Of Mere Being

BY WALLACE STEVENS The palm at the end of the mind, Beyond the last thought, rises In the bronze decor, A gold-feathered bird Sings in the palm, without human meaning, Without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason That makes us happy or unhappy. The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down. Wallace Stevens, "Of Mere Being" from The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play. Copyright © 1967, 1969, 1971 by Holly Stevens. All rights reserved. Source: The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play by Wallace Stevens (Alfred A. Knopf, 1971)

I opened shower

Kumar Abhishek Water shoots out  A force  of small droplets Touch the surface Of my body It follows Each curve and fold  Dryness disappears Now wet Adding some oil Throwing  Ghee into the fire Hands Explore  Sliding Fingers follow Lines of body Eyes shut Mouth open Breathing gradually The water Gone But some tiny Droplets  Stuck On my body Slowly vanish   "Intimacy is being intimate with my own body. Self love plays an important role. "Once we start accepting ourselves and celebrate our own existence then everything becomes beautiful, and we start accepting others, the world."


by Mario de Andrade (San Paolo 1893-1945) Poet, novelist, essayist and musicologist. He was one of the founders of Brazilian modernism. I counted my years and realized that I have Less time to live by, Than I have lived so far. I feel like a child who won a pack of candies: at first he ate them with pleasure, But when he realized that there was little left, he began to taste them intensely. I have no time for endless meetings where the statutes, rules, procedures & internal regulations are discussed, knowing that nothing will be done. I no longer have the patience To stand absurd people who, despite their chronological age, have not grown up. My time is too short: I want the essence, my spirit is in a hurry. I do not have much candy In the package anymore. I want to live next to humans, very realistic people who know How to laugh at their mistakes, Who are not inflated by their own triumphs and who take responsibility for their actions. In this way, human dignity is defended and we

With passion pray

  Rumi “With passion pray. With passion make love. With passion eat and drink and dance and play. Why look like a dead fish in this ocean of God?” Regret, that sinking feeling in the bottom of your stomach. We’ve all been there, wishing we could have another chance. But, it is in this very feeling in which our return to the One happens. The Divine Essence is always seeking our return to Him, waiting for us to seek reconciliation with Him and wash away the mistake. And we give ourselves plenty of opportunity for returning. Darkness wants you to keep mistakes hidden but once you bring the Light in, the experience fades and leaves the lesson. Turn back to the Essence of the One and rejoice that the mistake opened the door for reconnection. Source: Love Poems from God Translator: Daniel Ladinsky

"Notes on a Stay in a Hospital Quarantine Cell"

Patricia G. Horan Patricia G. Horan Patricia Horan is with Elizabeth Sabo .  ·  Dear friends of our beloved Patricia, After testing positive with COVID one week ago, Patricia has completed the great passage, clear-eyed and focused, strong and ready, in the embrace of the tremendous love we all shared with her. Brava, Patricia G. Horan, brava. Please enjoy her final poem, written with insistence and ferocity via text from her hospital bed just three days ago. 12-30-20, 6:45pm   - Elizabeth Sabo December 27, 2020 I swallow my pride and it tastes like honey and salt. The air has embraced my private body and has approved, and it quietly rejoices in its revelations and the liberation of its childlike spills and neediness. How I reach to love it suddenly, this stranger I’ve kept in a fifties New Jersey suitcase, only removing it for one afternoon on a nude fire island beach. Now it is truly liberated in a small windowless quarantine room in North Carolina. The machines behind me beep, shini

“Stray Birds” No. 71

by Ravindranath Tagore The axe begged humbly, ‘O thou mighty oak, Lend me only a piece of thy branch— Just enough to fit me with a handle.’ The handle was ready, and there was no more wasting of time. The beggar at once commenced business—and hit hard at the root, And there was the end of the oak. The woodcutter’s axe begged for its handle from the tree. The tree gave it.

Visit to Katagiri

By Diane di Prima A pleasure. We talk of here & there gossip about the folks in San Francisco laugh a lot. I try to tell him (to tell someone) what my life is like: the hungry people, the trying   to sit zazen in motels; the need in America like a sponge   sucking up whatever prana & courage "Pray to the Bodhisattvas" sez Katagiri Roshi. I tell him that sometimes, traveling, I am too restless to sit still, wiggle &   itch. "Sit only ten minutes, five minutes at a time" he sez-first time it has occurred to me that this wd be OK. As I talk, it becomes OK there becomes some continuity in my life; I even understand (or remember) why I'm on the road. As we talk a continuity, a transfer of energy takes place. It is darshan, a blessing, transmission of some basic joy some way of seeing. LIKE A TANGIBLE GIFT IN THE HAND   In the heart. It stays with me.