Thursday, February 28, 2019

71: Supplications and Revelations

Sandpiper

The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.

The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.



 - Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.

The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. The tide
is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,

looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.

                     - Elizabeth Bishop
-------------

71


There was that examen when he asked
About that long time he spent on the road
He wondered about the supplications
And if he was one of Bishop’s sandpipers,
Chasing the tide out to where she came or the tide
Rolling fervently chasing him inland
While keeping his head down looking ,
Looking for something.

Maybe two weary worn detectives could help
Scrutinize the trail of clues 
In the discovery of the story
Of his salvation history or real purpose.
Maybe the story is distorted by time.
Maybe time is distorted by the story.

25,915 spent just like that.
Invested wisely? Wasted gifts ?
Juggling promises of the earth 
Proved to be a distraction from the truth.
Liar ? Tired of rekindling the fire?
What is truth?
Did he believe he had the strength to handle the truth?

Most of the unequivocal trust 
In some of the self appointed wizards’
Arthur Murray methodology of
Dancing one’s way to redemption
Was betrayed. The millstones tied 
Around their necks were 
Tied with slip knots.
He stirred up the dust of rage as he paced the cage.
He no longer needed a teacher
Or need a good book to know.

Remembering the great mystic’s observation
How the dark night of the soul leads to
A loving union with the divine;
Ashes to ashes , dust to dust no longer fueled fear.
In the meanwhile his spirit recommitted
For the remainder of his odyssey to
Delight in the sacred innocence of children, music,
Soaking in the mystical insights of poetry
And to live in the equanimity of the ever-present peace and love,
He knew he would bathe in the ocean of grace 
   …of every aspect of the present.

   - JF Sobecki



———-


Tell Me a Story

….Tell me a story.
In this century, and moment, of mania,
Tell me a story.
Make it a story of great distances, and starlight.
The name of the story will be Time,
But you must not pronounce its name.
Tell me a story of deep delight.

    - Robert Penn Warren


Calmly We Walk through This April’s Day
   
… What will become of you and me 
Besides the photo and the memory?
(This is the school in which we learn …
... that time is the fire in which we burn.)   
What is the self amidst this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The children shouting are bright as they run   
(This is the school in which they learn ...)   
…What am I now that I was then
…May memory restore again and again   
The smallest color of the smallest day:   
Time is the school in which we learn,   
Time is the fire in which we burn.
     
                - Delmore Schwartz

You set the Scene - Love


Acid Tongue - Jenny Lewis

Pacing the Cage - B. Cockburn

True Detective Season Three - If You Have Ghosts
(The dialog of two old friends...detectives)

Jack Kerouac on The Steve Allen Show
Reading a segment from On The Road *

Amazing Grace - D. Allman




                                   “I once was lost, but now am found”


 amdg



“One day I will find the right words and they will be simple”
        - Jack Kerouac

“The only truth is music”
       - Jack Kerouac












Copyright 2019 JF Sobecki LLC All Rights Reserved





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Sunday, February 3, 2019

Finisterre Pt 4 - The Scallop, the Way and the Mid-Winter Blues

“Many pilgrims see the lines on a Scallop Shell as a reflection of El Camino de Santiago – many paths leading to one point.”
“Why do you keep a scallop shell?’, She asked and he responded
“It helps me remember to remember”
So what is it that draws this spirits housed in frail vessels
To that one place that is the end and the beginning?
It seems some meander with the hope that by some roll of the dice they will have an easy go of the journey and eventually make it to some unforeseen finish-line.
Some have no hope whatsoever and either chose to stay put or a few of these spirits seem to be in a perpetual state of being lost and never seek assistance.
It seems that some chose to plot a course believing that their map will guarantee them to a safe arrival and conclude in some grand achievement and illumination.
Some proclaim that their goal is to make it through the magical maze in some type of record time that will secure them a trophy or bronze medal.
There are those who’s ego assures the rest that they have been graced with wisdom or mystical insights as to the best way to embark on the passage securing for themselves and others whom they can convince to trust and follow that their collective journey will be an ineffable success.
“Accumulation” is the claim of some who suggest that the more things they gather along the way the more better off they will be in the end.
Some just charge ahead making way without consideration for any thing or anyone who might be in the pathway.
Some see the trek as some great adventure of encounters and experiences to fill their photo albums and journals to add to their resume.
Some struggle day to day, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat and yet that original spark within continues to burn within fueling their passage.
Some poets, troubadours and sherpas seem to be able to channel the great mystical voice of the universe inspiring each pilgrim who dares to listen to carry on.
There are also those humble in spirit who remain present to the sanctifying nature of all creation taking each step in the journey gratefully trusting the wind and rivers to carry them to where they need to be.
Somehow each pilgrim has their own start and unique path and will have a different end point along the way which will be their new beginning, that great Cathedral is just a “way” station to The Finisterre, the launching point to the next horizon, the great sea of the unknown
which is the source of everything.

— JF Sobecki

———————


For Mary Oliver 
(1935 - 2019)

She came to me in grace-filled words
And visions reflecting what I eventually 
Would know as my own perspective
Her essence illuminating
I knew the beauty and the longing
She spoke of
Awakening souls to the significance of being
With her effortless ability to channel the unknowable
A priestess of the universe
Nurturing the hungry hearts.
All that was of nature
Was her church
And now with her absence I feel a great lack 
And yet her flame still burns brightly.
     - JF Sobecki

When Death Comes

--by Mary Oliver (Oct 03, 2006)
When death comes 
like the hungry bear in autumn; 
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; 
when death comes 
like the measle-pox
when death comes 
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: 
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything 
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, 
and I look upon time as no more than an idea, 
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common 
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, 
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something 
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life 
I was a bride married to amazement. 
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder 
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, 
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

--Mary Oliver


News of Death

Last night they came with news of death not knowing what I would say.
I wanted to say,
“The green wind is running through the fields making the grass lie flat.”
I wanted to say,
“The apple blossom flakes like ash covering the orchard wall.”
I wanted to say,
“The fish floats belly up in the slow stream, stepping stones to the dead.”
They asked if I would sleep that night, I said I did not know.
For this loss I could not speak,
the tongue lay idle in a great darkness,
the heart was strangely open,
the moon had gone,
and it was then
when I said, “He(she) is no longer here”,
that the night put its arm around me
and all the white stars turned bitter with grief.

- David Whyte

Thank you Mary for the inspiration.

________________

Little Victories - JD Souther


On the Way to Find Out - C. Stevens


amdg



“One day I will find the right words and they will be simple”
        - Jack Kerouac

“The only truth is music”
       - Jack Kerouac




Copyright 2019 JF Sobecki LLC All Rights Reserved

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