Who, if I cried out, would hear me
In the orders of angels? If an angel heard
And in a sudden movement I were taken
to his heart,
Into the presence of his greater Being,
Would I not be consumed?
For beauty is the beginning of fear,
A movement we can hardly bear,
And we marvel that it serenely refrains
From destroying us.
Every angel is terrifying.
I hold myself back and
swallow the luring call
That came out of the dark, the sobbing.
Feeling now my need, to whom can I turn?
Not to angels, not to humankind,
not to animals
Who already know that in what
I call the world,
The world as interpreted by me,
I am not at home. There just remains perhaps
A hillside tree I daily pass,
Yesterday’s street, and the false faithfulness
Of a habit which liked being in me,
Stayed, and never left.
Oh and there is night, night, when
Full of the space of the cosmos, feeds on
For whom would she not stay, longed-for
Gently undeceiving night, with effort
In front of the solitary heart.
Is she easier for lovers?
Oh but they just use each other to cover up
And hide their own fate.
Do you still not know?
From your arms stretched wide
Cast out emptiness into the space
We breathe; and perhaps the birds
By their more sensitive flight
Will feel the air extended.
….Rilke (First Duino Elegy)
the angels seek us out first…..inhabiting that sweet spot where we make space in our hearts….when we embrace that space & disappear down into that fundamental self, we are being born, deepening our truest core…..the love that only angels can nurture in us….
We must learn to reawaken & keep ourselves awake,
not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite
expectation of the dawn.
….Henry David Thoreau
Simple Night (A Diatribe to Self)
I beg of You, Self- After
day ignites end-time, rouse to the night,
the colander of sifting stars, stars that breathe You
in. The night will wrap You in Your stars. Stars thrive,
shine out and refuel You.
They will remind you of You.
With your gaze free from the day-rubble,
your altar to Self alone in holy attention,
possibility will ascend from the chipped cup of day.
Your distractions, obsessions, and petty cries
will overflow and empty. I remind You so clearly,
possibility ascends, like Rilke’s solitude.
Your night shadow calls You out of yourself.
Let go of the day; empty the aching, stone-filled
weights of burden. Here at last, the night stars
quell fear, swallowing whole,
all impasse in your heart.
You ask, Yes, but how? How do I
hold the soft bowl of night, and how do I cradle
a taut life? Altars and overflowing cups?
And I say again- With your cup emptied,
silenced in sanctuary of simple night-
Become the stars, anti-day’s
frolicking children. Refusing to sleep,
You abandon the crushing grip of strain.
Quickening into expansion, your bruises fade.
No, this is not You in the day.
No, this is not Rilke’s Self.
For where his beauty is terror,
and Self the annihilator, I say
Self is beauty, and night the annihilator.
Hallowing the Self in simple night,
your own tight solitude, your own sudden
shifting, sanctions the stars to Light.
I beg of You- Become the stars.
Free Rilke’s Self. Become Your Self.
….. In Blue