77 Spirituality poems

I saw myself a ring of bone in the clear stream of all of it and vowed, always to be open to it that all of it might flow through and then heard “ring of bone” where ring is what a bell does

I wanted to make myself like the ravine so that all good things would flow into me. Because the ravine is lowly, it receives an abundance. This sounds wonderful to everyone who suffers from lacking, but consider, too, that a ravine keeps nothing out: in flows a peach with only one bite taken out of it, but in flows, too, the body of a stiff mouse half cooked by the heat of the stove it was toughening under. I have an easygoing way about me. I’ve been an inviting host — meaning to, not meaning to. Oops — he’s approaching with his tongue already out and moving. Analyze the risks of becoming a ravine. Compare those with the risks of becoming a well with a well-bolted lid. Which I’d prefer depends largely on which kinds of animals were inside me when the lid went on and how likely they’d be to enjoy the water, vs. drown, freeze, or starve. The lesson: close yourself off at exactly the right time. On the day that you wake up under some yellow curtains with a smile on your face, lock the door. Live out your days untroubled like that.

I was passionate, filled with longing, I searched far and wide. But the day that the Truthful One found me, I was at home.

The hastily assembled angel wanders And has      through cities centuries of  cities And countries and millennia of  cities And countries and of  women and of men      there’s No hurry now though he was hurriedly Once brought to being      and bears the scars of  that Though slowly      in the Earth      though slowly he Eventually began to wonder what The hurry had been for      and if  he could Have been a better angel or have done Better the job he did if once They’d made him the      other angels had allowed Him to meet God      for he has been uncertain As people are uncertain he has nev- er been as certain      as dogs are      who sniff The wind that moves the curtain      and see behind the curtain

Except most things weren’t clouds      everything there Was clouds      the hastily assembled angel Before he knew the word clouds was the last word He heard the other angels shouting as They shoved him      though he after he had fallen Too far to hear them he      saw their mouths mak- ing shapes that were not clouds and when he saw that Thought That’ssomething that isn’t clouds thatshouting After I’ve fallen too far to hear them don’t They knowI’ve fallen too far to hear them now Or are we not together now before He knew the word      in those few minutes the oth- er angels were assembling him      he named The things he saw with words that seemed to fit them Nothing was heavenly a few things were Ocean and hole and monkeyapple he Before the other angels shoved him      had Started combining words      but nobody Would name the things he saw the way he named them And to the other angels all his naming Was noise they shouted      as they shoved him It’s All clouds what difference could it make      to the angel Built to monitor the Earth      from the surface Of  the Earth      what was or wasn’t true in Heaven They shoved him then      they stared and then they shouted After the disappearing figure all The things they suddenly remembered      they had Forgotten to tell him      as they were hammer- ing him together as they hammered him Together and behind them      but above Behind      a pinkish light that was or was- n’t God pulsed      like the heart of  one of  the creatures God hadn’t yet created though the angels Had seen the creatures coming in the waves Then covering the Earth      the angels had Seen them      and didn’t want to be assigned To live with them      and so had voted to Build their own angel but they didn’t ask Permission first instead they built him quick- ly      and as Gabriel asked God      if  this New angel could be sent instead to Earth Fresh      eyes for a fresh world the other angels Shoved him the hastily assembled angel From the cloud and Heaven      he      the hastily Assembled angel could see      farther than The other angels though he couldn’t under- stand what he saw as well      as the other angels Might have      and as he fell he saw their mouths mak- ing shapes he saw the light behind them      pulsing And as he fell he watched the clouds becoming Abstract      as any other angel would From Heaven watch a species go extinct Even as dry land emerged from the waves below him

All life long you are unhanding unhanding and unhanding what was handed you. All life long you throw out the line of life. You throw out the line, stinging up from your guts. Were they planting trees, your father and your mother? Did they ever plant? Is that a line of trees far away green line? All life long you include something that includes your life. You are in the egg. (                In the center of a picture, two angels hold a transparent crystal egg of teardrop shape. In the egg the ocean god is throned, left leg crossed over right, trident in right hand. Under his outstretched arms two children or little people stand, a boy at his right, a girl at his left. The boy’s head is crowned with a sun, the girl’s, with a crescent moon. That’s the middle level of the picture. At the top a blazing sun with human features dominates the vertical axis. At the bottom a man and a woman kneel on either side a furnace, man to the right of the furnace, woman to the left. In the furnace itself, directly below the egg containing the god, is suspended a similar egg, empty.                            ) All life long the dew falls from heaven all life long trees climb up from underground waters. In the seed of the old god the new gods are swarming. Earth is ready for planting. The shut eye is opening. The heat.

Here comes the wise man in the story of sick times, telling you how to find the passage of satisfaction. He is many million years old and has been walking many thousand miles, more miles, more lengths of road than the shrunk-up earth of these days possesses, to find you. He has a veda from before creation to sing you and, lo and behold, it is about you, it means everything to you. Though they’ve made a rope out of rough, heavy smoke, like a whale-thick hawser for a steamer of dead star, and pulled it through you from throat to crotch, from ear to ear, and hag-tied your hands and feet with the ends, though each of them has your own face molten with leprosy, though your brain makes the sound of crowded trains colliding in Kashmir and a stadium that roars hosanna, it is still possible now, in the next moment, to know God. That is, not die in confusion. But maybe, then, this guru is too soon. Maybe he hasn’t come from far enough. Maybe he’s still much too young. Maybe he’s never asked himself clearly what happens when someone like you hears that a lightning-opened living fig tree or a mountain and a blue sky can be lived in and sets out on the long road never moving from his realm in pain.