Sonnet

I am in need of music that would flow, over my fretful, feeling finger-tips, over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, with melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.

Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head.  And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody: A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool heart, that sinks through fading colors deep to the subaqueous stillness of the sea, and floats forever in a moon-green pool, held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

–elizabeth bishop

Neptune approaches Pisces.  Ommmmmmmmmm.

The Vedic Hymn to Time

Time is a horse that moves with seven rays,

with a thousand eyes, undecaying,

who projects a manifold seed.

Him the seers mount, illumined in mind.

His wheels are all the worlds.

Time moves seven wheels.

He has seven mouths, whose center is immortal and undecaying.

He anoints himself with all these worlds.  He moves as the first of the Gods.

A full vessel is set in time.

May we who live see his manifold forms.

He faces all the worlds, who, the seers say,

is time

in the supreme

void.  He gathered all the worlds together.

He encompasses all the universe.

As their father, he became their son,

apart from whom there is no other light.

A VEDIC HYMN TO TIME

(Atharva Veda XIX.23, 1-4)

December 27, 2010

“My house says to me,

“Do not leave me, for here dwells your past.”
And the road says to me,

“Come and follow me, for I am your future.”
And I say to both my house and the road,

“I have no past, nor have I a future.

If I stay here, there is a going in my staying;

and if I go there is a staying in my going.

Only love and death will change all things.””

– Kahlil Gibran

The Journey by Mary Oliver

the tortoise

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice–

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do–

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

Pulitzer Prize for poetry