Tuesday, May 23, 2017



I was nearly killed here, one night in February.
My car shivered, and slewed sideways on the ice,
right across into the other lane. The slur of traffic
came at me with their lights.
My name, my girls, my job, all
slipped free and were left behind, smaller and smaller,
further and further away. I was a nobody:
a boy in a playground, suddenly surrounded.

The headlights of the oncoming cars
bore down on me as I wrestled the wheel through a slick
of terror, clear and slippery as egg-white.
The seconds grew and grew – making more room for me –
stretching huge as hospitals.

I almost felt that I could rest
and take a breath
before the crash.

Then something caught: some helpful sand
or a well-timed gust of wind. The car
snapped out of it, swinging back across the road.
A signpost shot up and cracked, with a sharp clang,
spinning away in the darkness.

And it was still. I sat back in my seat-belt
and watched someone tramp through the whirling snow
to see what was left of me.

Tomas Tranströmer

 Osamo Komatsu

Sunday, May 21, 2017

just traveling through


Death is a favour to us,
But our scales have lost their balance.
The impermanence of the body
Should give us great clarity, deepening the wonder in our
Senses and eyes
Of this mysterious existence we share
And surely are just traveling through.

If I were in the tavern tonight,
Hafiz would call for drinks
And as the Master poured, I would be reminded
That all I know of life and myself is that
We are just a mid-air flight of golden wine
Between His Pitcher and His cup.

If I were in the tavern tonight,
I would buy freely for everyone in this world
Because our marriage with the Cruel Beauty
Of time and space cannot endure very long. 

Death is a favour to us,
But our minds have lost their balance. 
The miraculous existence and impermanence of
Always makes the illumined ones
Laugh and sing.



Saturday, May 20, 2017

this mystery




As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them,
so the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together
and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers.

–Marie Howe


Friday, May 19, 2017

what is it that you contain?


What is it that you contain? The dead. Time. Light patterns of millennia opening in your gut. 

Every minute, in each of you, a few million potassium atoms succumb to radioactive decay. The energy that powers these tiny atomic events has been locked inside potassium atoms ever since a star-sized bomb exploded nothing into being. 

Potassium, like uranium and radium, is a long-lived radioactive nuclear waste of the supernova bang that accounts for you.

Your first parent was a star.

–Jeanette Winterson


Wednesday, May 17, 2017

say out loud


Tuesday, May 16, 2017

sisters and brothers


In your clay body, things are coming to expression and to light
that were never known before, presences that never came to
light or shape in any other individual.  

To paraphrase Heidegger, who said, "Man is a shepherd of being,"  
we could say, "Man is a shepherd of clay."

You represent an unknown world that begs you to bring it to voice. 
Often the joy you feel does not belong to your individual biography
but to the clay out of which you are formed.

At other times, you will find sorrow moving through you,
like a dark mist over a landscape.  
This sorrow is dark enough to paralyze you. 

It is a mistake to interfere with this movement of feeling. 
It is more appropriate to recognize that this emotion belongs more
to your clay than to your mind.

It is wise to let this weather of feeling pass;
it is on its way elsewhere.

Regardless of how modern we seem, we still remain ancient,
sisters and brothers of the one clay.

In each of us a different part of the mystery becomes luminous.
To truly be and become yourself, 
you need the ancient radiance of others.

–John O'Donohue
(© John O'Donohue. All rights reserved.)
for more: johnodonohue.com


Sunday, May 14, 2017

East Coker V, Four Quartets, excerpt


Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

T. S. Eliot