To Die or Simply Fade Away

“Verily, verily, I say unto you, еxcept a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”

“Verily, verily, I say unto you, еxcept a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”

Some call it separate self,
Some ego.
Some, “What the hell are you talking about, this is who I am!”

For those who feel that something is amiss
Who hear the prophets’ warning as their gist
They look for the culprit now and then
Catching glimpses of impermanence within
But with each glance it vanishes
Replaced by claims of vanquishes.

The game continues with now and then
Becoming more and less
With warnings becoming mindfulness
And vanishings becoming emptiness
Vanquishes, “The quiet space within.”

So, is death due for the prideful one
Or quiet fading like last night’s dreams?
Is there one which could die,
Or many which evaporate, as
With thanks to the sun,
Does the puddle in the afternoon.

For any who know, let them know.
For those who are wondering,
Best keep wandering,
Appreciating the game,
Of sacred to-and-fro.

Our Favorite Italian Dinner Table

Peace in a lively dining spot.

Quiet fills the room
A woman sits still
At the corner of the bar
The nondescript tender
Is lost in a dream
From the end of the bar
A patron stares at the same spot as his neighbor.
Setting the overall tone
A man stands, hands in pockets
Looking out the window.
Dry silence here in is seductive.
Heavy strokes enhance allurement.
We sit in a lively room at its feet.
For an after-dinner drink,
Let’s step into the quiet.

In the Beginning …

was …

“In the beginning was the Word.”
In the beginning was emptiness, the implicate and things.
In the beginning was the shadow of the hawk flying overhead;
In the beginning was the four-year old’s taste of ice cream,
              and being the last to finish,
              being tickled,
              finding a frog,
              running in circles;
In the beginning was the cool moist autumn morning;
In the beginning was walking over Ambassador Bridge,
               and feeling it move when the rail is over-looked;
In the beginning was the traffic jam, the long line, the late doctor, forgetting,
               and quiet felt;
In the beginning was crepuscule light, and
               Monk and Nellie,
               and the minor key;
In the beginning was the Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen …;
In the beginning was Duino and the Elegies,
               and Da Vinci’s smile;
In the beginning was the silence of the aged couple,
               and the look between them;
In the beginning was the cross
               with its torture and death,
               adoration and return;
In the beginning was the messenger,
               in resonance with emptiness;
In the beginning was the seeker, seeking the beginning.

NPR Poetry Challenge

Current NPR Poetry Challenge: Write a poem regarding sleep, or anything related to sleep, beginning with the phrase “I would like to.”

My submission:

I would like to continue sleeping.
Your nudge tickles my dream
I imagine I am awake and smile
Your cool glare brings a shiver
I look for a sweater
Your shaking is rousing
I raise my head and say “earthquake”
Your slap opens my eyes
I recognize respect is needed
Your love wakes for a moment.

See details and submit your own, here:

All Alone Together

All alone & alone together.

What is nothing.
Too much.
Write what is quiet.
Too loud.
What is now.
Too late.
What is thought.
Too wrong.
Nothing quiet now thought, too…

Silence reigns over quantity.
Peace slips toward tension
Knowing all will be lost.
It is for the Best.

The Best is not to be written.
So strum some mundane ditties
Pretend the game is to be won,
Lose at all cost
Knowing one game.

The only game in town,
Around town,
Across town,
Throughout the land,
To the moon.
Marbles sound like fun.
Call it what you will.

Whatever it is called,
Forget it.
Names are for the dead.
Living is anonymous,
Naming is tyrannical.
Leave it all alone.

Yes, that’s how it is.
All alone.

* * *

Robin beaks a string;
I grab thoughts for nourishment,
Impoverished both.

Together alone
Entangles are particled
Presencing being.

Where three or more are …
Recognized beggars partake.
Conditions provide.

The Duino Elegies of Rainer Maria Rilke

Excerpts from The Duino Elegies and a letter from Rilke elucidating their motivation and intent.

The polish translator of the Duino Elegies wrote to Rilke asking several questions regarding the Elegies. This is Rilke’s response. (Edited by me to remove a few less relevant points. All italics are Rilke’s.)

Here, dear friend, I venture to say scarcely anything, myself. At the hand of the poems themselves, however, may not many things perhaps attempt clarification? Where to begin? And is it I who should be allowed to give the Elegies their correct explanation? They reach out intimately beyond me. . . .  Affirmation of life AND death turns out to be one and the same thing in the “Elegies.” As experienced and celebrated here, to acknowledge the one and not the other would be finally to shut out all that is infinite. Death is the side of life turned away from us and unilluminated by us. We must try to achieve the greatest consciousness of our existence, which is at home in both unlimited realms, from both inexhaustibly nourished . . . The true shape of life reaches through both spheres; the blood of greatest circulation flows through both: there is neither a Here nor a Beyond, but the great unity in which those beings which transcend us, the “angels”, are at home. . . .

. . . We of the Here and Now are not for a moment satisfied with the Time-World nor bound in it; we are forever flowing over and over toward those who preceded us, toward our origin, and toward those who seemingly come after us. In that greatest “open” world all are, one cannot say “simultaneous”, for the very falling away of time implies that they all are. Transitoriness everywhere plunges into a deep Being. And so all the configurations of the Here are to be used not only in a time-bound way, but adjusted, insofar as we can, to those superior meanings in which we have a share. But not in the Christian sense, . . . but in a purely earthly, deeply earthly, blissfully earthly consciousness, we must introduce what we see and touch here into the wider, widest range. Not into a Beyond whose shadow darkens the earth, but into a whole, into the whole. Nature, the things we are associated with and use, are provisional and perishable things; but they are, as long as we are here, our possession and our friendship—confidants of our distress and of our rejoicing, as they have already been the intimates of our forebears. The main point is, not only not to speak ill of or put down the Here, but precisely because it is provisional (which it shares with us), to comprehend and transform its appearances and things in a most intimate understanding. Transform? Yes, for it is our duty to imprint so deeply, so patiently and passionately into ourselves this provisional, perishable earth, that its reality can rise again in us “invisibly.” We are the bees of the invisible. Distractedly we pilfer the honey of the visible to collect it in the big golden hive of the invisible. The “Elegies” show us at this work, at the work of perpetually converting the beloved Visible and Tangible into the invisible vibration and agitation of our own nature, which introduces new frequencies into the sphere-vibrations of the universe. (For the diverse substances of the cosmos are only different vibration-exponents, and so we prepare in this way not only intensities of a spiritual nature but, who knows, new bodies, metals, nebulae and constellations.) And this activity is characteristically sustained and urged on by the ever more rapid vanishing of so much that is visible, which will never again be replaced. Even for our grand-parents a “house”, a “spring”, a trusted tower, their very clothes, their coat: were infinitely more, infinitely closer. Almost everything was a vessel in which they found something human and added to the store of what was human. . . . The animate things, the experienced things, the things which have known us, are running out and can no longer be replaced. We are perhaps the last who will have known such things. On us rests the responsibility to preserve not only their memory (that would be little and unreliable) but also their human and laric worth. (“Laric” in the sense of household gods.) The earth has no other refuge than to become invisible: in us who with part of our being partake of the Invisible, at least hold stock in it, and can increase our holdings in Invisibility during our time here.

In us alone can this intimate and enduring transformation of the visible into an invisible no longer dependent on being visible and tangible be accomplished—as our own destiny at the same time continually becomes MORE AVAILABLE AND INVISIBLE in us. The Elegies set up this norm of existence: they assure, they celebrate this consciousness. They locate it carefully in its traditions, in that they claim for it ancient inheritances and rumors of inheritances, and call up foreknowledge of such references even in the Egyptian cult of the dead. (Although the “Land of Lamentation” through which the older “lament” leads the young dead is not to be identified with Egypt, but is only, so to speak, a mirroring of the Nile country into the desert- clarity consciousness of the dead.) . . . The angel of the Elegies is that creature in whom the transformation of the visible into the invisible which we are carrying out, appears already fulfilled. For the angel of the Elegies all past towers and palaces exist because they have been long invisible, and the still-standing towers and bridges of our life are already invisible, though (for us) still physically enduring. The angel of the Elegies is that being who stands for the recognition of a higher order of reality (in the invisible). Therefore “terrible” to us, because we, its lovers and transformers are, for all that, still attached to the visible. All worlds of the universe are hurling into the invisible, as though into their next deepest reality. A few stars intensify themselves immediately and disappear in the infinite consciousness of the angels— others depend on creatures who slowly and painstakingly transform them, creatures in whose terrors and delights they reach their next invisible realization. We are, let it be once more stressed, in the sense of the Elegies, we are these transformers of the earth; our entire existence, the flights and plunges of our love— everything— qualifies us for this task (beside which no other essentially exists). …

May you recognize here, dear friend, some counsel and elucidation and, for the rest, further help yourself. For I do not know whether I could ever say more.

Your R.M. Rilke

Excerpts from the Elegies

The First Elegy excerpt

Who, if I cried, would hear me from the order

of Angels? And even if one suddenly held me

to his heart: I would dissolve there from

his stronger presence. For beauty is only

the beginning of a terror we can just barely endure,

and what we so admire is its calm

disdaining to destroy us. Every Angel brings terror.

So I withhold myself and keep back the lure

of my dark sobbing. Oh, who is there

to prevail upon? Neither Angles nor men,

and already the ingenious beasts are aware

that we are not reliably at home

in our interpreted world.

Yes, the springtime did need you. Many stars

demanded that you sense them. A wave

long since gone by lifted itself toward you,

or when you passed a window that was open, a violin

gave itself up. All this was charge.

But did you complete it? Were you not always

distracted with expectation, as though this were

but announcing someone you could love?

Should not this ancient pain at last produce in us

more fruit? Is it not time that our loving

freed us from our beloved and we, trembling, endured;

as the arrow endures the string that, gathered to leap forth,

it may be more that itself. For staying is nowhere.

— But all the living

mistakenly draw too sharp distinctions.

Angels (one says) often are not sure if they

move among the living or the dead. The eternal torrent

hurls all ages along through both realms

forever, and sound above them in both.

The Second Elegy excerpts

Every Angel brings terror. And yet, woe is me,

my song calls upon you, near-deadly birds of the soul,

knowing who you are. Where have the days of Tobias gone

when one supremely shining stood in a simple doorway,

disguised a little for the journey and no longer frightening;

(young to the young one as he curiously peered out.)

Should the archangel, the perilous one, behind the stars

take a single step downward and toward us, our own

surging hearts would slay us. Who are you?

Lovers, if they but knew, could in the night air

speak wonderful things. For it seems that all things

conceal us. Look, the trees exist; and the houses

we live in – still stand. But we pass them by

like an exchange of breath.

And all is in agreement to ignore us; half as shame, perhaps

and half as ineffable hope.

The Fifth Elegy excerpt

Angel! Could there be a place we have not known, and there

on an ineffable carpet, lovers revealed all that here

they can never accomplish, the daring

high figures of the heart’s flight,

their towers made of pleasure, ladders

leaning only on each other where there was never

ground, and swaying – and could it be

before those rings of spectators, the countless silent dead,

would not fling their last, their always kept back, always

hidden and unknown to us, forever valid

coins of happiness before that pair whose smile

at last was true, out of the quietened


The Seventh Elegy excerpt

To be present is glorious. You knew it, even you

girls, who seemingly went without, sank under, in the

saddest streets of the cities, festering ones kept for refuse.

For one hour was each of you, or perhaps not

entirely an hour, some span of time that is scarcely

a measure between two whiles, wherein you had

existence. Everything. Your veins full of existence.

But we so lightly forget what our laughing neighbor

will neither confirm nor envy. Into the visible

we want to raise it, when even the most visible joy

only can disclose itself to us when we have transformed it within.

Nowhere, my love, can there be World but within us.

Our life goes by in changing, and ever fainter

dwindles the external. Where an enduring house once stood,

an invented image now strikes across our sight, the concept’s

entire property, as though it still loomed in the mind.

Vast stores of power the Time Spirit builds itself, formless

as that vital drive it levies from all things.

Temples it knows no more. These extravagances of the heart

we are secretly saving. Yes, where there remains

a thing once prayed, served, or knelt before,

it survives, just as it is, into the unseen world.

Many no longer perceive this, still lack the vantage

for building it inwardly now, with pillars and statues, greater!

The Eighth Elegy excerpt

With all their eyes all creatures gaze into

the Open. Only our eyes, as though turned in,

on every side of it are set about

like traps to circumvent its free outgazing.

What is without we know from the face

of animals alone, for even the youngest child

we turn around and force to see the past

as form and not that openness that

lies so deep within the face of animals. Free from death,

has its destruction always behind it

and before it God, so when it moves, it moves

into eternity, like a running spring.

We have never, not for a single day,

that pure space before us, into which the flowers

endlessly open: where it is always world

and never Nowhere without No:

that Pure, Unwatched-over. That one breathes and

endlessly knows and does not desire.

Were consciousness after our manner within this

sure beast that draws near to us

but in another direction -, he would pull us with him

on his way. But his being to him is

infinite, incomprehensible and without sight

into his situation, pure, like his outward gaze.

And where we see future, he sees all

and himself in all, and is complete forever.

The Ninth Elegy excerpt

… why, then

must we be human – and evading destiny,

long for destiny? . . .

                                         Oh not because happiness is

that hasty profit of an approaching loss.

Not from curiosity, nor to exercise the heart,

it could have been that in the laurel. . . .

But because being present is so much, because it seems

that what is here is in need of us, this fading world

has strangely charged us. Us who fade the most. Once

to everything, only once. Once and no more. And we too,

once. And never again. But this

once to have been, if only this once:

to have been of the earth seems beyond revoking.

Earth, is not this what you want: invisibly

to arise in us? Is it not your dream

to become one day invisible? – Earth! invisible!

What do you charge us with if not transformation?

Earth, my love, I will. Oh believe me, I need

no more of your springtimes to win me; one,

ah, just one is already too much for my blood.

Unutterably I am resolved to be yours, from afar.

You were always right, and your holiest occurrence

is our intimate companion, Death.

Look, I live. And for what? Neither childhood nor future

grows any less in me . . . . Unaccountable being

springs up in my heart.

The Tenth Elegy excerpt

That I one, with the passing of this grim vision,

might sing out jubilant praise for assenting Angels.

That from the clear-struck keys of my heart, not one

should fail from doubtful, or slack or breaking strings;

that my streaming face might make me more radiant,

until an inconspicuous weeping bloom there. How dear

will you be to me then, you nights of sorrowing.

Oh why did I not, disconsolate sisters, kneel

more to receive you, give myself more loosely

into your loosened hair. We, wasting our sorrows,

how we gaze beyond them into some drab duration

to see if they may not end there. While already

they are the winter foliage, our darkened evergreen,

one of the season of our secret year -, not only

season -, but place, settlement, camp, soil, habitation.

Yet within us the endless dead were waking in a likeness;

see, they were pointing perhaps to the catkins hung

from the empty hazels, or suggesting the rain

that falls on the dark soil in early spring. –

And we, who have always counted

on joy as ascending, would suffer

the emotion that almost alarms us

when a joyful things falls.

Translations by Stephen Garmey and Jay Wilson as printed in the Petrarch Press edition, 1987.

Cosmic Consciousness with Walt Whitman

Horace Traubel was a close associate of Walt Whitman and one of his executors. This is his contribution to the book Cosmic Consciousness by Maurice Bucke:

May, 1889. That overwhelming night, as I leaned over the railing of the ferryboat, lost this world for another, and in the anguish and joy of a few minutes saw things heretofore withheld from me revealed. Those who have had such an encounter will understand what this means, others will not, or will perhaps only realize it by intimation. I could not separate the physical and spiritual of that moment. My physical body went through the experience of a disappearance in spiritual light. All severe lines in the front of phenomena relaxed. I was one with God, Love, the Universe, arrived at last face to face with myself. I was sensible of peculiar moral and mental disturbances and readjustments. There was an immediateness to it all—an indissoluble unity of the several energies of my being in one force. I was no more boating it on a river than winging it in space or taking star leaps, a traveler from one to another on the peopled orbs. While I stood there the boat had got into the slip and was almost ready to go out again. A deckhand who knew me came up and tapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t you intend going off the boat?” he asked. And he added when I faced him and said “Yes:” “You look wonderfully well and happy to-night, Mr. Traubel.”

I did not see Walt till the next day, evening. In the meantime I had lived through twenty-four hours of ecstasy mixed with some doubts as to whether I had not had a crack in the skull and gone mad rather than fallen under some light and made a discovery. But the first words Walt addressed to me when I sallied into his room were reassuring: “Horace, you have the look of great happiness on your face to-night. Have you had a run of good luck?” I sat down and tried in a few words to indicate that I had had a run of good luck, though not perhaps the good luck he had in mind for me at the moment. He did not seem at all surprised at what I told him, merely remarking, as he put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes: “I knew it would come to you.” I suggested: “I have been wondering all day if I am not crazy.” He laughed gravely: “No, sane. Now at last you are sane.”

Between Two Stools

They say you can’t sit between two stools. Isn’t that life?


They say I can’t sit between two stools?
Every stick has two ends,
It’s true, I tend to forget the stick.

What is between two stools,
Between two notes?
Between between between … ?
We are, “Stuck in the middle again,”
Between clowns and jokers,
Between right and left,
Between ‘Yes’ and ‘No,’
Between tension and relaxation,
Between sleep and waking,
Between waking and being,
Between birth and death,
Isn’t this Life?

Is there anywhere else to be?