Wednesday, July 29, 2009


Just a brief update for readers.

I have been writing a lot of poetry lately. This week, parabola magazine featured one of my more recent efforts on its website. Click on the link to read the poem.

Most of us, myself included, are addicted to our inner search. It is a passion, a thirst for the cosmic. The mind -- in my own case at least -- forms an image of the cosmic that lies outside of me, or, in any event, in some abstract space, an elaborate formulation. There is a belief in the cosmic, a belief in grand scales, a belief in transcendentalism.

Where is my attention in relationship to what is immediate? I am unable to drink anything as vast as what confronts me when I try to understand the cosmos. I see myself as distinct from this question, and trying to acquire relationship to it, rather than discovering myself within the question, and accepting my relationship within it.

Yesterday, as I was walking the famous dog Isabel, friends stopped their cars in the middle of the road to speak to me. Tree branches crashed down. Bees gathered around puddles of rain water.

Throughout, each event was miraculous, imbued with an energy higher than the energies I imagine or crave. It's the small things within the immediate that constitute the food for the soul -- these simple impressions that we can take in with a part of ourselves that is able to value differently than the cruder parts I usually meet life with.

So perhaps the key within life is to turn the sensitivity of perception towards the immediate, towards the simple, towards a yellow sheet of paper lying on the desk, or the curve created by my eyeglasses. The sacred, the divine -- all that is cosmic -- as expressed here within the immediate. It is always that way. I am what is lacking.

I wrote a poem about yesterday's walk. I'm including it below.

Bee Pond
From The Hudson River Series

Late afternoon walks itself down river roads
With no help from me,
I am here only to discover friends discover me.
Bright faces that lie past my appreciation,
In the realm of love, which I thought I had forgotten,
Or maybe never knew.

Past the junipers, and into shaded gaps-
A flood tide gathers at the base of quickening reeds.
Palisades turn their blind, indifferent faces towards
Dead branches,
Crashing down like poltergeists.

These are strange events I cannot measure with the mind,
Filled with the energies of time, and notable coincidence.

Take the power of legs, of breath, of air,
And climb hills tamed by asphalt,
Into the realms where ice was dug into the rock,
Saving itself for the dog days of July.

Here the squirrels still remember how to leap and pray;
Bees gather at the edge of tepid water,
Worshipping the wetness of the dirt.
The call of the ocean
Has not left their veins
For six hundred million years.

May our hearts be opened, and our prayers be heard.

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