1 Jan 2010

The Blindman’s Song -- Ranier Maria Rilke

[1875–1926, Czech Republic]

I am blind, you outsiders. It is a curse,
a contradiction, a tiresome farce,
and every day I despair.
I put my hand on the arm of my wife
(colorless hand on colorless sleeve)
and she walks me through empty air.

You push and shove and think that you’ve been
sounding different from stone against stone,
but you are mistaken: I alone
live and suffer and howl.
In me there is an endless outcry
and I can’t tell what’s crying, whether its my
broken heart or my bowels.

Are the tunes familiar? You don’t sing them like this:
how could you understand?
Each morning the sunlight comes into your house,
and you welcome it as a friend.
And you know what it’s like to see face-to-face;
and that tempts you to be kind.

Source: www.palace.net/~llama/poetry/ (No date. Retrieved March 2012)

Centering Prayer -- Brother Thomas More Page

There are times when I am with you
When there is no beginning or ending of time
When the day is dateless
And the rhythm of time
Has ceased to record the hours
And the calendar, the days;
When no birds sing, but rest;
And no winds blow, but breathe.
And the air is drenched
With the white silence of love
And my fingers trace
The lineaments of your face.

Source: Kieling, JT (ed.) 2005, The Gift of Prayer: A Treasury of Personal Prayer From the World’s Spiritual Traditions, EW Dwyer (Australia) Pty. Ltd., p. 55. 

Stand-off in the Kitchen of the Angry Sun -- Jamey Dunham


It’s almost too early for coffee and the sun glares at me as it pulls itself over the windowsill, but I’m happy. I’m making an omelet. I’m standing in the kitchen, whistling in my boxer shorts, and my testicles are swinging in perfect time. It’s going to be a great day. It’s already a great morning and the first egg I broke was a double yolk. The rest of the eggs are quite normal, as is the milk, and the butter, and just when I reach for an onion to liven things up, three mice appear from behind the toaster. They are dressed like Mexican bandits and they demand my cheese. They have little sombreros, little pistols, and the one in the middle has its whiskers waxed into a handlebar mustache. As I stand there pondering the intricate mechanics of their tiny firearms, they inch across the counter and repeat their demands. No one moves. The only sound is the slow suck of hot water through coffee grains. Just then the toaster goes off and we are all struck by the image of hot toast framed against a window full of angry sun.

Source: www.pith.net, 2004.