The reveries of ruins asked: “Will no
one come?” The skeletons of trees inquired:
“And who are you, forever on the go?”
—Giovanni Pascoli, from “In the Fog,” translated by Geoffrey Brock (via aubade)
First forgive the silence
That answers prayer,
Then forgive the prayer
That stains the silence.
Excuse the absence
That feels like presence,
Then excuse the feeling
That insists on presence.
Pardon the delay
Then ask pardon for revealing
For being only a word,
Then ask God to forgive
The betrayal of language.
Mark Jarman, from section 2 of ”Five Psalms" in To the Green Man (Sarabande Books, 2004)
Seriously, go read the entire thing, it’s beautiful.
You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul.
—George Bernard Shaw, Back to Methuselah (via theblackquill)
God goes, belonging to every riven thing he’s made
sing his being simply by being
the thing it is:
stone and tree and sky,
man who sees and sings and wonders why
God goes. Belonging, to every riven thing he’s made,
means a storm of peace.
Think of the atoms inside the stone.
Think of the man who sits alone
trying to will himself into a stillness where
God goes belonging. To every riven thing he’s made
there is given one shade
shaped exactly to the thing itself:
under the tree a darker tree;
under the man the only man to see
God goes belonging to every riven thing. He’s made
the things that bring him near,
made the mind that makes him go.
A part of what man knows,
apart from what man knows,
God goes belonging to every riven thing he’s made.
—Christian Wiman, Every Riven Thing (via human-voices)
after Marina Wilson
Consider the hands
that write this letter.
Left palm pressed flat against paper,
as we have done before, over my heart,
in peace or reverence to the sea,
some beautiful thing
I saw once, felt once: snow falling
like rice flung from the giants’ wedding,
or strangest of strange birds. & consider, then,
the right hand, & how it is a fist,
within which a sharpened utensil,
similar to the way I’ve held a spade,
the horse’s reins, loping, the very fists
I’ve seen from roads through Limay & Estelí.
For years, I have come to sit this way:
one hand open, one hand closed,
like a farmer who puts down seeds & gathers up;
food will come from that farming.
Or, yes, it is like the way I’ve danced
with my left hand opened around a shoulder,
my right hand closed inside
of another hand. & how I pray,
I pray for this to be my way: sweet
work alluded to in the body’s position to its paper:
left hand, right hand
like an open eye, an eye closed:
one hand flat against the trapdoor,
the other hand knocking, knocking.
—"Consider the Hands that Write this Letter," Aracelis Girmay (via commovente)