Poetry Chaikhana Blog

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Millennium blessing
by Stephen Levine

There is a grace approaching
that we shun as much as death,
it is the completion of our birth.

And that is what we sing about.

— from Breaking the Drought: Visions of Grace, by Stephen Levine

/ Photo by DCist /

Oh, I like this poem, don’t you?

That opening statement is so true–

There is a grace approaching
that we shun as much as death,
it is the completion of our birth.

Most of us spend our entire lives avoiding that inner opening. Most of the time it is a quiet itch at the back of the awareness we squirm and turn away from. And when it really presses on us, it can inspire terror, as if we were facing death.

That’s the thing: That oh-so-sweet moment of awakening is only sweet on the other side of the threshold. But to approach it is to face death. It is the death of our old world view, the death of patterned awareness, the death of our limited notion of who we are. All we thought ourselves to be stops — and so it is a sort of death. To feel that grace approaching, to welcome it, requires a wild sort of courage.

It is an insistent grace that draws us
to the edge and beckons us to surrender
safe territory and enter our enormity.

It requires courage, and surrender. We have this idea that spiritual opening is a terrible effort — No. That unfolding wants to occur within us. The only effort is to let go of our endless strategies to halt the process. We all feel it, a gentle prodding to let the heart open, to know ourselves truly, to be present and radiate ourselves into the world.

It is insistent, trying to happen within us. Call it grace, if you like. The question presented to us: Do we courageously accept that invitation or not?

It does not come in time,
      but in timelessness
when the mind sinks into the heart
and we remember.

For those of us who live in contemporary society, how hard is it to stop the ticking of the clock? From such an early age we internalize the sense of time and progress and deadlines. Yet, in doing so, we forget that these are all just concepts, just one way to understand the unfolding of being and experience. That sense of time is a powerful tool for doing and accomplishment, but it isn’t inherently “real.” It doesn’t have much to do with who or what we are. There is a flow of days and months, but they are the surface current of a much deeper timelessness.

I remember in my 20s trying to figure out what timelessness was. I sought to live in remote places. I got rid of the television (to which, as a child raised on sitcoms in the 1970s, I had a serious addiction). I spent a lot of time in nature. I slowly learned to let go of the endless buzzing of my thoughts. This might sound like some brutal endurance sport, but that wasn’t it at all. I wanted to feel what life was without the filters of the 20th century mind set and 20th century time. I wanted to know who I was in the space of timelessness.

It’s fascinating how we use the hyperactivity of thought to define the world, to frame our perception of the world, and in some ways to limit our notion of the world. The other thing about thought: It creates time. When thought settles down, we discover timelessness. And as the poet says, the mind comes to rest, not in the head, but in the heart.

And we remember. It is not through intellection but through stillness that we remember. Look at the word “remember.” Re-member. To remember is to finally see how apparently separated reality actually fits together in a single body. Discursive thought can only ever examine pieces of the whole. To remember is to have the full vision of Wholeness, as things actually are. But this vision is found in timelessness and stillness, through the quiet mind unfiltered.

And there is nothing left to say
but we are That.

And that is what we sing about.

Have a beautiful day!

Stephen Levine US (1937 – ) Secular or Eclectic

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Whether our stories are epic or humble,
whether we live on the sharp edges or the flat plains,
we are all on an immense journey.

I will praise thy works (from The Communions)
by Edmond Bordeaux Szekely

I will praise thy works
With songs of thanksgiving,
Continually,
In all the generations of time.
With the coming of day
I embrace my Mother,
With the coming of night,
I join my Father,
And with the outgoing
Of evening and morning
I will breathe Their Law,
And I will not interrupt these Communions
Until the end of time.

— from The Essene Gospel of Peace: Book Two: The Unknown Books of the Essenes, by Edmond Bordeaux Szekely

/ Photo by /

This psalm reminds me of mornings living on Maui. I’d wake up early, go for a barefoot walk among the eucalyptus forest breathing the cool mountain air, sit and meditate in a small cave while the sun rose. I fasted a lot, and ate mostly uncooked foods, wild greens, papayas, guavas, bananas… It was a time when I intensely nurtured a joyful, intimate connection with both the worlds of nature and spirit — with both the Mother and the Father, as Szekely might say.

With the coming of day
I embrace my Mother,
With the coming of night,
I join my Father…

Szekely’s Essene material is fascinating within the Christian tradition in that it overtly recognizes God as both Father and Mother. At dawn practitioners of the neo-Essene tradition commune with God as the “Earthly Mother” through the forces of nature as one prepares for the activities of the day in the physical world. Later, in preparation for the internal world of the evening, the communion is with God as the “Heavenly Father” by connecting to the highest qualities of the human spirit, like love, wisdom, and peace.

And with the outgoing
Of evening and morning
I will breathe Their Law…

Have a beautiful day!

Edmond Bordeaux Szekely Hungary/France/Mexico (1905 – 1979) Timeline Christian

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Instead of memorizing the words of scripture,
become the blank page
that effortlessly displays them.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing
by Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi

English version by Coleman Barks

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
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 phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.

— from The Essential Rumi, Translated by Coleman Barks

/ Photo by Ktoine /

You’ve been wondering where the poem emails went, right? I had another bout of chronic fatigue, the first in a while. When that happens, I use it as a prompt from the universe to step back, quiet down, refocus, turn inward.

I’ve received so many touching, caring notes in the past expressing concern over these patterns of CFS/ME. Since there has been such interest, I thought I’d use this opportunity to say a little more about what this issue is in my life…

People who are unfamiliar with chronic fatigue syndrome see the word “fatigue” and often assume it’s the same thing as being tired and overworked. The name “chronic fatigue syndrome” is misleading, since the exhaustion felt is more profound than most people experience in normal life, a deep lack of energy that doesn’t renew itself very well even with lots of rest. And fatigue is only one of many debilitating symptoms that can kick in. Other symptoms include shakiness, dizziness, hypersensitivity to noise and activity. Some compare their symptoms with a recurring fever or debilitating migraine. Others experience CFS as something comparable to the post traumatic stress disorder of combat veterans, a shattering overload of the nervous system.

Believe it or not, my case is labeled a “mild” one. Although I can’t work a normal 40+ hour work week, and I occasionally have periods like this past week where I miss several days of work in a row, I can still hold down a job. Not so with more extreme cases of CFS. Some people are literally bedridden for weeks or months at a time. Others can’t process strong sensory inputs and so stick close to home and controlled routines. Unable to fulfill traditional social roles, many struggle to maintain marriages and friendships. Because there is no obvious physical sign of injury or illness, a person with CFS is sometimes thought to be lazy or mislabeled as emotionally depressed. Many with CFS believe these assessments themselves, leading to further confusion and self-condemnation. It can be a very lonely sort of health struggle.

Because I have mentioned my own challenges with CFS in the past, I’ve received quite a few notes of thanks for going public and raising awareness of these issues. I haven’t really thought of myself as an advocate, just someone trying to integrate spirit with the daily experience of life in a body in the world… And I’m a talkative fellow, so, if it’s in my thoughts, it eventually finds its way into this public forum. I’m glad to hear how helpful that has been to some.

I send blessings to all my friends dealing with similar health challenges — you are not alone. Remember: These experiences can be tools for self-awareness along the spiritual path. Don’t waste them. Use them.

Sending much love!

(Back to more poetry next week!)

Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi Afghanistan & Turkey (1207 – 1273) Timeline Muslim / Sufi

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Every word is an incantation,
each thought a spell.
Use your magic
wisely.

Variation On A Theme By Rilke
by Denise Levertov

(The Book of Hours, Book I, Poem 1, Stanza 1)

A certain day became a presence to me;
there it was, confronting me — a sky, air, light:
a being. And before it started to descend
from the height of noon, it leaned over
and struck my shoulder as if with
the flat of a sword, granting me
honor and a task. The day’s blow
rang out, metallic — or it was I, a bell awakened,
and what I heard was my whole self
saying and singing what it knew: I can.

— from Breathing the Water, by Denise Levertov

/ Photo by mcciva1 /

The Rilke verse referenced is–

The hour is striking so close above me,
so clear and sharp,
that all my senses ring with it.
I feel it now: there’s a power in me
to grasp and give shape to my world.

(translation by Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy)

Today, as every day, is a perfect day to ring out like a bell awakened…

Denise Levertov US (1923 – 1997) Timeline Secular or Eclectic : Beat Jewish

More poetry by Denise Levertov

Belief isn’t very nourishing.
Direct perception is what the soul craves.

The Beloved Comes Home
by Mirabai

English version by V. K. Sethi

The one I longed for has come home;
The raging fire of separation is quenched.
Now I rejoice with Him, I sing in bliss.

That very Lord has become my own
Who is ever the redeemer of His devotees.
Mira’s heart, scorched by the blaze of separation,
Has become cool and refreshed;
The pain of duality has vanished.

— from Mira: The Divine Lover (Mystics of the East Series), Translated by V. K. Sethi

/ Photo by Koshyk /

The one I longed for has come home;
The raging fire of separation is quenched.
Now I rejoice with Him, I sing in bliss.

Mirabai, the great lover devotee of God, sings to us of the joy of union, communion…

The lily bursts into bloom
At the sight of the full moon

In Indian metaphysics, the masculine aspect of the Divine is often compared to the beauty of the moon, which the (feminine) soul instinctively yearns for. And mystics the world over compare the experience of spiritual illumination with the gently descending light of the full moon.

The lily that bursts into bloom is the crown chakra, the energetic seat of enlightenment, often described as a brilliant thousand petaled lotus flower (water lily). When awakened, it unfolds, and the lover experiences mystical union while bathed in light.

Seeing Him, my heart blossoms in joy.
Peace permeates this body of mine;
His arrival has filled my home with bliss.

The body and mind come to rest, tensions fall away. The awareness is filled with peace and immense bliss. The heart too opens. When the attention is drawn inward, the wide open heart experiences this great bliss as joy; when the attention turns outward, the heart feels an all-embracing love.

In this bliss, in this wholeness, the fundamental pain of separation is lost. Amidst the larger, blissful sense of Self that emerges, separation is perceived to have been an illusion, phantom-like, dispelled along with that collection of psychic tensions carried since early childhood.

This is how Mirabai can sing–

Mira’s heart, scorched by the blaze of separation,
Has become cool and refreshed;
The pain of duality has vanished.

I look outside: such a lovely spring day in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. A perfect day to sit at the doorsill, awaiting the Beloved’s arrival.

Mirabai India (1498 – 1565?) Timeline Yoga / Hindu : Vaishnava (Krishna/Rama)

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In your pursuit of God,
sometimes — you must be extreme;
always — you must be supremely balanced.

Walking Meditation
by Thich Nhat Hanh

Take my hand.
We will walk.
We will only walk.
We will enjoy our walk
without thinking of arriving anywhere.
Walk peacefully.
Walk happily.
Our walk is a peace walk.
Our walk is a happiness walk.

Earth will be safe
when we feel in us enough safety.

— from Call Me by My True Names: The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh, by Thich Nhat Hanh

/ Photo by BinaryApe /

Something for us today by Thich Nhat Hanh, Zen monk, peace activist, author, meditation teacher…

This doesn’t feel entirely like a “poem” to me; it’s more like rhythmic, chant-like set of instructions. Reading these words I can almost hear Thich Nhat Hanh’s gentle voice offering these suggestions to us as we engage in walking meditation.

Often we imagine a very stern notion of what meditation is, and it involves sitting rigidly still. Walking meditation invites us to move, to interact with our environment — but with a sense of presence, with full awareness, with resting mind. This allows the body to move in its natural fluidity without growing stiff. It encourages a full, easy flow of the breath.

But, in walking meditation, we are not marching from point A to point B–

We will enjoy our walk
without thinking of arriving anywhere.

We are dropping the purpose and destination from our stride. The way we walk is important. Resting mind, allowing mind, welcoming heart.

It is not an easy thing to move through a garden or down the sidewalk without becoming attached to the thousand things we see or think. The reflex is to collapse the awareness with each small encounter, like a fisherman with a net, trying to ensnare and possess the world. But to keep that net of awareness open, spread wide, to witness the magical moment, to watch it dance for its instant in the sun, and then to allow it to drift past, that it is the gentle work of the meditator.

To walk through the world, with a sense of peace in the heart and belly, feeling simple happiness beneath the worries of the day, touching the earth and being touched by the earth, seeing and encountering without constricting the awareness, secure enough to know ourselves, where we are, what we are part of… we are doing walking meditation.

Kiss the Earth with your feet.
Print on Earth your love and happiness.

Earth will be safe
when we feel in us enough safety.

Have a beautiful day!

Thich Nhat Hanh Vietnam/France/US (1929 – ) Buddhist : Zen / Chan

More poetry by Thich Nhat Hanh

Joy is an art.

Last night, as I was sleeping
by Antonio Machado

English version by Robert Bly

Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt — marvelous error!–
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

      Last night, as I slept,
I dreamt — marvelous error!–
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

— from Times Alone: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado, Translated by Robert Bly

/ Photo by sammydavisdog /

This is my favorite poem by the Spanish poet Antonio Machado. Actually, it’s one of my favorite poems, period.

It speaks so richly for itself that no commentary is necessary to be caught in its spell. But I do want to take a moment to explore how this poem strongly parallels the mystic’s ecstatic experience…

In this poem, Machado discovers continual delights in his heart. Similarly, in the state of mystical union, the heart seems to expand, filling with a joy that encompasses everything.

The spring “breaking out” in his heart, running along a “secret aqueduct,” bringing “water of new life” — this is often part of sacred ecstasy. Mystics often experience a sensation of drinking some unknown liquid that warms the heart and fills one with a bubbling sense of life previously unknown and unimagined.

This “drink” is perceived as being sweet, eliciting comparisons to honey or wine. Thus, Machado discovers “white combs / and sweet honey” in his heart.

In such overwhelming delight one feels radically restored and whole. All past guilts and “failures” seem somehow resolved, transformed into the very matter that this joy is built upon.

And the awareness is filled with the perception of a radiant light, while the body is permeated with a great warmth — like a “fiery sun.”

Indeed, caught up in this experience, how can you doubt that it is God you have inside your heart?

——-

A note about that phrase “marvelous error” which has some people confused. I think Bly’s translation of that line is misleading. Machado’s actual line in Spanish is “bendita ilusión.” A more exact translation might be “blessed illusion or dream.” When I read that, I don’t hear Machado calling this experience an “error”; it’s more of a vision…

——-

It’s a lovely spring day here. The bees are out among the lilacs and apple blossoms. A good day to discover their hidden comb…

Antonio Machado Spain (1875 – 1939) Timeline Secular or Eclectic

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Even in darkness we see,
and we see we are not alone.

[6] A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands (from Song of Myself)
by Walt Whitman

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands,
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roof of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.

— from Song of Myself, by Walt Whitman

/ Photo by NJ /

Whitman’s meditation on grass. I can tell, a few of you are rolling your eyes. After all, it’s just… well, grass. The same green plant surrounding every suburban home, and growing tall in every field and hillside all over the world. We tread on it every day. We know what grass is: it’s forgettable.

Not so, says Whitman. We think we know what grass is and remain ignorant. It’s easy through familiarity to become blind. We see a lawn, mentally label it as “grass,” and never really look or bother to know this plant with which we share so much of the world.

This is what is so startling and refreshing about Whitman’s opening line–

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands,
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

This seems to me the most honest response. Most people presume they know exactly what grass is and can therefore dismiss it from their awareness. But the poet properly sees in it a vast, living mystery to be considered.

With Whitman we ask, what is grass really?

It is green hope. It is a handkerchief flirtatiously dropped by God to draw our thoughts to the lovely Face. It is the “babe of vegetation,” the embodiment of new life and new growth in the plant world.

It is a hieroglyphic, a message layered with hidden meaning. It is a universal teaching encoded in life itself: Like the world’s green grasses, we must give generously of ourselves, equally to high and low, without regard to race or nation. Like the grass, it is our nature to grow and to be present, to share our life in every land and landscape.

Then Whitman enters an extended meditation on how grass connects life and death–

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves…
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men…

Why this gloomy turn? He doesn’t just imagine the graves of the elderly, people who had lived a full measure of life, but he sees too the graves of young men even infants “taken soon out of their mothers’ laps.” It is important to remember that Whitman is writing in the aftermath of the American Civil War. In fact, during the war, he worked in the New York hospitals. He well knew the unromantic realities of war, how the young are sacrificed, the loss of an entire generation.

But you notice here, and elsewhere in his poetry, he makes room even for suffering and violence and death in his philosophy. While he clearly has a compassionate heart, he doesn’t simply label some experiences as unjust which he will then heroically oppose. Instead, it is as if he watches it all — the beauty and the suffering, everything — unfolding… within himself. It is all him; it is all in the scope of his being. Doing this, he accomplishes a truly courageous feat: integration.

Through that integration, we gain a new vision. We see not life with its end in death, but a living, organic flow of life becoming life becoming life, a perpetual vision of self-renewal. And the grass is the embodiment of this process.

While the dead lie beneath the ground, this green life grows from their now quiet bodies, nourished by their hopes. From the dead comes such pure, delicate new life.

Though there is definitely much to be mourned in Whitman’s catalog of the dead, personally I find it profoundly healing. The grass, the growth of new life, seems to draw even the most “wrongful” death into a realm of wholeness and continuity. This vision, which has made room for death, yet understood it as part of a greater unfolding of life, welcomes us back into the family of life. Is it weird to say that?

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.

Don’t you love that line?

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.

That last line, every time I read it I am brought to a halt, ready to laugh out loud. What is he saying? “To die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.”

This whole poem has been his observation of how life renews itself, even through death. But here Whitman seems to be implying something more personal and open-ended, as if his meditation has led him to the awareness that death is a sort of initiation into a broader participation in existence. He doesn’t seem to espouse a simplistic notion of life after death, but he definitely implies a continuation of awareness beyond death. What do you think he intended? Or did he intend a specific meaning at all? Maybe it’s more of a teasing, Zen-like riddle that doesn’t offer an answer so much as a pathway of questioning…

Walt Whitman US (1819 – 1892) Timeline Secular or Eclectic : Transcendentalist

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You have permission
to be rude
when protecting the vulnerable.