There's Beauty in the Bellow

The eye, O priests, is on fire; impressions received by the eye are on fire; and whatever sensation, pleasant, unpleasant, or indifferent, originates in dependence on impressions received by the eye, that also is on fire. ~Buddha Well, first off. This speech by the Buddha has great rhythm. The rhythm sets me on fire. Which he would disapprove of. Secondly, I like the picture that it creates: a world scorching with beauty, music, flavors and colors. Mr. Buddha implies that all this profligate glory is a very bad thing. He forbids getting fired up about anything Think of all the other pictures associated with fire: a face burning with any number of emotions: anger, joy, passion, love; burning eyes, blazing eyes. "Fiery" is often a complementary adjective . . . . except when applied to "pit," of course. Dorothy Sayers said: "If I had found a man to my measure, I would have set a torch to the world." Not to be confused with watching the world burn. You ca...

#1: Slice asparagus stems in half lengthwise and steam. Pile asparagus, thinly sliced radishes, sliced pears, toasted walnuts, and your last dollop of ricotta onto a plate. Sprinkle with fresh thyme, salt and a splurge (ie, a copious rain) of black pepper. Drizzle with balsamic vinaigrette. Sit down at the table with your salad. Inhale. Make sure to try different combinations of flavor and texture. Radish and asparagus. Pear and radish, with ricotta. Pear and asparagus, then with a walnut, then with ricotta. Ricotta and asparagus, swirled in the balsamic vinager. #2: Slice and saute a couple mushrooms with a little butter and salt. Once you have them in the pan, make a phone call: by the time you have gotten off the phone, the shrooms will be well underway. Wilt some spinach in the microwave for about 30 seconds. If you have gotten distracted and your mushrooms have gotten a bit cold, include them in the last step. Top with your mushrooms, thinly sliced radishes, chopped grapes, walnut...

Her method was just that: the intensification, or concentration, if meaning in words until they glowed "as no sapphire"---until, that is, they became, in mutually supportive combination, the Word, a poem that could "dwell among us," alive, a corporate fusion of meaning and (like human life) mystery. This sense of life is the most difficult of all things to create---and she knew that, too. This is one reason, surely, why many of her poems seem cryptic, incomplete, barely reducible to coherent statement, as if she was conscious of an element of the ineffable, even in usual things, like hummingbirds of sunsets. ~ The Life of Emily Dickinson , Richard B. Sewall

Then I was beside Him, as a master workman; And I was daily His delight, Rejoicing always before Him, Rejoicing in the world, His earth, And having my delight in the sons of men. Proverbs 8:30-31 Isn't this what poets, artists and writers are supposed to do?

447 This was a Poet — It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings — And Attar so immense From the familiar species That perished by the Door — We wonder it was not Ourselves Arrested it — before — Of Pictures, the Discloser — The Poet — it is He — Entitles Us — by Contrast — To ceaseless Poverty — Of portion — so unconscious — The Robbing — could not harm — Himself — to Him — a Fortune — Exterior — to Time — 455 TRIUMPH – may be of several kinds – There’s triumph in the room When that Old Imperator – Death – By Faith – be overcome – There’s Triumph of the finerMmind When Truth – affronted long – Advance unmoved – to Her Supreme – Her God – Her only Throng – A Triumph when Temptation’s Bribe Is slowly handed back – One eye upon the Heaven renounced – And One – upon the Rack – Severer Triumph – by Himself Experienced – who pass Acquitted – from that Naked Bar – Jehovah’s Countenance –

Essays into poetry: Let me fill this pot -- Roots thickening, moist, whitish flesh-- Then move me, make me face The shock of Transplant Then grow again-- Moderating my sun, Spritzing my leaves. Master Gardener: Prune me, let me thrive; Tend me, let me live. Star-gazing Warm hood-- Watching the darkness: Bright foreigners Stare back. The leaves bleed out their chlorophyllic green Flutter to the ground in gold, parchment-brown litter-- The old strews the stable for the new, mulch and fruit Somehow-- Something grows underneath Pressing the earth. Maybe that's it: The leaf leaps precipitous from the branch to meet it. The arbor lifts and sun shines direct into the nest For a short time. I think it was Ted Kooser in his Poetry Home Repair Manual who defined poetry as words with funny line breaks. I'd like to discipline my lines more. But since these are not assignments, I'm not squeezing my brain to push the words around. (And when you are doing ...

This is a poem my professor read the other day; we're studying Thomas Aquinas and he thought that the poem rather echoed some of Aquinas' metaphysics. (Mr. McIntosh stated that he thought that good metaphysics and good poetry are essential to one another . . . could I say essential to one another's existence?) Every Riven Thing by Christian Wiman God goes, belonging to every riven thing He’s made Sing his being simply by being The thing it is: Stone and tree and sky, Man who sees and sings and wonders why God goes. Belonging, to every riven thing He’s made, Means a storm of peace.Think of the atoms inside the stone. Think of the man who sits alone Trying to will himself into the stillness where God goes belonging. To every riven thing He’s made There is given one shade Shaped exactly to the thing itself: Under the tree a darker tree; Under the man the only man to see God goes belonging to every riven thing. He’s made The things that bring Him near, Made the mind that makes ...