These poems, she said,

Robert Bringhurst

These poems, these poems,

these poems, she said, are poems

with no love in them. These are the poems of a man   
who would leave his wife and child because   
they made noise in his study. These are the poems   
of a man who would murder his mother to claim   
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man   
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not   
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,   
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s   
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These   
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant   
as elm leaves, which if they love, love only   
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,   
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.   
These poems, she said....
                                       You are, he said,
beautiful.
                That is not love, she said rightly.

The Does' Prayer

The does, as the hour grows late,

med-it-ate;

med-it-nine;

med-i-ten;

med-eleven;

med-twelve;

mednight!

The does, as the hour grows late,

meditate.

They fold their little toesies,

the doesies.

Christian Morgenstern 

 translation by Max Knight

Blessing for the Raising of the Dead

This blessing

does not claim

to raise the dead.

It is not so audacious

as that.

But be sure

it can come

and find you

if you think yourself

beyond all hope,

beyond all remedy;

if you have

laid your bones down

in your exhaustion

and grief,

willing yourself numb.

This blessing

knows its way

through death,

knows the paths

that weave

through decay

and dust.

And while this blessing

does not have the power

to raise you,

it knows how

to reach you.

It will come to you,

sit down

beside you,

look you

in the eye

and ask

if you want

to live.

It has no illusions.

This blessing knows

it is an awful grace

to be returned

to this world.

Just ask Lazarus,

or the Shunammite’s son.

Go to Nain

and ask the widow’s boy

whether he had

to think twice

about leaving the quiet,

the stillness;

whether he hesitated

just for a moment

before abandoning the place

where nothing could harm

or disturb.

Ask the risen

if it gave them pause

to choose this life—

not as one thrust into it

like a babe,

unknowing, unasking,

but this time

with intent,

with desire.

Ask them how it feels

to claim this living,

this waking;

to welcome the breath

in your lungs,

the blood

in your veins;

to gladly consent

to hold in your chest

the beating heart

of this broken

and dazzling world.

paintedprayerbook.com

THE ONION

(From The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky)

“Once upon a time there was a woman, and she was wicked as wicked could be, and she died. And not one good deed was left behind her. The devils took her and threw her into the lake of fire. And her guardian angel stood thinking: what good deed of hers can I remember to tell God? Then he remembered and said to God: once she pulled up an onion and gave it to a beggar woman. And God answered: take now that same onion, hold it out to her in the lake, let her take hold of it and pull, and if you pull her out of the lake, she can go to paradise. 

The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her: here, woman, he said, take hold of it and I’ll pull. And he began pulling carefully, and had almost pulled her all of the way out, when other sinners in the lake saw her being pulled out and all began holding on to her so as to be pulled out with her. But the woman was wicked as wicked could be, and she began to kick them with her feet: ‘It’s me who’s getting pulled out, not you; it’s my onion, not yours.’ No sooner did she say it than the onion broke. And the woman fell back into the lake and is burning there to this day. And the angel wept and went away.”

Worst Comes to Worst

In the South Pacific Islands, there’s certain animals that don’t

Experience fear, like Galapagos iguanas

A newborn sea lion in the Galapagos Islands

They never had predators, so their adaptive responses

Evolved to be as calm as a pack of Dalai Llamas

So then, why do we have to live with violence

When this whole planet could be like a pacifistic island?

Do we need fear to escape invading aliens?

The only predators here are called Homo sapiens

And yeah, we can be dangerous but we can also be

Motivated by affection and reciprocity

Or by that Old Testament animosity: an eye for an eye

But that philosophy’s got the whole world blind

Let’s not pretend it’s gonna be a cake-walk to end it

If violence is an instinct, it’s not entirely senseless

But the logic of human destiny is reciprocal altruism

Yes we can change our perspectives

And as soon as this is widely comprehended

Then I predict we’ll be as calm as Galapagos finches

Worst comes to worst, my people come first

But my tribe lives on every country on earth

I’ll do anything to protect them from hurt

The human race is what I serve

Baba Brinkman

Lovers in a Dangerous Time

Bruce Cockburn

Don't the hours grow shorter as the days go by

You never get to stop and open your eyes

One day you're waiting for the sky to fall

The next you're dazzled by the beauty of it all

When you're lovers in a dangerous time

Lovers in a dangerous time

These fragile bodies of touch and taste

This vibrant skin -- this hair like lace

Spirits open to the thrust of grace

Never a breath you can afford to waste

When you're lovers in a dangerous time

Lovers in a dangerous time

When you're lovers in a dangerous time

Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime --

But nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight --

Got to kick at the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight

When you're lovers in a dangerous time

Lovers in a dangerous time

And we're lovers in a dangerous time

Lovers in a dangerous time