Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

The old king

Thursday, July 15th, 2010

There once was an old king who dreamed that a red owl came into the throne room and plucked the crown right from his head and then flew through the marble halls and past the tapestries and out the open door with the crown in his beak, hooting all the while.

The king chased the owl through the castle and out onto the grounds and finally into a dark forest.

Give it back, I want it back, the king shouted as he ran.

The owl disappeared and the king stopped running and held very still. The forest was dark and he could hear the murmur of sleeping birds and the rush of a hidden stream. He tipped his head back and looked up and was astonished to see hundreds of stars pulsing quietly in the blue black sky.

When we awoke from the dream, the king got out of bed and put his crown firmly on his head. He went to the window and pulled the curtain aside and stood and looked out at his darkened kingdom.

The queen said, What are you doing standing there in your nightdress with your crown on your head? You look like a fool.

And then she went back to sleep.

The king walked from his bedroom and into the throne room; he went down the marble halls and past the tapestries and out the great door.

The sentry standing guard said Sire, are you in need of assistance? but the king walked past him without saying a word. He walked over the manicured lawns and into the dark forest.

And then he stopped.

He took the crown off and bent his head back and looked up.

And there they were, just as they had been in the dream: stars, hundreds of them, thousands of them, too many stars to count or own, all of them glowing in the night sky.

An owl hooted.

The old king laughed.

~Kate Dicamillo

The Conversation

Sunday, July 11th, 2010

Poet and author David Whyte talks about “entering the conversation,” meaning showing up, participating in this life, being aware of yourself relating to yourself and others, things and emotions.

Maybe this is a literal conversation; maybe it is more about acknowledging the dreadful partnership, the injured knee, and death of a loved one.

It’s about living the moments of your life.

All you have to do—all you can do—is start. Enter the conversation.

***

From Sunday morning class, the poem All the true vows.

And if you can’t make it to class, read the poem and then take this free online class.

All the true vows
are secret vows
the ones we speak out loud
are the ones we break.

There is only one life
you can call your own
and a thousand others
you can call by any name you want.

Hold to the truth you make
every day with your own body,
don’t turn your face away.

Hold to your own truth
at the center of the image
you were born with.

Those who do not understand
their destiny will never understand
the friends they have made
nor the work they have chosen

nor the one life that waits
beyond all the others.

By the lake in the wood
in the shadows
you can
whisper that truth
to the quiet reflection
you see in the water.

Whatever you hear from
the water, remember,

it wants you to carry
the sound of its truth on your lips.

Remember,
in this place
no one can hear you

and out of the silence
you can make a promise
it will kill you to break,

that way you’ll find
what is real and what is not.

I know what I am saying.
Time almost forsook me
and I looked again.

Seeing my reflection
I broke a promise
and spoke
for the first time
after all these years

in my own voice,

before it was too late
to turn my face again.

~David Whyte

Welcome, summer!

Sunday, June 6th, 2010

A poem for a beautiful summer day.

Today by Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day

Choices

Sunday, May 16th, 2010

From Sunday morning class. Thanks for showing up and “living in the complexity of your choice”!

(For the other poem–and more about the class–click here.)

by Nikki Giovanni

if i can’t do
what i want to do
then my job is to not
do what i don’t want
to do

it’s not the same thing
but it’s the best i can
do

if i can’t have
what i want… then
my job is to want
what i’ve got
and be satisfied
that at least there
is something more to want

since i can’t go
where i need
to go… then i must … go
where the signs point
though always understanding
parallel movement
isn’t lateral

when i can’t express
what i really feel
i practice feeling
what i can express
and none of it is equal
i know
but that’s why mankind
along among the animals
learns to cry

For Adele

Wednesday, April 28th, 2010

All night I could not sleep
because of the moonlight on my bed.
I kept on hearing a voice calling:
Out of Nowhere, Nothing answered “yes.”

~Zi Ye

Will we?

Thursday, April 15th, 2010

When I read this poem I am reminded of the responsibility we each bear. To ourselves, each other, the children.

Earth Day is next week. It’s kind of like Christmas or Easter at church — people show up. Because they’re supposed to.

What about the rest of the time? What about the trash I walk by every day on my way to the studio? What about the plastic bags used for Allie’s lunches?

Earth Day is important. It is a reminder, lest we forget that this planet is precious and perishable.

And so is every other day.

This poem reminds me.

Shoulders
by Naomi Shihab Nye

A man crosses the street in rain
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.
No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow
this man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo
but he’s not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.
His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy’s dream
deep inside him.
We’re not going to be able
to live in this world if we are not willing to do what he’s doing with
one another.
The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop raining.

Not all Yoga is the Same

Thursday, March 25th, 2010

This weekend I was blessed to spend time with my teacher, Mary, along with fellow IAY teachers Bob, Kim and Madeleine, and extended studio family Donna, Cecile, Jessica, Silvia, and Tami.

We all attended a workshop in Ukiah on the Spring Equinox—celebrating beginnings, how to find balance in through the shifts of life, and what equanimity means to us.

Another woman in attendance, Susan, was visiting from out of town. She was new to Mary’s teaching.

During a partner discussion exercise, she shared with me that she was a little taken aback by the “lack of breath instruction” from Mary. She’s not telling me how to breath, when to breath.

Susan was also a little woozy over all of the permission and invitations to find your own safe and meaningful place in the poses. Create the shapes from the inside out using your sense of inner space, your breath, your instinctual sense.

She has been a student of This is how we/you do it. All of the time.

This is not how Mary approaches Yoga.

It’s not how I/we approach Yoga.

The brightness in Susan’s eyes, the wonder in her voice, the refreshing feeling she said she had, were all so exciting to witness.

I forget that not everyone has the experience of intuitive inquiry and permission and responsibility that Mary offers through asana. That I believe we offer at It’s All Yoga.

It made me so thankful. For lots of things:

  • Mary and her wisdom and heart and honesty.
  • The fact that we all have a path, and all paths don’t go the same place, the same way.
  • The IAY family, which, of course, includes you.
  • Thank goodness not all yoga is the same.

    ***

    A favorite poem…

    Love Does That

    All day long a little burro labors, sometimes
    with heavy loads on her back and sometimes just with worries
    about things that bother only
    burros.

    And worries, as we know, can be more exhausting
    than physical labor.

    Once in a while a kind monk comes
    to her stable and brings
    a pear, but more
    than that,

    he looks into the burro’s eyes and touches her ears

    and for a few seconds the burro is free
    and even seems to laugh,

    because love does that.

    Love frees.

    ~Meister Eckhart

    White Wings

    Monday, March 22nd, 2010

    The doves have returned to the “breeding tree” in our backyard.

    Every year they remodel the inadequate nest, sit patiently, feed dependably, protect, demonstrate, and watch as the babies take flight. It’s like a nursery—one baby after another all spring through summer.

    The first baby left the nest last week. I watched as he tested his wings, teetering on a branch, mom nearby. He looked naive and confident. The next day he was gone.

    I’ve been thinking a lot about how we all take this risk—leaving the safety of what is comfortable and known to explore and more fully participate in life… in the world.

    At times it seems like just sharing ourselves in relationship, exposing our dreams and fears is the same kind of jump. Will we be held? Will we fall?

    This is the poem from tonight’s practice, for the little dove, for all of us leaving the nest:

    How to Regain Your Soul

    Come down Canyon Creek trail on a summer
    afternoon
    that one place where the valley floor opens out.
    You will see
    the white butterflies. Because of the way
    shadows
    come off those vertical rocks in the west, there
    are
    shafts of sunlight hitting the river and a deep
    long purple gorge straight ahead. Put down your
    pack.

    Above, air sighs the pines. It was this way
    when Rome was clanging, when Troy was being
    built,
    when campfires lighted caves. The white
    butterflies dance
    by the thousands in the still sunshine. Suddenly
    anything
    could happen to you. Your soul pulls toward the
    canyon
    and then shines back through the white wings to
    be you again.

    ~William Stafford

    Peonies

    Sunday, March 14th, 2010

    This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
    to break my heart
    as the sun rises,
    as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

    and they open —
    pools of lace,
    white and pink —
    and all day the black ants climb over them,

    boring their deep and mysterious holes
    into the curls,
    craving the sweet sap,
    taking it away

    to their dark, underground cities —
    and all day
    under the shifty wind,
    as in a dance to the great wedding,

    the flowers bend their bright bodies,
    and tip their fragrance to the air,
    and rise,
    their red stems holding

    all that dampness and recklessness
    gladly and lightly,
    and there it is again —
    beauty the brave, the exemplary,

    blazing open.
    Do you love this world?
    Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
    Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

    Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
    and softly,
    and exclaiming of their dearness,
    fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

    with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
    their eagerness
    to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
    nothing, forever?

    ~Mary Oliver

    Invention

    Saturday, March 13th, 2010

    Tonight the moon is a cracker,
    with a bite out of it
    floating in the night,

    and in a week or so
    according to the calendar
    it will probably look

    like a silver football,
    and nine, maybe ten days ago
    it reminded me of a thin bright claw.

    But eventually –
    by the end of the month,
    I reckon –

    it will waste away
    to nothing,
    nothing but stars in the sky,

    and I will have a few nights
    to myself,
    a little time to rest my jittery pen.

    ~Billy Collins