Poem
THE MAN WHO NEEDED NO ONE
Sep 13 2011
THE MAN WHO NEEDED NO ONE
He wanted to need no one, not
love or thirst, not even sunrise
and the sweet amulets of water
that fall from the heavens.
No, he wanted to be an island
of self-sufficiency, to sleep
with his arms around the pillow,
a jack-in-the-pulpit alone on his throne
in the damp woods, singing to himself
beneath his curled umbrella.
And this is how he lived for many years—
a solitary song, a soliloquy
spoken into the small mirror
that hung above the wash basin,
with its blue towel and basket of dead flowers.
But something remained wrong—
a dull ached whispered from below his voice
where his heart should have been, a seed
rumbled in the pit of his stomach as if to suggest
a tree that had never grown, a stone skimming
the surface of water once and then sinking.
He grew old this way, never knowing
it had been need he had needed all along—
the sound of his own small voice
asking for a light to see by, a match
to retrieve his heart with from the widening dark.
~Michael Blumenthal
He wanted to need no one, not
love or thirst, not even sunrise
and the sweet amulets of water
that fall from the heavens.
No, he wanted to be an island
of self-sufficiency, to sleep
with his arms around the pillow,
a jack-in-the-pulpit alone on his throne
in the damp woods, singing to himself
beneath his curled umbrella.
And this is how he lived for many years—
a solitary song, a soliloquy
spoken into the small mirror
that hung above the wash basin,
with its blue towel and basket of dead flowers.
But something remained wrong—
a dull ached whispered from below his voice
where his heart should have been, a seed
rumbled in the pit of his stomach as if to suggest
a tree that had never grown, a stone skimming
the surface of water once and then sinking.
He grew old this way, never knowing
it had been need he had needed all along—
the sound of his own small voice
asking for a light to see by, a match
to retrieve his heart with from the widening dark.
~Michael Blumenthal
Note + Oliver Poem : Stephen
Jun 28 2011
Hi guys,
Thanks for coming to the house and for such a great meeting!
I was looking at a poem this morning and thought of Ed and Tom and decided to send you one from Mary Oliver - one of my favorites.
I have a feeling that Ed won’t receive this as I get bounce-backs from his email address is that true for you guys?
The Journey
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 ~
Thanks for coming to the house and for such a great meeting!
I was looking at a poem this morning and thought of Ed and Tom and decided to send you one from Mary Oliver - one of my favorites.
I have a feeling that Ed won’t receive this as I get bounce-backs from his email address is that true for you guys?
The Journey
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 ~
Self Portrait
Mar 23 2011
This poem came to mind to me as Michael/Sundance was telling us about his commitments and path. It speaks of the unqualified Yes, that is the call to this level of being available and open to love. Or...So it seems to me. Other thoughts?
It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have been told, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.
It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have been told, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.
LOVE AFTER LOVE
Mar 23 2011
This is the poem Richard cited for us.
The time will come
When, with elation,
You will greet yourself arriving
At your own door, in your own mirror,
And each will smile at the other's welcome,
And say, sit here, Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
To itself, to the stranger who has loved you
All your life, whom you ignored
For another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
The photographs, the desperate notes,
Peel your image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
~Derek Walcott
The time will come
When, with elation,
You will greet yourself arriving
At your own door, in your own mirror,
And each will smile at the other's welcome,
And say, sit here, Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
To itself, to the stranger who has loved you
All your life, whom you ignored
For another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
The photographs, the desperate notes,
Peel your image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
~Derek Walcott
On Faith
Mar 23 2011
Mark W. said something about faith last evening
that made me think about this...
Especially as faith is so often longed for, and so hard to hold sometimes.
Sometimes, just wanting to have faith is the necessary opening
I want to write about faith:
About the way the moon
Rises over cold snow
Night after night
Faithful
Even in its fading from fullness
Slowly becoming
That last curling and impossible
Sliver of light
Before the final darkness.
But I have no faith myself.
I do not give it the smallest entry.
Let this, then, my small poem
Like a new moon
Slender and barely open
Be the first prayer
That opens me to faith.
~David Whyte
that made me think about this...
Especially as faith is so often longed for, and so hard to hold sometimes.
Sometimes, just wanting to have faith is the necessary opening
I want to write about faith:
About the way the moon
Rises over cold snow
Night after night
Faithful
Even in its fading from fullness
Slowly becoming
That last curling and impossible
Sliver of light
Before the final darkness.
But I have no faith myself.
I do not give it the smallest entry.
Let this, then, my small poem
Like a new moon
Slender and barely open
Be the first prayer
That opens me to faith.
~David Whyte