Poem or prophesy

The Soul’s Desert — Robinson Jeffers

August 30, 1939

They are warming up the old horrors; and all that they say is echoes of echoes.

Beware of taking sides; only watch.

These are not criminals, nor hucksters and little journalists, but the governments

Of the great nations; men favorably

Representative of massed humanity. Observe them. Wrath and laughter

Are quite irrelevant. Clearly it is time

To become disillusioned, each person to enter his own soul’s desert

And look for God–having seen man.

For John Olga Shirley Pearl Jim and all the loss in my life, our lives

When you lose someone you love, 
Your life becomes strange, 
The ground beneath you becomes fragile, 
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure; 
And some dead echo drags your voice down 
Where words have no confidence 
Your heart has grown heavy with loss; 
And though this loss has wounded others too, 
No one knows what has been taken from you 
When the silence of absence deepens. 

Flickers of guilt kindle regret 
For all that was left unsaid or undone. 

There are days when you wake up happy; 
Again inside the fullness of life, 
Until the moment breaks 
And you are thrown back 
Onto the black tide of loss. 
Days when you have your heart back, 
You are able to function well 
Until in the middle of work or encounter, 
Suddenly with no warning, 
You are ambushed by grief. 

It becomes hard to trust yourself. 
All you can depend on now is that 
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself. 
More than you, it knows its way 
And will find the right time 
To pull and pull the rope of grief 
Until that coiled hill of tears 
Has reduced to its last drop. 

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance 
With the invisible form of your departed; 
And when the work of grief is done, 
The wound of loss will heal 
And you will have learned 
To wean your eyes 
From that gap in the air 
And be able to enter the hearth 
In your soul where your loved one 
Has awaited your return 
All the time. John O’Donohue

Great Light

Understanding comes in waves,
sharp inhale and soft release.
7 years to the day, of blaze,
and ways to see and feel and be.

The world, my life, are charred
and turning on their axis.
But my heliotropic heart,
twisting from the glitter gaze
of Narcissus and pride,
turns once more

to the Great Light.

Prayer

O Lord, I am weak. 
Thou knowest this. In fear I seek the way to Thee. Despise me not. Forsake me not in my fall.

Draw near even unto me, who am of no account, yet I thirst after Thee.

Take up Thine abode in me and do Thou Thyself perform in me all that Thou hast commanded of us. 

Make me Thine for ever and ever, in love unshakeable.

St. Sophrony of Essex (July 11th)

Three things – again!


  1. praise!

keep the faith!

…and do the little things”

  • (thanks to Sonja)

just like rilke:

2.
Oh speak, poet, what do you do?

                                                  –I praise.

But the monstrosities and the murderous days,

how do you endure them, how do you take them?

                                                  –I praise.

But the anonymous, the nameless grays,

how, poet, do you still invoke them?

                                                   –I praise.

What right have you, in all displays, 

in very mask, to be genuine?

                                                   –I praise.

And that the stillness and the turbulent sprays

know you like star and storm?

                                       —because I praise.

3.
here is the third thing, gift from Charles de Foucault via dear Henri Nouwen:

Father, I abandon myself into your hands, do with me what you will. Whatever you may do, I thank you; I am ready for all, I accept all. Let only your will be done in me, and in all your creatures.

I wish no more than this, O Lord.

Into your hands I commend my soul; I offer it to you with all the love of my heart, for I love you, Lord, and so need to give myself, to surrender myself into your hands without reserve, and with boundless confidence, for you are my Father.”

Myself it speaks and spells

“My eyes are almost burned by what I see. There’s a bowl in front of me that wasn’t there before….. I am entranced by colour. I lift an orange into the flat filthy palm of my hand and feel and smell and lick it. The colour orange, the colour, the colour, my God the colour orange. Before me is a feast of colour. I feel myself begin to dance, slowly, I am intoxicated by colour. I feel the colour in a quiet somnambulant rage. Such wonder, such absolute wonder in such an insignificant fruit.
I cannot. I will not eat this fruit. I sit in quiet joy, so complete, beyond the meaning of joy. My soul finds its own completeness in that bowl of colour. The forms of each fruit. The shape and curl and bend all so rich, so perfect. I want to bow before it. Loving that blazing, roaring, orange colour … Everything meeting in a moment of colour and form, my rapture no longer abstract euphoria. It is there in that tiny bowl, the world recreated in that broken bowl. I feel the smell of each fruit leaping into me and lifting me and carrying me away. I am drunk with something that I understand but cannot explain. I am filled with a sense of love. “ Keenan

What I do is me: for that I came

Three things

With joy you will draw water from the well of salvation


The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him for ever 


If you want the moon, do not hide from the night.

If you want a rose, do not run from the thorns.

If you want love, do not hide from yourself