Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Per Amica Silentia Lunae, Anima Mundi ch. 34, By William Butler Yeats



"...When I remember that Shelley calls our minds “mirrors of the fire for which all thirst,” I cannot but ask the question all have asked, “What or who has cracked the mirror?” I begin to study the only self that I can know, myself, and to wind the thread upon the perne again.

At certain moments, always unforeseen, I become happy, most commonly when at hazard I have opened some book of verse. Sometimes it is my own verse when, instead of discovering new technical flaws, I read with all the excitement of the first writing. Perhaps I am sitting in some crowded restaurant, the open book beside me, or closed, my excitement having over-brimmed the page. I look at the strangers near as if I had known them all my life, and it seems strange that I cannot speak to them: everything fills me with affection, I have no longer any fears or any needs; I do not even remember that this happy mood must come to an end. It seems as if the vehicle had suddenly grown pure and far extended and so luminous that one half imagines that the images from Anima Mundi, embodied there and drunk with that sweetness, would, as some country drunkard who had thrown a wisp into his own thatch, burn up time..."

Strings

photo at  http://goo.gl/Qi9WA

I can wrap you around my little finger 
Just like  
A silk red ribbon 
To remind me
How you make my blood flow faster inside my veins
I can pull your strings
I can watch you, distant,
As you undress your soul in front of me
When we are one and i paint my dark desire on your face 
With whispers and kisses and my dangerous loving
When your manly armor cracks and falls at my feet
That moment you are mortal and vulnerable, 
And i see your face so bright 
And then i love you
Only because i know i do not love you

I ignite my night with your touch 
As your velvet eyes travel over my trembling flesh
You break me, you melt me, you swallow me
holding me, feeling my tide rising 
Yes,  I can pull your strings until you beg me  
To stop and start again

Ours is not a passion fit for hypocrites and cowards
We dare to dream the nightmares of the Heart
Risking our lives to the death
Beggars of Love
Jesters of the flesh
Eternally impenitent Sinners...


Whispers


photo by © Michael Jurick, at  http://goo.gl/nThMj 
Let's whisper words of love
Lost in each other's arms
This night is blessing us with stars and fireflies

My lips on your lips
Your hands hold me softly 
We share the silence
This night keeps us safe
Hidden away from the world 
The moon is rising, blood red, from the horizon
Compassionate for the lovers

We move with every wave 
My heart full of you 
Your heart full of me 
Making love with the tide 

So soon, so soon
This night will pass and be gone 
forever...

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

True Love: A Practice for Awakening the Heart, by Thich Nhat Hahn (excerpt)





"...I would like to tell you a story from my country. A young man went off to war, leaving his pregnant wife behind. Two years later, he was able to return home, and the young woman went with their young son to meet her husband. They cried together out of joy. In Vietnam, in our tradition, when an event of this kind takes place, it has to be announced to the ancestors. So the young father asked his wife to go to the market to buy the things that are needed for the offering that is placed on the altar to the ancestors. Such an altar is found in every house. Each morning we burn a stick of incense to our ancestors on this altar, and in this way we make a connection with them. Burning this incense, adorning the altar with photographs of our ancestors, and dusting the shrine off are very important gestures.
  These are moments in which we come in contact with our ancestors. There are people living in the world who are completely uprooted because they do not practice such a turning toward their ancestors.

So the young wife went off to the market. During this time, the young father was trying to convince his child to call him Daddy. The little boy refused: “Mister, you’re not my daddy. My daddy is somebody else. He visits us every night and my mommy talks to him every night, and very often she cries with him. And every time my mommy sits down, he sits down too. Every time she lies down, he lies down too.” 
  After he heard these words, the young father’s happiness entirely evaporated. His heart turned into a block of ice. He felt hurt, deeply humiliated, and that is why, when his wife came home, he would no longer look at her or speak a word to her. He ignored her. The woman herself began to suffer; she felt humiliated, hurt. When the offering was placed on the altar, the young father burned the incense, recited the prayers to the ancestors, and did the four traditional prostrations. Then he picked the mat up instead of leaving it there for his wife so she could do the four prostrations in her turn. In his mind he thought that she was not qualified to present herself before the ancestors, and she was humiliated by this.

After the ceremony, he didn’t stay at the house to eat but went to the village and spent the day in a bar. He tried to forget his suffering by drinking alcohol, and he did not come back to the house until very late at night.

The following day, it was the same thing, and this went on for several days in a row. The young woman could not take it anymore. Her suffering was so great that in the end she threw herself in the river and drowned.

When the young father heard this news, he returned to the house, and that night he was the one who went to get the lamp and lit it. Suddenly the child cried out: “Mister, Mister, it’s my daddy, he’s come back!” And he pointed to the shadow of his father on the wall. “You know, Mister, my father comes every night. Mommy talks to him and sometimes she cries; and every time she sits down my daddy sits down too.” In reality, this woman had been alone in the house too much and every night she had talked to her shadow: “My dear one, you are so far away from me. How can I raise my child all by myself? . . . You must come back home soon.” She would cry, and of course every time she sat down, the shadow would also sit down. Now the husband’s false perception was no longer there, but it was too late—his wife was already dead.

A misperception is something that can destroy an entire family. The Buddha told us a number of times that we are subject to misperceptions in our everyday life. Therefore we have to pay close attention to our perceptions. There are people who hang on to their misperceptions for ten or twenty years, and during this time they continue to suffer and make other people suffer.

  Why did the young father not want to talk this thing over with his wife? Because pride got in between them. If he had asked his wife: “Who is this person who came every night? Our child told me about him. I am suffering so much, my darling, you have to help me. Explain to me who this person is.” If he had done that, his wife would have had a chance to explain, and the drama could have been avoided. However, it was not only his fault, but that of his young wife as well. She could have come to him and asked him the reason for his change in attitude: “Husband, why don’t you look at me anymore, why don’t you talk to me? Have I done something awful that I deserve such treatment? I am suffering so much, dear husband, you have to help me.” She did not do this, and I do not want you to make the same mistake in your everyday life. 

  We are subject to misperceptions every day, so we have to pay attention. Every time you think it is somebody else who is causing the suffering, you must remember this story. You must always check things out by going to the person in question and asking for his or her help: “Dear one, I am suffering so much, help me please.”

Saturday, November 26, 2016

Night child



 Moonlight Night - Christian Schloe

Tearing the veil of the night
i raise my hands to the stars
worshiping Love
in the only way i know
weaving shadows into starlight
Until the morning finds my dreams softly sleeping
in another life...



Friday, November 25, 2016

In my dream

    John William Waterhouse, The Naiad, 1893
     
     
    In my dream
    I paint the night with your smile
    and the shy stars in your eyes
    Oh how i wish i could steal
    the purple kiss 
    that softly sleeps
    on your lips
     - floating in silence...
     
     

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

Nocturne



"...Tonight the light at my feet
 flows on the grass in liquid silver waves
soft mists and crawling fog
     and the sea somewhere in the distance
 I count a few stars trapped between my fingers
as the moon hides wrapped inside a veil of clouds
wondering 
    It is not clear to me, the colored glass sorrow
 that  drips shaped in  prisms... 
                 But...
Here under this alien sky 
away from everything that I am,
into this night, I only want to dream of roses

Seagulls cry flying by. 
I can hear the trees whispering.
I can almost hear the distant voices of dead feelings 
or withering memories.
"This", i whisper to myself, "is a moment of truth".

All thoughts trapped into this deafening silence
 slowly spin around endlessly 
   like an ancient nebula 
    
Am I the universe looking at itself?
Do I  exist only inside the eyes of those who love me?...

My soul curls  naked under the old oak tree outside the window
hidden in a dream, she sleeps tired
              waiting for the rain
                 to gently wash away the moon dust..." 




Friday, March 25, 2016

Euphoria

Cherry Blossom in the Night, by Katsushika Oui


deliciously sweet
the frenzy of love into our veins
a taste of spring
under the velvet cherry trees
the world fades away in flowing petals