Sunday, 25 June 2017
caged birds are taught to sing,
in the cellar, under a black cloth,
they listen to the radio.
i don't listen to the radio,
don't watch news,
the cellar is still there,
smelling of apples, potatoes,
onions, moist, hiding pleasure too,
hidden glasses of jam and cherry compote,
the joy of stealing a memory.
i don't sing anymore.
i wrote poetry.
i should destroy it when i do.
maybe i'll paint again,
all for burning.
like thinking all just an occupation:
we create and during the act we don't feel so helpless:
but we are. we all are.
meditation: a way to let go, all,
even creating. it is ok.
it doesn't mean thoughts and emotions
and us are not present:
it gives distance and enables
to perceive presence as it is.
some people do it for 'control'
or for being 'better' humans.
Zen would laugh.
At the root of life are no morals,
no picture books, no angels,
at the root of life is life,
the cycle from death to birth to death to birth..
i am not able to say that love is at the root of life
nor that it isn't.
this is beyond formulation.
i cannot sing anymore.
i don't like the echo,
listening to echo of ego..
i don't like mirrors and scales.
but i try to be kind to me, off and on.
i cannot do more for others than for me.
don't ever ask me to be happy.
i am when i am.
but i am speaking to me.
i cannot tell you anything else
than what i tell me.
good evening from Savonlinna