Zwischenwelten: Jun 28, 2015

Sunday, June 28, 2015

SO THAT ONE DAY YOU REALIZED, DAVID WHYTE ("Santiago")

SO THAT ONE DAY YOU REALIZED

So that one day you realized, that what you wanted
had actually already happened, and long ago,
and in the dwelling place in which you lived before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise,
that first set you off and then drew you on, and that,
you were more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach...

...

Excerpt from ‘Santiago’
From PILGRIM: Poems by David Whyte
©2012 David Whyte

http://davidwhyte.stores.yahoo.net/pised.html

Photo © David Whyte
The Road to Nant Gwynant
Snowdonia, North Wales.
July 2015

https://www.facebook.com/pages/David-Whyte/213407562018588?fref=ts

Ulm and back home

Bo Gordzelak Pedersen, Denmark, painter and poet: texts and paintings by Bo G.Pedersen

http://www.bogorzelakpedersen.dk/

https://www.facebook.com/bogope

( Desert rose)

(Lake in the forest)

(Landscape at dusk)

(In the woods)

Poem for St. John

Tell me, what is most empty, a day or a night?
With its lack of long enough reasons, or just the white light

yellowing. Stars. Then another cup of coffee.
Maybe language is, like when it's snowing and you

hide in an old shed.
Or raining, books of that –

with chapters on hours dripping from dying trees.
Let us ask about the landscape and get

no answers in return. There is no one here,
only these starling questions blackening,

spotting our eyes as if a sudden fall,
while we were numb,

had spread its wings to the end.
What beginning is the most empty, the one

that comes with flowers in hand,
or where you start to kneel with all that is broken?

Out of the zone of the spoken:
time, religiously, feeds on who we are.

( The empty grave, sold)

(The burning bush, sold)

I have the fall in my soul today
with its crackling of dry orange leaves
in hands of days much greater than me.

The swelling of something that is nothing in my throat,
and the almost bursting of a blue deer's eyes,
caught, as it is, in its silent animal skin.

The rising moon wants Jimi Hendrix,
and I will give it.

And I will give myself to it, and prepare.

Already up there, which we cannot see,
some black stars are birds in flight.

(The mushroom hunt)

Again we have so little, we
return to this, the just rubbing against
the bark.

How naked we are, how old.
Our Greek souls still haunting us, our
echoing music.
But those intervals inbetween …

How naked we are
with our hands.

Somebody came to tell me
what I already had suspected,
that if there is no God for us
to compare ourselves with,
our love is as real as it gets.