we bros you lost man
we bros so long
put away your guns man
and sing this song
Within the light whose birth from spirit-deeps
and fruitful weaving thorough space
reveals the gods’ creating loom
soul’s true existence is made manifest;
the Being of the World becomes her room,
from cramping selfhood’s narrow tyranny
risen as from a tomb.
—Seelenkalendar, Fifth week (5-11 May)
‘I feel the very Being of my being,’
so the responsive soul,
which in a wide world rinsed with radiant sun
with flowing light grows one;
imparting warmth to mind’s transparency,
such is her will,
so knitting man and world in unison.
—Seelenkalendar, Fourth week (28 April - 4 May)
04/06/2012 - RD
RD - 03/08/2012
Disclosing itself whole,
unfettering its native powers
zest-of-becoming, latent in the world,
accosts the ‘I’ of Man:
”Loosing my life from its enchanter’s ban
by passing it across to thee
I end at last in my appointed goal.’
—Seelenkalendar, Fiftieth week (16-22 March)
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
—
Near the town where we were living
was an old abandoned farm
every year we’d plant an orchid
in the shelter of it’s arm
to protect us from the madness
of the future still to come
it will be like this forever
I will keep you safe from harm
They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so that they rode not under but among them and they rode at once jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and ten thousand worlds for the choosing.
—Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
All out-of-doors looked darkly in at him
Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
What kept him from remembering what it was
That brought him to that creaking room was age.
He stood with barrels round him at a loss.
And having scared the cellar under him
In clomping there, he scared it once again
In clomping off; and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like beating on a box.
A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon such as she was,
So late arising to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man one man can’t keep a house,
A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
It’s thus he does it of a winter night.
—
-Robert Frost, An Old Man’s Winter Night
