysterious creatures.
Then I slept beneath a giant oak tree
and stories of the past came flooding back to me.
Answers to questions I’ve always had about myself.
Music is the divine way to tell
beautiful poetic things to the heart. – Pablo Casals
The onion loves the onion.
It hugs its many layers,
saying, O, O, O,
each vowel smaller
than the last.
Some say it has no heart.
It doesn’t need one.
It surrounds itself,
feels whole. Primordial.
First among vegetables.
If Eve had bitten it
instead of the apple,
From: Sex Lives of Vegetables.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
by e.e. cumming
The bird you captured is dead.
I told you it would die
but you would not learn
from my telling. You wanted
to cage a bird in your hands
and learn to fly.
You must not handle birds.
They cannot fly through your fingers.
You are not a nest
and a feather is
not made of blood and bone.
can fly for you like birds
on the wall of the sun.
A bird is a poem
that talks of the end of cages.
The hands of time
shift and swirl
A veil of fog lifts to reveal
a precious new life
heiress in a long tradition
of ancient priestesses
She will learn
the knowledge of land,
sea and sky
Plants and animals will bend
to aid her
spreading peace throughout the land
She is blessed
All who come in contact with her
leave radiating a shimmer
of her infinite love
She is time
She is Morgan
Her arrival timed to be
A celestial chorus
ready to guide and protect her
on her earthly path
Morgan is here to teach
Here to love
Here to release
the constraints on earth