Within the Darkness, the Close and the Holy

[Image: “Guitarball (Holiday Linux Joke),” by John E. Simpson; #814 (December 19, 2019) in my #everydaybandw series. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

(A very quickly assembled post this week; holiday-travel day for me!)

From whiskey river:

The Word

Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,

between “green thread”
and “broccoli” you find
that you have penciled “sunlight.”

Resting on the page, the word
is beautiful, it touches you
as if you had a friend

and sunlight were a present
he had sent you from some place distant
as this morning—to cheer you up,

and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing,

that also needs accomplishing.
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds

of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder

or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue,

but today you get a telegram
from the heart in exile,
proclaiming that the kingdom

still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,

—to any one among them
who can find the time
to sit out in the sun and listen.

(Tony Hoagland [source])

…and:

Go back to knowing that it is simple. The fun is in the busy-ness as long as it’s fun for you. And when you see that it’s just more of the same stories, all about “me,” drop it. You can observe what goes on benignly, but keep going. From the position of observer, take that last step. Who’s the one observing ? Go there. Who is that ultimate, absolute observer, where “seeing itself” arises? Let attention rest there. Let it be ok that nothing has happened. Let the show be over, let the movie, the story of “I” as an individual person, be over. And see what happens. Truth will reveal itself, absolute clarity of how this matrix works, will show itself to be no more than a matrix. And somehow, a capacity to enjoy what ever is unfolding is always there. You don’t have to be perfect, you don’t have to have good health, you don’t have to do it before your body dies, it’s got nothing to do with anything: it’s right now, place your attention behind any stories, any concepts. From there, freedom arises, beauty arises, love arises. But don’t take my word for it, do it. And prove me wrong, I’d be delighted. I’ll take on that challenge any day. Do it and find out. So blessings on all of us, who are pretending to be human.

(Jac O’Keeffe [source])

Not from whiskey river:

Wishing for Lake Superior

In the summer time, when the ferries
took us out to the islands
and the loons dove and laughed in our wake,
that is where I’d like to be.

Or, more importantly, when I’d like
to be, which was seventeen
and Duluth, the big city with shops
and bars I wanted to visit,

was across the state line and one year
in my future. We had packed
our hopes and fears along with our gear,
camped within sight of the shore,

cooked huge one-pot meals on the campfire
and snuggled deep in our tent,
watching the Big Dipper slowly turn
in the screen vents over our heads.

With the transistor radio tuned
to whatever rock and roll
station with a strong enough signal,
we’d sing along with the songs

and eat blueberries and Oreos.
We’d made plans for the future
we thought we could see as clearly as
the bright beams from our flashlights.

That summertime, when each single day
inched its slow way into night,
and then another day, with nothing
better to do than remember.

(Deborah H. Doolittle [source])

…and:

For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o’-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar…

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang “Cherry Ripe,” and another uncle sang “Drake’s Drum.” It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird’s Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

(Dylan Thomas [source])