Thursday, February 11, 2016

16th May 1973





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One of those many dates
that no longer tell me anything.
Where did I go on that day,
what was I doing - I don't know.
If someone committed a crime
- I would be lost for an alibi.
The sun shone and set
but I didn't notice.
I have no diary note
of the Earth's rotation.
Would have been easier to think
I had briefly died
than remembered nothing,
though I lived without a break.
Assuredly, I wasn't a spirit,
I breathed, I ate,
my steps were audible
and there must be
traces of my fingers on door-handles.
My reflections were mirrored.
I wore something that had a colour.
One or two people must have seen me.
Perhaps that day
I found something I had lost earlier.
Or lost something I found later.
I was full of feelings and impressions.
Now it's all
like dots in brackets.
Where was I shrouded,
where did I hide -
it's rather a clever trick
to vanish from one's own eyes.
I shake memory -
will something slumbering for years
start rustling
from its branches.
No.
Manifestly I demand too much -
no less than one second.

–Wisława Szymborska
Adam Czerniawski translation




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Wednesday, February 10, 2016

The Infinity Burial Suit





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Monday, February 8, 2016

mystery


 


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For ever we come, for ever we go,
For ever the round of birth and death,
From nothing to nothing.
Yet a mystery here abides,
A something there is for us to know.

–Lal Ded
Jayalal Kaul translation



Thursday, February 4, 2016

form is emptiness, emptiness is form






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All beings are vortices through which the world pours.
All beings pass through each other.

One being contains innumerable others.

If we could free ourselves from our temporal blindness, we would see ourselves not as individual units, but as interconnected nodes
within a cloud of matter and energy.

The idea that the sixty or seventy or eighty liters of space that our
limited body occupies is “our” space is hopelessly myopic.

In reality we occupy the world and each other.
This, in a sense, is our true form.


–Bodhipaksa
Living as a River


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Wednesday, February 3, 2016

not to worry






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There's a moon in my body, but I can't see it! 
A moon and a sun. 
A drum never touched by hands, beating,
and I can't hear it.

As long as a human being worries about when he will die, 
and what he has that is his, 
all of his works are zero. 

When affection for the I-creature and what it owns is dead, 
then the work of the Teacher is over. 

The purpose of labor is to learn; 
when you know it, the labor is over. 

The apple blossom exists to create fruit; 
when that comes, the petal falls. 

The musk is inside the deer, 
but the deer does not look for it: 

It wanders around looking for grass. 


–Kabir


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Sunday, January 31, 2016

lesson






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Yearning for permanence, and who wouldn’t?
Longing to believe it will last forever,
But what does? Nothing I know of.

Even the things that seem to stand still
Flow slowly into other forms.

The beloved’s first and only lesson:
Everything that is, becomes.


—Gregory Orr
River Inside the River:
Three Lyric Sequences



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Friday, January 29, 2016

sequel





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Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions against suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of infinite Pacifics, the thousand mermaids sing to them- “Come hither, broken-hearted; here is another life without the guilt of intermediate death; here are wonders supernatural, without dying for them. Come hither! bury thyself in a life which, to your now equally abhorred and abhorring, landed world, is more oblivious than death. dome hither! put up thy grave-stone, too, within the churchyard, and come hither, till we marry thee!”"

–Herman Melville
Moby Dick