Phriday Phaiga 11/30/12

…on becoming a Pen
in the Sun’s hand…

Liana’s recent post, this is what you should do…

put me in mind of the origin of this whole phaiga thing for me.   I love what this quote from Rumi says about the human body, the human being bridging the gap between earth and sky, becoming a conduit…

It was the busy autumn of 2009 and if I was going to capture any of the colors in that one “sweet-week” of October, it had to be from the dashboard of my car on a quiet city street…
I had no time….

The words came as I later viewed these images.

I had no idea what I would find.
The sky and I were in cahoots,
my eyes were blind

More to come….

Dogen and The Doctor, drunk at a Buddhist wedding

“I see a tree.”					

“A tree is a man-seeing-trees,				
when the treeing sees are man-ing,
when the man-ing tree sees seeing.”

“A man seeing tree-things?”				

“A tree-thinging man 
sings.”				

“A man treeing see-things?”			

“A man seeing trees						
but not treeing sees
sees nothing.”				

“A tree-thing?”							

“A see-thing.”								

“Aah, but not The thing.”		

“I see a tree.”					

Page 82?

Maybe I should have grabbed a different book.
Something without an eighty-one-and-a-half page introduction.
Page 82 was empty.
I should have gotten it 
right then,
right there.
Page 83 had 
only one sentence,
in verse. 
So I read the third line.
It said

(No death, no birth,

Just like that.

The third full sentence,
on page 84,
which was line 2
of the second verse,
said

What moves between them?

What indeed?
Or who?

Just me
        moving still.
Just words.

 

The Trace of Memory

Reflecting the slight
light of the sky 
in broken panes of glass
and unspoken sighs 
to myself
trying for those real images of my imagining
mumbling to my self about lost ideas
long gone 
and lost ideals 
that still haunt 
all those things I need to write 
that I've almost written a million times or more
building pieces of that one big long piece that I probably never will

(but I’ll keep telling myself
that I will and I will
keep needing and 
keep trying)
all those little pieces that are really just pieces of that one piece
and all my longer pieces 
splinter into little versions 
little facets
of that same piece
an un-spoken sphere of near-thoughts from a far realm
that flirts with the light from the sky
in broken panes of glass
as I drive by 
in broken buildings 
in this old city
before its time
before its through
thought and thrum of engines in the night
and drying eyes forever wet
and spent 
and spelling words in another language
the language of my youth
the language of my death
a trellis of trembling love above
and the ground hugging me 
to my self in the night
in those empty buildings in the earth 
and peering through 
that glass 
those shards
that splintered sight of things I've known and forgotten
like all those smells I've lost 

from the paths in the mountains
of a dream of childhood
like the soft needles lost under foot
that got caught in the tread of the boot
like the soft sound 
of the burbling stream along my side

(that you didn’t even know that you wanted to needed to 
know what it was telling you that you needed to 
remember that you could not forget what it spoke of 
what it’s still saying to someone else or to no one at all 
whether they’re listening or not 
as you were though you’ve long forgotten 
what it was telling you because in forgetting how to listen 
you’ve forgotten what you’ve heard) 
with me along for the ride
twice-over crossing 
and re-crossing 
to make it up the valley 
to the lake 
to the meadow  
on the shore 
of that pure blue depth
cradled gently in the soft palms 
of that valley
ridge-edges hard against the sky

(like the glass?  yes, but
like the just-edge of the glass 
--the light was in the water, 
the sky was in the surface)
where we laid in the grass 
and let the blood return 
from its journey to our feet 
and nursed our blisters
and twisted our socks 
of the icy stream water
and soaked up the sun
and slept

Phriday Phaiga 11/23/12

Life Lies

a
man
on
a lake
takes a look
at his life
                                                                                and

                                                                                          his

                                                                                               life

                                                                                                    lies

                                                                                              on the bottom