unask

 

 

wrought flower

 

I believe the earth
exists, and
in each minim mote
of its dust the holy
glow of thy candle.
Thou
unknown I know,
thou spirit,
giver,
lover of making, of the
wrought letter,
wrought flower,
iron, deed, dream

the ordinary glow
of common dust in ancient sunlight.
Be, that I may believe. Amen.

From Denise Levertov, Opening Words

 

 

 

 

 

in love

 

Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good fame,
Plans, credit, and the Muse -
Nothing refuse.

Leave all for love;
Yet, hear me, yet...

Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive;
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.

From R.W. Emerson, Give all to love

 

 

 

 

 

veins

 

Look: how they grow to be each other.
In their veins there is only God.
Each other's axis, a shimmering shape
that glows, like fire, a rapture, a delight.
They thirst, and are each other's wine;
see, how they are each other's seeing.
Let us let each rejoice into the other:
outlasting self, outlasting all.

Rilke, The Lovers, transl. Tom Davis.

 

 

 

 

 

scamel

there is a new entry in our scamel blog.

 

 

 

 

organ

 

Will you, won't you
play the organ
my love?
you sit there
your fingers shimmer
such sweetness, so
delicate; the sound
of snow.
Please, play,
my love.

Gently, hold that note;
flirt with it.
Glittering, it sounds,
and scattering bright;
oh, please, play on.

Play the great black organ
making fire in the dark
dispelling fear;
it trembles, the music
it is violent, it is sad;
play on.

Tom Davis, after Hagiwara Sakutaro, Black Pipe Organ.

 

 

 

 

 

memory

 

The memory of my father is wrapped up in
white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day at work.

Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits
out of his hat, he drew love from his small body,

and the rivers of his hands
overflowed with good deeds.

Yehuda Amichai, My Father

 

 

 

 

 

Till Daffodils had come and gone

 

She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand --
Till pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it --
And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet --
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street --

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers --
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy -- immortal face
Of whom we're whispering here?

Emily Dickinson

 

 

 

 

 

alone, important, and wise

 

Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
From moonlit place to place,
The sacred moon overhead
Has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
Will pass from change to change,
And that from round to crescent,
From crescent to round they range?
Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
Alone, important and wise,
And lifts to the changing moon
His changing eyes.

From W.B. Yeats, The Cat and the Moon