Morning Trip (102)

“There have been times when I think we do not desire heaven but more often I find myself wondering whether, in our heart of hearts, we have ever desired anything else. You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you’ve been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw – but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realize that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you were transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of – something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clap-clap of water against the boat’s side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it – tantalizing glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest – if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself – you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say ‘Here at last is the thing I was made for.’ We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.”
– C. S. Lewis

Morning Trip (73)

“even before trees rocks I was nothing
when I’m dead nowhere I’ll be nothing

this ink painting of wind blowing through pines
who hears it?

sin like a madman until you can’t do anything else
no room for any more

fuck flattery success money
all I do is lie back and suck my thumb

one long pure beautiful road of pain
and the beauty of death and no pain

mirror facing mirror
nowhere else

passion’s red thread is infinite
like the earth always under me

a woman is enlightenment when you’re with her and the red thread
of both your passions flare inside you and you see

your name Mori means forest like the infinite fresh
green distances of your blindness

my monk friend has a wierd[sic] endearing habit
he weaves sandals and leaves them secretly by the roadside

no words sitting alone night in my hut eyes closed hands open
wisps of an unknown face

we’re lost where the mind can’t find us
utterly lost”
–Ikkyu

Yearning

I have so many thinks about how I feel today. Nothing is striking me as more than a facet of the expression of it. Thinking of that phoenix again, absolute pain beyond measure and at the same moment joyful rapture, explosion of expression without bounds, before resettling. So many things to notice at once, joy, pain, suffering, creation, destruction, which is which? Do they feel any different? Does it matter? Must I be passive? Must I act quickly? Is my help needed in the helpful word granted me in a book, in the song of unmaking, am I unmaking “I”, am I making a new “I”? lol See now looking at it this way isn’t feeling quite so heavy, but in a minute I might be back writing in flame wishing escape instead of dancing with it.

One Shoot Sunday and Autopilot: Purple Profundity–Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley

A bit ago, I found something in today’s blog on Writing Without Paper. An event, activity, called One Shoot Sunday
. Anyone interested can read the full and requested directions there. Part was to credit the Photographer:
“This week, on behalf of the One Stop Poetry crew, I would like to introduce you all to Jacob Lucas, a Seattle-based photographer with a simple philosophy: to enjoy photography’s creative rewards and to shoot what he wants, how he wants.

A bit of a dabbler in all things photographic, Jacob finds his city to be a great muse, but he’s also traveled as far as the temples of Angkor Wat, a journey that launched a series of images on his blog, and memories he’ll never forget.”

"The Show Must Go On"

Next, were directions to submit my own poetry, inspired by the image.

Autopilot

I remembered
only by pain
to look
again at simple things
only because it took effort to do them

to wake up
push thru the blanket in the mind
pulling it off sensually
efforts to avoid the slap of reality
but life on life’s terms
reminded me

i felt the breath
felt the fabric slide across my skin
stretch awake each fibre finger and toe
as I thought i wanted to postpone
awareness

firm floor under my feet
warm clothes sliding on
keys jingling down into my pocket
tea in my mouth
bright light outside
cold
the tempting scent of spring
the smile bubbling forth with that spring
reminded to have joy in each moment

bumpy wheat toast
nutty scent
beautiful tangy cheeses
fresh apple slice crisp
tender green leaves
another happy sip of tea

hiding
knowing
experiencing
wisdom
running away
maybe
they feel the same

–by elisabeth connelley, Purple Profundity

Morning Trip (39)

“One of the most curious characteristics of human beings – particularly westerners – is that pain and inconvenience stimulate their vitality far more than pleasure. In a very precise sense of the word, human beings are spoilt. A spoilt child is one who has come to expect certain privileges and accepts them as rights. He is not grateful for these privileges; in fact, they bore him. The only time he feels strongly about them is when they are curtailed; then he sulks. All human beings take their happiness for granted, and only question life when they are in pain.”
– Colin Wilson
Beyond the Outsider

Morning Trip (5)

Sometimes I try to justify the falling rain
Then I try to rectify; change what can never be changed.
That’s not to say that change won’t surely rearrange
it all
and I know that there’s no way to say just how
it’s all about to change
but somehow I feel the pain when things don’t go
my way
That’s when I try to justify, justify the
falling rain

–Geoffrey Haun