" P O E T R Y " 
" Poetry is to prose...... what a mountain is...... to a pebble "
A ruby is not lovelier than a rock,
Nor an angel more glorious,
Than a frog.
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I dwell in Possibility.....
A fairer House than Prose.....
More numerous of Windows.....
Superior...for Doors.
Of Chambers as the Cedars.....
Impregnable of Eye.....
And for an Everlasting Roof.....
The Gambrels of the Sky.
Of Visitors...the fairest.....
For Occupation...This.....
The spreading wide my narrow hands.....
To gather Paradise.
Emily Dickinson.
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She blooms because she blooms, the rose;
Does not ask why.
Nor does she preen herself.
To catch my eye.
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" Poetry puts an interval between the impression and the expression.... waits 'til the seeds germinate naturally. "
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The rounded world is fair to see,
Nine times folded in mystery:
Though baffled seers cannot impart
The secret of its laboring heart,
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.
Spirit that lurks each form within
Beckons to spirit of its kin.
Emerson
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Away with those who preach to us the washing off of sin;
Thine own Self is the stream for thee to make ablutions in;
In self-restraint, It rises pure...flows clear in tide of Truth,
By widening banks of wisdom, in waves of peace and Truth.
Bathe there thou son of Pandhu ! with reverence and rite,
For never yet, was water wet, could wash the Spirit white.
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Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its' own sweet will is heaven's will.
Yeats.
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" It is poetry that stirs the souls.... rather than the senses of men. "
To be a poet and nought else, I do not hold to be very good. For
poetry should be like a precious jewel, whose owner does not put it on
every day, nor show it to the world at every step; but only when it is
fitting, and when there is a reason for showing it. Poetry is a most
lovely damsel; chaste, modest, and discreet; spirited, but yet retiring,
and ever holding itself within the strictest rule of honor. She is
the friend of Solitude. She finds in the fountains her delight, in
the fields her counselor, in the trees and flowers enjoyment and repose;
and lastly, she charms and instructs all that approach her."
The Lamp burns sure... within....
Tho' Serfs...supply the oil....
It matters not the busy Wick....
At her phosphoric toil !
The Slave...forgets...to fill....
The Lamp...burns golden...on....
Unconscious that the oil is out....
As that the Slave...is gone.
Emily Dickinson.
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If you look for the Truth outside yourself,
It gets further and further away.
The more you think about these matters,
The further you are from the Truth.
Don't keep searching for the Truth;
Just let go of your opinions.
There is a silent understanding that arises,
By itself; That is All.
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" Poetry implies the whole truth.... Philosophy expresses a particle of it. "
On the lake
A loon is calling...
Long distance.
Moon gazing...looking at it,
It clouds over.
Not looking,
It becomes clear.
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If you could get rid
Of yourself just once,
The secret of secrets
Would open to you.
The face of the unknown,
Hidden beyond the universe
Would appear on the
Mirror of your perception.Rumi
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Where is mine enemy ?
Where is mine foe ?
Where's my Goliath ?
To slay with one blow.
When passions arise.....
When the addiction it bites.....
When anger stirs.....
There's your fight.
Geo Wain
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" No definition of poetry is adequate...unless it be poetry itself. "
So the poet's habit of living should be set on a key so low and plain,
that the common influences should delight him. His cheerfulness should
be the gift of the sunlight; the air should suffice for his inspiration,
and he should be tipsy with water.
"THE GREAT PEARL"
Covered by the content of consciousness,
Hidden by the shadow, the shadow that is self.
Indescribable.....Undefineable..... and Unapproachable;
Shimmering, glimmering, and utterly Pure.
In Its' voidless ocean, the concept lies, unbegotten;
Small wonder It cannot be found.
What a change in perspective ! Awareness with no 'of.'
Geo Wain
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Far beyond ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing,
There is a field.......I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
The world is too full to talk about.
Ideas ! language ! Even the term "each other"
Doesn't make any sense.
Rumi
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"The language of poetry is infantile....it cannot talk"
I had been hungry, all the Years....
My Noon had Come...to dine....
I trembling drew the Table near....
And touched the Curious Wine....
'Twas this on Tables I had seen....
When turning, hungry, Home
I looked in Windows, for the Wealth
I could not hope...for Mine....
I did not know the ample Bread....
'Twas so unlike the Crumb....
The Birds and I, had often shared....
In Nature's...Dining Room....
The Plenty hurt me...'twas so new....
Myself felt ill...and odd....
As Berry...of a Mountain Bush....
Transplanted ...to the Road....
Nor was I hungry...so I found....
That Hunger...was a way....
Of Persons outside Windows....
The Entering... takes away.
Emily Dickinson
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Be ye lamps unto youselves,
Rely on yourselves;
Do not rely on any external help.
Hold fast to the Truth as to a lamp;
Seek salvation alone in the Truth;
Look not to assistance to anyone besides yourselves.
Who wearies not, but holds fast to his Truth,
Shall cross this ocean of life.....
Shall cease suffering.
Buddha
I AM
I am the seed from which I sprout
I am the root of the fruit I bare
I am the breath of the life that I live
And the soul for the love I share.
I am hope of the future I see
I am the memory of all my past
I am everything I have made of me
I am me, and for that, is all I can ask.
Barry Ellison
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"Nothing is so rare as sense.... very uncommon sense is poetry"
" ACORNS. "
Consider with me your lifetime
The last acorn on earth to be,
And listen with me to the sawmill
Consuming the last oak tree.
Consider again with me;
Acorns without number,
And Immortality.
Geo Wain.
He only understands, who understands it not.
From him who understands, 'tis evermore concealed.
For it is not revealed to him who knowledge hath,
But unto him who hath it not; the secret is revealed.
A billion stars go spinning through the night.
Blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that will be;
When all the stars are dead.
Rilke
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The centipede was happy, quite,
Until a toad in fun
Said " Pray which leg goes after which ?"
This worked his mind to such a pitch,
He lay distracted in a ditch,
Considering how to run.
Seek and ye shall find....That;
It cannot be found by searching.... but:
Only searchers find it !
Happiness is your nature. It is not wrong to desire it. What is wrong is seeking it outside when it is inside.
Ramana Maharishi.
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Walk not in the footsteps of those who have gone before,
Go instead where there is no path, And leave a trail.
Emerson
The scriptures should be read in the moment of one breath,
No-one has need to ponder over each word and phrase;
The Truth reveals itself in a natural way.
It is not necessary to consult the hermit on the hill.
And if the earthly no longer know your name,
To the silent earth whisper; " I'm flowing."
To the flashing brook say; " I am."
Rilke
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" Poetry communicates....before it is understood. "
Fasting.
There's a hidden sweetness in the stomach's emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less.
If the soundbox is stuffed full of anything,
No music.
If the brain and the belly are burning clean with fasting,
Every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears,
And new energy makes you run up the steps in front of you.
Be emptier,
And cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
When you're full of food and drink,
An ugly metal statue sits where your Spirit should.
When you fast, good habits gather
Like friends, who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon's ring
Don't give it to some illusion,
And lose your power, but even if you have,
If you've lost all will and control,
They come back when you fast,
Like soldiers appearing out of the ground,
Pennants flying above them.
A table descends to your tent,
Jesus' table.
Expect to see it, when you fast,
This table spread with food,
Better than the broth of cabbages.
Rumi.
Poetry page 2
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