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Sunday, September 16, 2012

a light, a certain kind of light (the day's on fire)





A little Ray LaMontagne (his version of To Love Somebody) this morning, a little Charles Wright.  They go well together it seems to me. 





"There's a light
A certain kind of light
That never shone on me..."




Again from Scar Tissue.


HAWKSBANE

BY CHARLES WRIGHT

There are things that cannot be written about, journeys
That cannot be taken they are so sacred and long.

There is no nature in eternity, no wind shift, no weeds.

Whatever our vision, whatever our implement,
We looked in the wrong places, we looked for the wrong things.

We are not what is new, we are not what we have found.




From this past week - the madness of this one rose tree that blooms for all its worth, drawing the light into its blooms well into evening.








There will be a point, there will be a moment in a life, when you wonder. Did you look in the right places? What was your vision? Was there a certain light that did not shine down on you? What light did you catch?  What light did you allow? Was it light? Is it darkness within you? How much of the honey in the comb of your heart, the hive?




WAS IT LIGHT

by Theodore Roethke

Was it light?
Was it light within?
Was it light within light?
Stillness becoming alive,
Yet still?

A lively understandable spirit
Once entertained you.
It will come again.
Be still.
Wait.






In a Dark Time

by Theodore Roethke

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.






{the day's on fire}


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