Archive for the 'poetry' Category
Neo-Bhakti Irish Poetry by Gabriel Rosenstock
April 15, 2010Dar Óma
what speeded them on their way?
what distances did they travel?
the sky was full of falling stars …
You draw down too much light -
soon the heavens will all be bare
2
Dar Óma
yesterday
I went looking
for You
and found You
everywhere
particularly
in the flight of swallows
innumerable
in the darkening air
it seemed they wished
to fan the dying sun
to flame
3
Dar Óma
look at this full fruit
falling for You every time
unconsciously
this tree
its limbs Yours
oozing sap
its roots
its perfume Yours
lichen clings to bark
hold me
deep deep down You are always there
awaiting my blossoming in You
kirtana of singing leaves
4
Dar Óma
holding Your image before me
on a screen
increasing percentages
until You disintegrate
like some forgotten galaxy
calling You back again
a retrieval
a respite from senseless oblivion
I know that stars are born
only to die
we see the light
of heavenly bodies
long since gone
this also I know:
Your light shines in me
the universe holds no terror
25
Dar Óma
snake unwinding
from a lightning-blasted tree
I’ve spotted You
why should I flee?
I am already deep in Your eyes
come
take all of me
mercifully
let me assist You
here’s my head firmly in Your jaws
do not use Your fangs
to stun me
let me live
this death in You now
inch by slow inch
35
Dar Óma
I can never forget the yellowhammers
I saw as a child
tiny chicks nesting in a stone wall
such clamour from their throats
such hunger
nearby was a dark Protestant church
it was taboo to enter
God manifested that day in yellow
the colour I see You in now
dust of buttercups
primrose glance
You are the yellowhammer
ensconced in a mossy stone wall
we see each other
from different worlds
for the first time
41
Dar Óma
I went to my excellent physician
author of Addiction Replacement Therapy
he put me on heroin
and monitored my progress steadily
I nodded, sagely
he put me on LSD
the doctor is perplexed
the universe perplexed
~ ~ ~
These have been selections from Uttering Her Name, by Gabriel Rosenstock. There are over a hundred more poems in the book.
Uttering Her Name consists of spontaneous, ecstatic utterances in what the author calls a neo-bhakti style, that is to say a modern slant on those poems of intense devotion which are still read and sung in India today.
Gabriel is considered the greatest living Irish lyric poet.
For more information about Uttering Her Name, please visit
Rafael Stoneman: Poems
April 13, 2010Poetry by Rafael Stoneman
Singing Tears
the damn has been bursting all along
singing tears of the mountain’s song
the puppet breaks free from its strings
the caterpillar soars with new wings
dreamers shall awaken beyond time
in love with a human heart so divine
the actor surrenders the final mask
in Your light all life comes to bask
a fruit suddenly drops from its tree
such sweetness like honey is to be
She Wanders the Night
I want to break every window in your mind’s house.
And drag down each floor.
You’ve constructed a tower of cards
from a false blueprint.
Instead of building your foundation on Her,
you’ve framed a shadow on stud-less walls.
Nature will shatter your backwards design
and set fire to your five star prison.
A book of poems in your library
may bring you some praise
but no relief.
A new lover may uncoil your kundalini
but not deliver peace.
That simple monk has more in her begging bowl
then your perfumed soul.
She wanders the night like a homeless star.
You with your robes and a closet full of make believe
will bow at her feet and cleanse with tears all pride.
She will teach you how to create a new home
with free hands on a mountain of pure gold.
You will know that She is within you
as you plant flowers at your own grave.
And water seeds in Her eternal womb.
Have you?
Who died and left you ruler of the Universe?
If you see something you don’t agree with, is it because you are not seeing all of yourself?
Or is it because it is your job to preach and lecture your truth to the world you imagine
is outside of you?
What is this complacent lack of compassion that human beings move in?
The heart has no borders and casts no stones.
We can learn perhaps the most from the person with Terretz, who blurts out obscenities.
When we feel offended, it is a great opportunity to go deeper beyond
the maze of maya mind.
Truly I am grateful for all who bring a feeling of offense into my space.
For it lets me know if I am divided or whole.
I am your offended reaction and the space that it dissolves into.
I have freed myself from preference on every level.
Have you?
~ ~ ~
You can find Rafael Stoneman on Facebook
Lao Tzu Re-Visited
February 19, 2010Those who know, do not say. Those who say, do not know.
Those who know do not say, “Those who say, do not know.”
Those who know “do not” say [that] those who say “do not,” know.
“Those, who know, do not,” say those who say. Do not. Know.
“Those, who know, do not,” say those who say. Do. Not know.
Got a variation? Leave it as a comment.
Wonder
December 24, 2009Freshness x Surprise = Wonder
Open Mind x Attention = Wonder
Open Heart x Breath = Wonder
Everything = Wonder
Haiku Enlightenment, by Gabriel Rosenstock.
December 4, 2009On Wednesday, December 2, 2009, on YogaHeart Radio, CDKU, 88.1FM in Halifax, Nova Scotia, we read from Gabriel Rosenstock’s new book Haiku Enlightenment.
We had a lot of fun with the reading, enjoying spontaneous laughs and bursts of joy. Clyde, our guest on the show, had never heard a haiku. He was blown away, as you’ll hear:
yogaheart_20091202.13.30-15.30_haiku.mp3
Listen to the entire radio show here:
yogaheart_20091202.13.30-15.30.mp3
Haiku Enlightenment
by Gabriel Rosenstock
Read an excerpt from Haiku Enlightement
Read another excerpt from Haiku Enlightenment
a haiku
December 2, 2009a seagull’s shadow
flashes onto a white wall
a crow in the room
Walt Whitman: Perfume and the Atmosphere – Form and Formlessness
November 29, 2008Continued from Walt Whitman: Living the Paradox of Nonduality
…
Song of Myself continues. In the line preceding the lines that follow, Whitman was loafing, leaning, inviting his soul, observing a spear of summer grass. The sense was of solitude and focus. Now the next passage:
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes …. the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it, and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.The atmosphere is not a perfume …. it has no taste of the distillation …. it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever…. I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
From solitude to crowds, to the smells of life, humanity, and the world, Whitman likes it. He knows that if he lets his attention drop, he could be swallowed up by the concerns of man, worry, consumerism, desperation, and fear. He will not let that happen.
While he says he likes the perfume, he sings that it is the atmosphere that he loves. Forever he speaks from atmosphere itself, not from the crowd of perfumes. He speaks authentically, undisguised, naked. He is mad to know the atmosphere, to touch it and feel it touch him. Notice is now sent that this writing is not going to cater to the multitudes. This is not going to be a hack writing job that will find a place on a shelf with a thousand other perfumes. However, Song of Myself, too, is a perfume.
In the first lines of Song of Myself, Whitman revealed the paradox of nonduality, that we are the same – “Every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you” — and that everyone and every thing, every atom, is distinct and individual: “I lean and loafe at my ease….observing a spear of summer grass.”
We know and see how we are different. Each one of us, each and every thing is a perfume on the shelf. That’s the world. How easy is it to see we are all the same at the very same time that we are different?
Now Whitman is going deeper into the claim that we are the same. Our sameness is the atmosphere. To know the atmosphere is to know the nondual nature of reality. We hear talk of gurus stripping us of our egos, of standing naked before the truth, of shedding the veil that hides the truth. Whitman knows that to contact the atmosphere is to be natural, in nature — “by the bank of the wood,” where water meets soil, where man meets atmosphere — and “undisguised and naked.”
In the lines that follow, in case the reader hasn’t already realized it, Whitman declares the reader “shall possess the origin of all poems,” which is the atmosphere. The poems themselves are perfumes, each one different, each one arising from the same atmosphere, which now the reader, naked and undisguised in the mind, may come to know.
Perfume and atmosphere stand for form and formlessness, respectively. Song of Myself is the revelation that the perfume is the atmosphere, the atmosphere is the perfume, and that they are exactly each other. Joy and celebration are the natural emanations of this realization. Read the first few lines of Song of Myself and identify celebration, sameness, and distinct individuality:
I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease….observing a spear of summer grass.
Yet Whitman says “The atmosphere is not a perfume.” He must make it clear that the perfume and the atmosphere are a duality in order for the atmosphere to be seen. Whitman must separate the water and the land. He must get the reader to see the two before seeing the one. He addresses contradiction later in Song of Myself in a famous passage beginning, “Do I contradict myself?”
Walt Whitman: Living the Paradox of Nonduality
November 27, 2008
In Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, he begins Song of Myself:
I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease … observing a spear of summer grass.
These lines describe the paradox of nonduality and how to live.
The paradox is that while we are the same — “…what I assume you shall assume.” “…every atom belonging to to me as good belongs to you.” — everything is distinct: “observing a spear of summer grass.”
And how to live through the paradox? “…celebrate…” “…lean and loafe…” 
“I … invite my soul,” Whitman says. The soul is the paradox. It is who he is. Paradox is “myself.” “I celebrate myself.”

