*praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence.*
some people face a cross and kneel
others face to the eastperhaps the incense is lit
or prayer beads are handledyou might honor the god you love
or simply empty out your mind
by focusing on your breath
in silent meditationmy friend, none of us truly know
the secret of all secrets
that comes later — maybehowever, we can know this
there is something that exists
that is greater than this lifehonor it
jobe
*a line from rumi's "this world is made of our love for emptiness"
translated by coleman barks
Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.
Vladimir Nabokov
A poem by Mary Oliver:
A Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver was such a brilliant poet and a kind soul. I never got to attend one of her poetry readings. A pity, that. She sleeps now with angels.
Sabine River. Just Before Dawn. 1971.
Summertime, East Texas. This is the only part of this day that will even be close to cool, and I am sweating already, and so is the mare. I am homesick for Baltimore, for city life, but still I love my father’s mare. I bring her apples and carrots, and she likes to rub her head on mine. I take her out every day; she likes it, I like it, Dad likes it. Everybody wins.
We follow the river a long way, moving slowly because it is still dark. There is only the slightest hint of color to the east. I am 15, still a boy, but I am not like the other kids at the country high school where I am stuck. I can see that they don't know who they are, or what they want. I have never doubted who I am; jobe, a poet. I dread the end of summer and going into the classroom; if I have to live here, I prefer solitude.
We come to where Sandy Creek feeds into the river. The Tawakoni tribe lived here once. Hunting, fishing, gathering pecans. There had been villages here, but now there isn't a trace of them. I lead the mare out into the shallow water of the creek, to let her cool off a little. I dismount, and stand in the water, too, soaking my sneakers.
Willow and oak trees line the banks. Sycamore and Bois d'arc, too. A water moccasin slides past us, heading from the creek to the river. We stand there for a long time, our heads touching, the slow current against our legs.
jobe
*we have fallen into the place where everything is music.*
of course the light is music
you already know thatthe sun, the moon, and the stars
that's easythe rivers and seas
the mountains and valleys
lovely music, thatbut friend I tell you
that the darkness is music as wellthe shadow side of being alive
the drunken angry father is music
even as he berates the shrunken wife
and ruins the childrenthe lies of the politicians are music
the sound of shots being fired in the night
and you cannot tell how far away
or how closethe earthquake, the killer tornado
the car crash, the unsuccessful operationit's all a balance, all of it
and one song plays after another
like a concert with no program to followso pay attention to the music
it could verily easily be a short concertone never knows
jobe
*a line from rumi's "where everything is music"
translated by coleman barks
Silly old man, I just wasn't sleepy so I sat up reading poems in bed most of the night, wrapped up in a soft old blanket that I used to take camping. My 'walking around blanket.' The poems? Mostly Gary Snyder, some William Stafford, and some Zen ‘death poems’ that are centuries old. Somewhere in the late, late, latest hours I nodded off and slipped into a magical dream that seemed as real as anything. In this dream I was a suburban spy, here in Davis, California, and my job was to make the coffee that sent the signal that the mission was 'on.' If I made the coffee too soon or too late, all was lost, and we would be attacked. I am one of those people who, when they wake up from a dream, is somewhat lost for a moment or two. Should I make the coffee? Should I wait? Five thirty-five a.m. - about thirty minutes before dawn. Then I woke up fully and had my Dharma Moment - nothing is real, everything is real. There is no mission, make the coffee, silly old man. At five thirty-five in the morning, coffee is the mission.
Thanks for reading the book of jobe, I appreciate the support. May your heart be light and may your feet be pain-free.
jobe