Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift. – Mary Oliver
•
Boy oh boy.. I’ve got a lot to say about a short poem..ah to be a dumb man..
Woke up somewhat tender this morning,
———————- as if I was born into a gentle breeze,
on the bed of clouds,
—————– up the river in a small village,
where houses have no roof,
————-no walls,
—————–no doors.
and people only pray when
————————————— the trees sing,
and flies ask the cows
————————-“May I sit on your back?”
In this Village
———-children are teaching the old
————————How to talk to grass,
and how to skip
——————and how to swing their legs when
they sit on a bench.
Woke up as if I was born out of no one,
——————————————-to no one.
—————-Motherless,
Fatherless,
—Childless,
———————————Nameless.
Sufficiently alone.
Solange’s “Mad” is playing
and Lil Wayne
——————is telling me what’s he mad about.. damn this track is smooth.
Something is calling my name,
—————it is telling to sit for a moment
and
———————to allow my eyes become soft.
I have been enjoying these short poems that I have been sending you in the past week – there’s something easy about them, something subtle – for me they feel like a moment of sunshine in a gloomy day, like sprinkle of water on hot summer noon, like just one leaf falling on your way to work to give you a hint of autumn’s a-coming, or tiniest smile – just with the eyes and disappearance in the crowd – these don’t change the whole day for us, or season, or life – but their smallness and subtlety makes it easy for them to pass through all the high walls we have build around us. They are small, they hardly make any noise, and they are nimble as a wet fish. you look at them for few seconds, and suddenly they are living in a small house in your soul and watering a young magnolia tree on your chest…who knows maybe one day, that tree will grow big and strong and me and you will lay under it and have a picnic… Anyway… when you try to talk too long about a short poem, all voices become dumb… or as Walt Whitman would say:
“When I undertake to tell the best I find I cannot,
My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots,
My breath will not be obedient to its organs,
I become a dumb man.” W.W
I’ll tell you a story that once a traveling monk from the Thai Forest Tradition told me about the Buddha and will leave you with a kiss upon thy brow.
Here’s the story:
When The Buddha reached enlightenment under the Bodhi tree he was like “Well… I’m done here” but then all these angles came down running and begging him to stay. They told him that he ought not to leave and he must teach his way and share the path he took to Nirvana, because there are too many beings suffering and he can show them the way to enlightenment.. Buddha thought this over and said that he’s worry he will not be able to do such thing, when asked if this is because the path to enlightenment is too difficult, Buddha answered “No, it is too subtle”
– obvi he stayed around and created the Four Noble Truth and the Eight Fold Path and gave all those Ted talks… But maybe he was right.. maybe we need more time to get the subtlety of existence…. I am here in here at here with here for here… XO
One Poem At A Time 