Poetry Chaikhana Blog

O ignis Spiritus Paracliti / Sequence for the Holy Spirit
by Hildegard von Bingen

English version by Barbara Newman

Fiery Spirit,
fount of courage,
life within life
of all that has being!

Praise then be yours!
you are the song of praise,
the delight of life,
a hope and a potent honor
granting garlands of light.

— from Symphonia: A Critical Edition of the Symphonia armonie celstium revelationum, by Hildegard of Bingen / Translated by Barbara Newman

/ Photo by Jimmy Benson /

The spring equinox has just passed (for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere). In the Persian calendar, Nowruz was just celebrated. Palm Sunday leading into Easter in the Christian world and Passover in Judaism… This is a time of renewal, a time to shake off the death and darkness of winter and embrace the new light and life offered to us by the world.

So I thought a meditation on the universal flow of life by the great Medieval mystic, Hildegard von Bingen would set the right tone for us today..

This song of praise is more than just a beautiful catalog of how God, in the motherly aspect of the Holy Spirit, is so important to creation. Read it deeply and you will see that a powerful and very specific vision is being communicated.

God, through the Holy Spirit, is “life within life / of all that has being.” This is an image of the formless, vivifying force of the divine, the Holy Breath that permeates all of manifest existence, everything in nature, every form, giving it life, making it holy, making it divine.

Through this divine animating spirit shared by all, all separate things are actually one: “you bind and gather / all people together.”

Especially notice the lines:

Out of you clouds
come streaming, winds
take wing from you, dashing
rain against stone;
and ever-fresh springs
well from you, washing
the evergreen globe.

Another translation renders these lines as:

From you clouds flow, air flies,
rocks have their humours,
rivers spring forth from the waters
and earth sweats her green vigour.

All of physical reality, even in its most solid forms of earth and rock, all of ‘solid’ reality… flows. Nothing is as tangible or stationary as it may superficially appear. All forms possess a sort of divine inner ‘sap’ — the fluid Holy Spirit — that is its true being or essence which shows itself as life: “and earth sweats her green vigour.”

This is not a dusty theological statement, but a vision of life, how the Divine flows unhindered through all of creation, and it is that flowing that is life. And all things, all people, you and I, we are not solid, separate physical bodies; we, too, are nothing less than that eternal flow.

O teacher of those who know,
a joy to the wise
is the breath of Sophia.

Hildegard von Bingen Germany (1098 – 1179) Timeline Christian : Catholic

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The birds have vanished into the sky
by Li Po

English version by Sam Hamill

The birds have vanished into the sky,
and now the last cloud drains away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.

— from Endless River: Li Po and Tu Fu: A Friendship in Poetry, Translated by Sam Hamill

/ Photo by FelineShadowDancer /

We can read a lot into this poem, or very little.

One way to read Li Po’s poem is that the birds are like chattering thoughts. They represent the movement within the mind. But thoughts can soar so high, reach such elevated levels, that they vanish in the sky of mind.

The clouds might be understood as obstructions of awareness, limiting the perception of the untainted vast sky-mind. And, with the birds, clouds too “drain away” in deep stillness.

(Yet, even when clouds are thick and heavy, even when birds flit about in their busyness, the sky itself, original mind, contains it all and remains pure and untainted beyond the obstructions.)

The mountain is that which is eternal, fixed, both rooted in the earth and touching the heavens. Watching this “mountain” of eternal presence long enough, in deep stillness you find that you are nowhere to be seen. You are surprised to discover that everything you reflexively called “me” was never really there in the first place, and “only the mountain remains.” The “mountain” is finally recognized as your true Self, your only self, eternal. Effortlessly, you bridge heaven and earth by your very nature. And only That remains.

OR –

You can ignore all of that, and just step into the landscape.

Li Po China (701 – 762) Timeline Taoist

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The Fountain
by Denise Levertov

Don’t say, don’t say there is no water
to solace the dryness at our hearts.
I have seen

up and out through the rock.

— from Poems: 1960-1967, by Denise Levertov

/ Photo by Weaselmcfee /

Don’t say, don’t say there is no water
to solace the dryness at our hearts.
I have seen

the fountain springing out of the rock wall
and you drinking there. And I too…

The image of this fountain has such rich resonance.

The water and the “dryness at our hearts.”

Its water springing out of the rock wall.

Footholds allowing us to climb.

Drinking the cool water.

The “woman of that place,” waiting to make sure we drink our fill.

And Levertov’s exhortation, “Don’t say, don’t say there is no water.” That line, to me, is the pulsing heart of the poem. Those words follow you long after the rest of the poem softens into the gossamer of memory.

It is still there and always there…

it is still there and always there
with its quiet song and strange power
to spring in us…

Rather than try to offer my own understanding of this poem, I’ll just let these words work their wet alchemy, their “quiet song and strange power… to spring in us.”

Have a beautiful day!

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

More poetry by Denise Levertov

[6] And David’s Lips are lock’t; but in divine
by Omar Khayyam

English version by Edward FitzGerald

And David’s Lips are lock’t; but in divine
High piping Pehlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!
      “Red Wine!” — the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.

— from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, by Omar Khayyam / Translated by Edward FitzGerald

/ Photo by LutherHarkon /

“David’s Lips are lock’t” — saying nothing, except singing the praises of wine. I’ve spoken several times before of wine as a metaphor for bliss and the ‘celestial drink’ of divine communion…

The relationship of the nightingale to the rose is important in Middle Eastern love poetry, and it becomes elevated to sacred levels of meaning in the poetry of the Sufis.

The rose, with its wine-like scent and deep red color, is sometimes thought of as a more tangible embodiment of wine. More broadly, it is a symbol of the Beloved, of God. The rose unfolds in a gentle circling that invites one to yield inward. It is a symbol of lovers and of union. The rose resonates strongly with the gently awakened heart.

The rose grows from a bush of thorns yet reveals a delicate inner beauty and shares an intimate, sweet wine-like fragrance, symbolic of how the soul emerges from the tribulations of worldly difficulty and, in so doing, recognizes her innate beauty.

The nightingale, like a lover, sings its heartbreaking songs in the cool of the evening, in love with the beauty of the rose. In sacred poetry, then, the rose is God and the nightingale is the spiritual seeker who calls out in the night, like the devout in midnight prayers or zikr.

Reread that last phrase again: “the Nightingale cries to the Rose / That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.” The most obvious way to read this is that nightingale with her yellow cheek calls out to the “incarnadine” red of the rose. But a possible alternate reading is that the yellow cheek is transformed, somehow taking on the “incarnadine” (blood-red, life-filled) color of the rose. Read this way, the more passionately the lover yearns for the Beloved, aches for the Beloved, calls out to the Beloved, the more the lover takes on the nature of the Beloved. In divine communion, we don’t merely touch the Eternal, we discover it emerging from within.

Omar Khayyam Iran/Persia (11th Century) Timeline Muslim / Sufi

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Trust Your Vision
by Stephen Levine

Trust your vision
      make it whole
      hold it like the Navajo
      his solemn desert oracle
      in quest of shaman passage
      gaining his healing chant
      guiding him through life.

Act on your vision
      and pray that you are blessed.

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

/ Photo by AlicePopkorn /

I found out last night that Michael Black, a good friend, died unexpectedly a few days ago. He was hit by a truck while walking along the side of a road.

Michael was a generous soul, a man of immense love and great heart. He was an environmental scientist, a lover of nature, and a visionary. The world is blessed by his journey through it.

According to his girlfriend, the last thing Michael wrote, on February 27, was a lovely meditation on death:

Death is neither something to be judged nor feared, but rather approached with compassionate dignity. The Arc of life is both fleeting and profound; our lessons stemming from being present all along the way. You are being invited to hold space for the living and the dead, for in their conscious re-union is an opportunity to return to celebrating the entirety of life, carrying forward accumulated lessons which, once acknowledged, cease being either “tears or breaks in the field of love.”

Sending love to Michael’s son, his girlfriend, and everyone who was lucky enough to know him.

Stephen Levine US (1937 – ) Secular or Eclectic

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Pain
by Kahlil Gibran

And a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain.
And he said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

Much of your pain is self-chosen,
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

— from The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran

/ Photo by techn04life /

Monday’s poem sparked some fascinating discussions. Many of the notes and comments I received were responses to Rumi’s emphasis on suffering in that poem. Several people argued that suffering is not required for spiritual growth. Others found a certain comfort in the idea that suffering is part of the spiritual process, giving meaning to their own sometimes terrible struggles. So many wise, compassionate viewpoints.

I don’t want to suggest that I believe pain is necessary. I do believe, however, that suffering can be used. Difficult experiences can serve a profound purpose — when we approach them with awareness and with heart.

I would like to look at this question of suffering and spirituality from a slightly different angle today. What if the suffering is the suffering of the ego?

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

When we believe that we are that ego, then we experience the ego’s suffering as pain. We take it personally, and fear it could lead to death and, worse, nonexistence.

But– when we carefully, elegantly free ourselves from the notion that we are the ego, not merely as a philosophical idea but as a directly experienced reality, then what does the suffering of the ego mean to us? What is the ego exactly? When we come to see the ego as nothing more than a phantom, a mental construction, then the suffering itself becomes phantom-like. It is more like the unfolding drama of a movie being watched. It can be intense, heart-breaking, occasionally beautiful, but we no longer experience it as personal. It is no longer seen as an attack on our being.

Suffering, from that perspective, is not about pain or loss of being; instead it is seen as a form of alchemical pressure. When we keep our awareness engaged, we can use suffering as a form of transformational intensity, turning the crushed grape into wine…

Let’s also keep in mind that mystics often use the language of pain to describe spiritual opening, often in a shockingly positive light. They may refer to a “sweet pain” or a “healing pain.” This “pain” has a few levels of meaning and types of experience.

On one level, the pain can be quite literal and even physical. But it might be more accurate to refer to this as “intensity” rather than “pain.” It can be as if the senses and the perceptual mind’s ability to process it all gets overloaded. The mystic then experiences a searing, cleansing sort of intensity, that might be called pain.

Through profound opening, one feels everything more completely, a sort of universal empathy. There is a lot of hidden suffering in the world and, at a certain point, we feel it as our own. (Actually, we always feel it anyway, but the walls of denial fall away, and we become aware of it for the first time.) In a directly sentient way, we become aware of the interconnectedness of life. Initially, that flood of feeling is intense, even painful, but that is the pain of the heart breaking open. It becomes a sort of wound one carries, but it resolves itself to a beauty and sense of unity that manages to integrate even the most terrible suffering.

Other mystics speak of a wounding in a more metaphorical sense. The pain experienced is the perception of one’s separation from God. But that pain itself is the doorway to reunion. By allowing oneself to become completely vulnerable to that pain, to surrender to it, the mystic finds the pain transformed into the blissful touch of the Beloved.

In the past, I’ve written–

Your most secret wound
is the doorway.

Ultimately, all of these forms of pain are the pain of the pierced ego. For one with inner balance, where the protective but limiting shell of the ego is no longer necessary, that pain points the way to freedom.

For this reason, mystics and saints describe the pain as being sweet or joyful or beautiful. It is, in fact, the beginning of bliss.

Sending much love to everyone!

Kahlil Gibran Lebanon/US (1883 – 1931) Timeline Christian Secular or Eclectic

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The grapes of my body can only become wine
by Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi

English version by Andrew Harvey

The grapes of my body can only become wine
After the winemaker tramples me.
I surrender my spirit like grapes to his trampling
So my inmost heart can blaze and dance with joy.
Although the grapes go on weeping blood and sobbing
“I cannot bear any more anguish, any more cruelty”
The trampler stuffs cotton in his ears: “I am not working in ignorance
You can deny me if you want, you have every excuse,
But it is I who am the Master of this Work.
And when through my Passion you reach Perfection,
You will never be done praising my name.”

— from The Way of Passion: A Celebration of Rumi, by Andrew Harvey

/ Photo by Christ Potako /

This verse by Rumi says so much. Here he is telling us that the wine of the mystic is really the refined essence of oneself. It is formed from “the grapes of my body.” The wine is the juice emitted by the ego, the selfish, separate idea of the self when it finally surrenders and allows itself to be crushed into non-existence.

Of course, working toward that complete surrender can be terrifying… so long as we identify with the ego. There are times when the seeker calls out, “I cannot bear any more anguish, any more cruelty.” But the Winemaker, caring for us too much to let us remain comfortably incomplete, continues with the work, knowing the pure sweetness of completion.

When we finally free ourselves from identification with the ego-self and reverently place it as a sacrifice upon the wine press, we watch it collapse into nothing, the old “you” becomes nothing — it dies, but something new is born. From the death of the grape, the juice appears!

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

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The scariest people are those
who’ve grown tired of questions
and so brutalize the world with simplistic answers.

Riddle
by Gharib Nawaz

English version by Peter Lamborn Wilson and Nasrollah Pourjavady

Lord,
      whose face is this
            reflected in spirit’s mirror?
                  Such beauty painted
                        on the inner screen–
                              who is he?
Each atom
      in all space
            is filled…
                  Who transcends the galaxies,
                        shows himself in every molecule–
                              who is he?
Sun
      in the costume
            of various specks of dust
                  sparks forth various rays
                        of light at every moment–
                              who is he?
Outwardly
      you appear in the meat
            of our existence
                  but he who is hidden
                        in soul’s marrow–
                              who is he?
In soul’s fete
      every now and again he sings
            a new song, melodies of peace
                  touching the veils
                        of the people of the heart–
                              who is he?
He who manifests himself
      upon himself
            makes love to himself
                  in the name
                        of lovers–
                              who is he?
How many times, Mo’in
      will you drag yourself and me
            between us?
                  He, the goal of I and thou,
                        is there — right there!
                              Who is he?

— from The Drunken Universe: An Anthology of Persian Sufi Poetry, Translated by Peter Lamborn Wilson / Translated by Nasrollah Pourjavady

/ Photo by Lady Dragonfly /

A riddle for us today–

Lord,
      whose face is this
            reflected in spirit’s mirror?
                  Such beauty painted
                        on the inner screen–
                              who is he?

The thinking mind, every eager for praise, says this is an easy riddle. Clearly the poet is speaking of God.

Having answered, the mind believes it can then dismiss the question and move on to the next puzzle. But answering the puzzle is not the same thing as solving it.

We are speaking of the mystic’s grand mysteries here, not to be neatly tied up in a conceptual answer, but to be witnessed, experienced directly. We don’t answer this question, we participate in it, we give ourselves to it, and thus know.

Each atom
      in all space
            is filled…
                  Who transcends the galaxies,
                        shows himself in every molecule–
                              who is he?

There is a riddle within a riddle here. How is it that the immense Eternal, transcending the vast universe, can still be discovered within the smallest mote of creation?

How is it that the great Unity is still found at the heart of every atom of separated reality?

Sun
      in the costume
            of various specks of dust
                  sparks forth various rays
                        of light at every moment–
                              who is he?

How does the One Light divide itself into every ray and glimmer? How is the radiant measure of time found within time?

We look without and see a world, a universe, expanses beyond the mind’s comprehension. Small patterns join into great tapestries, multiplicities form a unified vision. And the One is all that and more.

Yet– when we look within, into the heart of the smallest grain or the mirror of one’s own soul, and instead of smallness, we again see expanses! How can the individual contain that which contains the stars? An impossibility! Yet the mystic sees it is so.

The intellect, having quickly answered its question, is content — and remains blind. But the full awareness, fully engaged, sees the full mystery, and in its awe is unable to answer.

He, the goal of I and thou,
                        is there — right there!
                              Who is he?

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The Canticle of Brother Sun
by Francis of Assisi

English version by Ivan M. Granger

My Lord most high, all-powerful, all-good,
Celebration, light, and all sweet blessings are yours,
      yours alone.
No man speaks
      who can speak your Name.

Sing praises!
Offer holy blessings to my Lord!
In gratitude, selflessly offer yourself to him.

/ Photo by rkramer62 /

St. Francis composed his masterpiece, the Canticle of Brother Sun, in three parts. The first part in praise of the beauty and holiness of nature as a reflection of the Divine, was written in the Spring of 1225, immediately after he received the stigmata during an extended meditation retreat among a group of caves.

The second section, the segment on forgiveness and peace, was composed soon after, perhaps in response to the squabbling of political and religious authorities in Assisi.

The final verses were written late the following year as St. Francis was dying, in which he seems to be greeting “sister death.”

This hymn is one of the first great works written in Italian. At the time, Latin was the language of the Church and of learning. Yet, as part of Francis’s humility and affinity with the common people, he composed this praise poem in simple Italian so all could be inspired by it.

Praise for brother sun and sister moon, for the living wind and water and fire and earth. Praise for love and peace, without which the living awareness collapses to barrenness. And praise to death, too, who, in the fulness of time, brings completion and life’s final initiation. Through this poem we witness the whole pageant of life as it expresses itself through us and all the world.

Francis of Assisi Italy (1181 – 1226) Timeline Christian : Catholic

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The Buddha’s Last Instruction
by Mary Oliver

“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal — a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire –
clearly I’m not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.

— from House of Light, by Mary Oliver

/ Photo by christopher /

This is as much a story as a poem, a retelling of the final moment of the Buddha’s life.

“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.

Mm. This simple affirmation of illumination at the moment of death continues to resonate… through the lines of this poem, and through the centuries.

Mary Oliver immediately recognizes this as a statement, not of death, but of renewal and the continuation of life.

I think of this every morning…

We are brought, by Mary Oliver’s line, immediately to the dawn. Not the last dimming of light, but the beginning of the new day.

Knowing it is his last moment, with a life of great striving and penetrating insight behind him, “he might have said anything.” Of all the possible philosophical summations and encapsulations, he chooses instead the radiant wisdom embodied by the sun, which lights and warms the whole world.

The poet seems stunned by such a clear, unencumbered statement with the Buddha’s final breath. Stunned, we stumble into deeper awareness.

clearly I’m not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.

I love these lines. Contemplating the passage of death while affirming the fulness of light and life, somehow we, along with the poet, no longer stand at the center of the world’s narrative.

When we really pay attention to the story being told all around us, a story that’s been unfolding for ages, the attention shifts away from that perpetual certainty that it is all about “me.” But rather than feeling empty or betrayed, we find ourselves alive and aware and filled with a bubbling glee. We find ourselves made of a gossamer-thin tissue of light.

Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.

These closing lines are so striking. We’ve had an entire scene laid out for us, villagers gathering to be present at the death of this great teacher. The weak and dying Buddha raises his head and looks into the faces of the crowd… and they are frightened. Now, why is that?

I imagine it is because of what they see in the Buddha’s eyes: the great mystery, naked and unguarded in that last loving glance.

Mary Oliver US (1935 – ) Secular or Eclectic

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On Those Words “I am for My Beloved”
by Teresa of Avila

English version by Megan Don

Already I gave myself completely,
and have changed in such a way
That my Beloved is for me
and I am for my Beloved.

He pierced me with an arrow
laced with the herbs of love
and my soul became one
with her Creator;
I no longer want another love,
since I have given myself to my God,
That My Beloved is for me
and I am for my Beloved.

/ Photo by stevekc /

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and we are also in the season of Lent. I thought this meditation on love and the soul’s yielding to the Beloved was just right.

I was sent this poem directly by the translator, Megan Don. She is the author of Falling Into the Arms of God: Meditations with Teresa of Avila — a truly beautiful collection of contemplations inspired by the writings of Teresa of Avila.

According to Megan Don, this poem by Teresa of Avila was written about her well-known mystical experience of feeling her heart being pierced with a rapturous love by an angel. This mystical experience also inspired the great Bernini to sculpt the controversial mystically erotic sculpture of Teresa.

A few of my own thoughts:

Saints and mystics the world over speak of the heart being touched, pierced, opened. They speak of being surprised by love. The problem is, we hear the world “love” and “heart” and we think of the simple sweetness of Valentine’s Day cards. We aren’t encouraged to develop a real concept of what these great souls are attempting to describe.

When the mind settles and the soul waits in courageously vulnerable readiness, the most amazing thing happens: the heart blooms. The heart opens and expands. Effortlessly, the heart reaches out, with a wider span than you ever imagined possible, embracing all of creation. We become flooded with something beyond feeling or emotion; there is a sense of finally recognizing one’s very nature within the heart. That this is home. That this is the seat of your being.

When focused inward, you are enraptured, filled with bliss. When focused outward, you are an embodiment of love, love that permeates everything. We begin to feel so much more, all the world’s suffering and searching and occasional surges of life, and it is all beautiful and somehow a part of us.

Think about these things. Consider what it means to have your heart truly “pierced” by the Divine. How do we prepare ourselves? How can we, in full honesty, say, “I gave myself completely,” and “I am for my Beloved”? What is the weakness or vulnerability that the “gentle hunter” leaves us in? What does it mean to be “changed with new life”? The big question: What is the real experience that allows you to say, “my soul became one / with her Creator”?

Have a beautiful Valentine’s Day afterglow, fully at rest, fully alive in the heart.

Teresa of Avila Spain (1515 – 1582) Timeline Christian : Catholic

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Every Shaped Thing
by Ivan M. Granger

Sighing,
every shaped thing
turns
heavenward.

I can only
point
up.”

— from Real Thirst: Poetry of the Spiritual Journey, by Ivan M. Granger

/ Photo by hsld /

It has been a little while since I have featured one of my own poems, so here is one for you today…

I wrote this poem when I lived on the island of Maui years ago. I was standing outside with a scattered forest of eucalyptus and wattle trees in front of me, with Haleakala volcano to my back. I was standing there in a state of deep meditation, when I opened my eyes — and I just saw how everything is reaching, turning, pointing heavenward. The material world, when objectified becomes a confusing tangle of desire objects; but when seen truly, quietly, it acts as a great signpost guiding us, pointing out the direction.

All of creation — every person, every thing, even every idea, “every shaped thing” — is just a reflection of the divine radiance present everywhere.

Whenever we desire a thing… or person or experience, we artificially deify it, the desire and mental fixation becoming a low form of worship. We may tell ourselves, “I want this, I want that,” but what we unknowingly crave is not the thing itself, but that spark of the Eternal barely glimpsed within it. The desired object becomes a “gilded god” — false in the sense that it is not truly the wholeness we seek; but also, like an “idol” or icon, when approached sincerely and openly, material creation embodies something essential: it points to the Divine which it reflects.

No individual can ever gather enough objects of desire to satisfy desire. Every time we acquire that desired object or experience — a new job, a new lover, money, an ice cream sundae — there is a fleeting sense of satisfaction… and then it’s gone. And we’re already feeling desire again and looking for the next object to hang the desire on. We’re looking for the next thing that sparkles. But it is not the object we actually seek, it is that shine. And that shine is the spark of the Divine.

When we learn to see in gold the glimmer of the sun, then we see that everything shines — everything! — ourselves included. And then we are truly satisfied.

Ivan M. Granger US (1969 – ) Secular or Eclectic Yoga / Hindu : Advaita / Non-Dualist

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Nirvana Shatakam
by Shankara

English version by Ivan M. Granger

I am not mind, not intellect, not ego, not thought.
I am not the ears, the tongue, the nose or the eyes, or what they witness,
I am neither earth nor sky, not air nor light.

Truly, I am Shiva, pure awareness.
Shivo Ham! Shivo Ham!

/ Photo by energy /

This is one of the most important poems by the great Hindu philosopher-saint, Shankara. These lines are a distillation of Advaita Vedanta, the vision of non-dual reality. This is the realization that when we truly see and know, we recognize that underlying and supporting the complex diversity of creation is a single Unity. And within that Unity, even the individual is in no way separate or different from that vast Divine. This is why Shankara keeps returning to his refrain:

I am knowledge and bliss.
I am Shiva! I am Shiva!

You might ask, why Shiva? If all is One, why then identify with just one god from among the many gods in the Hindu pantheon?

Some schools of Advaita Vedanta do tend to avoid the theistic language of gods and, instead, speak only of the Self — the immense Self that is at once the heart of every individual and also the heart of all Being.

But when adherents of Advaita do speak of Gods, they usually speak of Shiva. Shiva is the favored god of meditators, yogis, ascetics, those on on the path of gnosis. Shiva is seen as pure Being, the fountain of all being. When Shankara repeats, “I am Shiva!” he is declaring that he finds no separation between his individual self and the center of all selves.

I am…

Shankara says “I am” throughout. By reading this poem, we enter into his realization. We take on his awareness. His declaration of what he is and is not becomes our own.

I am not mind, not intellect, not ego, not thought…

Much of this poem is a list of what Shankara realizes we are not.

This is an expression of the ancient practice of neti neti — not this, not that. It is a spiritual examination of everything, while slowly recognizing that no single thing contains us.

We are not the mind or intellect. We are not the senses or the organs through which we perceive the world. We are not the elemental building blocks of the body or the mind.

He also states we are not the qualities or preferences of the personality. The things that tug at us or that repel us, they are not what we are, they are not fundamentally real either. Relationships, family, even life and death — none of these things define us or truly tell us who we are.

Shankara has basically negated everything: the body, the mind, desires and fears, relationships, even the hope for liberation itself. What then is left? That’s the question that resonates throughout. Surface ideas of identity would say that nothing remains and one has hit a dead end. Not so. Something remains. When all the rest has been swept aside, something remains. All the things you thought you were can be lost, yet you fundamentally remain. Beneath it all there has always been that glowing Self, steady, aware, at rest, blissful, invulnerable. And it says simply, “I am.”

Free from doubt, I am formless.
With knowledge, in knowledge, I am everywhere, beyond perception.
I am always the same. Not free, not trapped — I am.

In celebration, we can sing with Shankara –

I am knowledge and bliss.
I am Shiva! I am Shiva!

Truly, I am Shiva, pure awareness.
Shivo Ham! Shivo Ham!

Shankara India (788 – 820) Timeline Yoga / Hindu : Advaita / Non-Dualist

More poetry by Shankara

Looking, Walking, Being
by Denise Levertov

“The World is not something to
look at, it is something to be in.”
– Mark Rudman

breathing to sustain
looking,
walking and looking,
through the world,
in it.

— from Poems: 1960-1967, by Denise Levertov

/ Photo by Amizyolaroid /

Okay, let’s start off with those wonderful lines:

Looking’s a way of being: one becomes,
sometimes, a pair of eyes walking.

This poem is a response to the Mark Rudman quote, “The World is not something to / look at, it is something to be in.” Denise Levertov answers that looking IS being.

The eyes
dig and burrow into the world.
They touch…

I suspect that Rudman was discouraging passivity and lack of presence, but Levertov, I think, is getting at something deeper still. Humans, all beings, in fact, are fundamentally beings of awareness. Each individual is a point of perception, a viewpoint in the universe. We are, each of us, “a pair of eyes walking.”

We are present through perception, not action. Yes, action and interaction can be a powerful way to force us to pay attention, but it is also common to use action to shut down the awareness. Whether in movement or in stillness, the real goal is to keep the eyes open and feel fully with the heart and with the gut. We want to do more than look, but to see, see deeply, to see what is ignored and glossed over, to “dig and burrow in the world.”

Even in complete stillness, truly seeing is one of the most profound actions we can engage in. I’ve seen people brought to tears by a gentle gaze in the eyes. This is what the soul craves, to be seen, to be recognized, to be truly acknowledged. This is true not just of the human soul, but of the world soul. I think of this when Denise Levertov writes of how the world “looks at one looking.”

And language? Rhythms
of echo and interruption?
That’s
a way of breathing.

We forget that language is built of breath. We see the written word and we read it silently. Words become mental concepts, tools of the intellect. But words are not fundamentally discrete units of meaning. They flow and stop and flow again, as the breath does. Words aren’t inherently meaningful; they are the ornaments that accompany the flow of awareness.

Words affect breath. Thoughts affect breath. Breath guides awareness.

…breathing to sustain
looking…

Breath, too, is communion. Through the breath, we bring the outside world inside us, inside the body, inside the awareness. The boundary between self and the world is bridged by the breath. Through breath, we touch, we feel, we internalize, we connect, we participate, we come alive. Through breath we move and we see.

…walking and looking,
through the world,
in it.

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

More poetry by Denise Levertov

Screening its face amongst lotus stalks
by Mahendranath Battacharya

English version by Rachel Fell McDermott

Screening its face amongst lotus stalks
the golden bird
            contented
            limbs listless with love
                  eyes open
sleeps on the flower with v, s, s, and s
emblazoned on its petals.

Oh soul, whip up the wind; let the bird fly
            flower to flower
towards Her mate in the sahasrara.
When that happens the five elements in you
            earth, water, fire, wind, and ether
will dissolve, and you’ll be free
            to merge in the Supreme.

— from Singing to the Goddess: Poems to Kali and Uma from Bengal, Translated by Rachel Fell McDermott

/ Photo by FirenzeLotus22 /

This poem by Mahendranath Battacharya is a stunning example of the beautiful and technically precise language that emerges from the Tantric Kundalini tradition of Yoga. But the meaning might not be obvious at first glance. Let’s spend some time together unlocking its meaning, and I think you’ll see what a profound poem this is…

Screening its face amongst lotus stalks
the golden bird…

First, what is the “swan”, the “golden bird”? It is the awakening Kundalini Shakti, the spiritual force that typically lies dormant at the base of the spine. The Kundalini is more commonly described with serpent imagery, as a sleeping snake curled around an egg in the seat. But when it awakens, it rises up, or flies up. This is why you’ll get unusual imagery of winged serpents among various spiritual traditions, or sometimes snakes that turn into birds or birds that hold snakes in their mouths. The Kundalini is experienced as being serpent-like when it is dormant, and bird-like when it is awakened and rises.

In this poem, the “golden bird” at first is “Screening its face among the lotus stalks…” The lotus flower is a common Hindu metaphor for the chakras, or subtle energy centers, primarily located along the spine. Mahendranath Battacharya describes the Kundalini as “screening its face among the lotus stalks,” meaning it is initially hidden from conscious awareness. It is there and very much alive, but constant sensory input overwhelms the chakras, in effect hiding the Kundalini from notice.

Hidden and unnoticed, the Kundalini “sleeps on the flower with v, s, s, and s / emblazoned on the petals.” The repetition of the letter S doesn’t make as much sense in English, but it is a reference to the three Sanskrit variations of hard s, soft sh, and hard sh. In Kundalini Yoga, these four Sanskrit letters are visualized as being inscribed on the “petals” of the base chakra. In other words, this is both a technical and poetic way of saying that the Kundalini rests in the base chakra and must be awakened.

In a flower bud above
reigns the mantra “ram.”
Repeat “ram! ram!”

The mantra “ram” is often associated with the third chakra at the solar plexus. This chakra is commonly described as being the seat of the will and the gateway to the higher realms of awareness. It is a sort of energetic ‘traffic cop’ — when the third chakra is sluggish, it tends to keep the energies of the lower chakras bottled up, but when it is cleansed and invigorated it starts calling to the lower chakras, ‘Wake up!’ and to the Kundalini, it urges, ‘Rise! Rise!’ So, when Mahendranath Battacharya tells us to repeat “ram! ram!” he is saying to awaken that third chakra, which in turn warms and rouses the Kundalini.

Let no obstacle stand in your way;
get to work –
you are young and fresh.
Break this fake sleep and snap out of your dreams;
then the storms of this world won’t concern you.

But, of course, to do this, we must shake off our spiritual sluggishness. We must “get to work” and purify the mind, stretch the awareness, cleanse our energies. Yet, what else is all of our life force for? We have vitality, we are “young and fresh;” we should put it to good use! We must break the “fake sleep and snap out of [our] dreams” of limited perception and the false sense of self.

Oh soul, whip up the wind; let the bird fly
            flower to flower
towards Her mate in the sahasrara.

Mahendranath Battacharya urges us to “let the bird fly / flower to flower / towards Her mate in the sahasrara.” That is, we must let the Kundalini Shakti awaken and rise from chakra to chakra along the spine until it reaches the sahasrara or crown chakra. This is where the union occurs between the Divine Feminine (the awakened Kundalini Shakti) and the Divine Masculine (the Heavenly Spirit or Father Sky recognized in the crown center). When the two merge, we are finally One, and the Supreme is perceived within and without everywhere!

…and you’ll be free
            to merge in the Supreme.

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A Psalm
by Thomas Merton

When psalms surprise me with their music
And antiphons turn to rum
The Spirit sings: the bottom drops out of my soul.

While God sings by himself in acres of night
And walls fall down, that guarded Paradise.

— from Selected Poems of Thomas Merton, by Thomas Merton

/ Photo by Admond /

I apologize that it has been several days since our last poem email. I was floored by another bout of chronic fatigue, leaving me barely enough energy to keep up with the essentials of my day job. But I think I’m rebounding now. And I’m glad to be back with you all…

When psalms surprise me with their music
And antiphons turn to rum
The Spirit sings: the bottom drops out of my soul.

How about that for an opening? I love that phrase: “the bottom drops out of my soul.”

The first two-thirds of this poem are an ecstatic meditation on the mystic’s experience of union. A flooding of love and joy. A sense of profound clarity. An awareness of universal harmony amidst the kaleidoscopic multiplicity. An inner music. A giddy feeling of drunkenness.

But the tone of Merton’s poem shifts near the end.

And I go forth with no more wine and no more stars
And no more buds and no more Eden
And no more animals and no more sea:

There is a deflation in his final few stanzas. The riotous sense of life is replaced by emptiness.

I can’t quite decide if he is suggesting the return to mundane awareness, or its opposite — moving beyond to a state of utter stillness, where all of creation opens into a cavernous spaciousness, where no ‘thing’ remains, no boundary exists, only scintillating awareness in the substratum of existence.

While God sings by himself in acres of night
And walls fall down, that guarded Paradise.

Sometimes the question is more interesting than the answer. So let’s let that question mark hover in the air.

Have a beautiful weekend!

Thomas Merton US (1915 – 1968) Timeline Christian : Catholic

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