It Is Important to Let Sense Quiver

[Image: “Sacudiéndome::Shaking::Tremblement,” by Oiluj Samall Zeid; found it on Flickr, and use it here under a Creative Commons License (thank you!). The photographer affixed a small GoPro camera to the harness of his dog, named Fray, and took him for a walk around the streets of León, in north central Spain. This shot was taken just as he and Fray were at a crosswalk; the dog stopped for a moment, in mid-shot, to shake his head and body.]

From whiskey river (second stanza):

Steady, Steady

I believe you can build a boat.
I believe you can get to water.
I do not believe you can get the boat on water.

How do other people bear
what you are still afraid of? The answer
is that when big things happen
you do go through the looking glass,
but it is still you who goes through,
the inner text is all still right to left,
so you just keep reading.

Because there is no boat and there is no water.
I stare at my tiny baby’s face
but he so wriggles he can’t quite be seen.
He grows steadier, more the blur
is gone; joins us in the myth of the stable.

Of the quakiness of infancy and old age 
we shimmer and shimmy into being 
and out again. In the mean-
time, we’re horses in the stable of the myth.

A quick check of the ocean, or any fire, 
is a reminder of how things seem; 
I can’t seem to see them.

You’re on the beach and you find out the secretary
of defense thinks calico cats are agents of the devil.
Your friend asks if they get 10 percent.
She was funny, your friend.
The water in this metaphor
is unreal because of the way time passes, 
so you can’t quite get the boat on water, 
but you can build the boat,

and a boat is good for a lot of things 
not just on water.

Will we, without the boat on water, 
always feel that we are missing 
something basic to the picture?

No. That is what I’m trying to say. 
It is important to let sense quiver; 
even in this stable of the myth of stable, 
even living aboard a boat mired 
in mud in view of the sea.

Who wants yet another world? 
It’s enough already.

(Jennifer Michael Hecht [source])

…and:

With the passage of days in this godly isolation, my heart grew calm. It seemed to fill with answers. I did not ask questions any more; I was certain. Everything—where we came from, where we are going, what our purpose is on earth—struck me as extremely sure and simple in this God-trodden isolation. Little by little my blood took on the godly rhythm. Matins, Divine Liturgy, vespers, psalmodies, the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, the constellations suspended like chandeliers each night over the monastery: all came and went, came and went in obedience to eternal laws, and drew the blood of man into the same placid rhythm. I saw the world as a tree, a gigantic poplar, and myself as a green leaf clinging to a branch with my slender stalk. When God’s wind blew, I hopped and danced, together with the entire tree.

(Nikos Kazantzakis [source])

Not from whiskey river:

She reached her own door, and wondered again—Is this possible, my own door? Can it be that after so short a time I can recognize one door among many, and call it “my own”? Or is it only from here, in the hall, that it looks so extraordinary—after all, I can only go out one door from my room; it’s coming in that is so confusing.

Inside, her room was expectant and without interest in her, as though her final decision upon one door was a matter of small concern to the room itself, and she might as well have walked into limbo, or into a well of fire, for all the room cared. The book she had put down over an hour ago had not consumed any more of its own pages, the typewriter had not turned out any literature, the window had not seen any interesting sights since she left.

(Shirley Jackson [source])

…and:

Always Something More Beautiful

This time I came to the starting place
with my best running shoes, and pure speed
held back for the finish, came with only love
of the clock and the underfooting
and the other runners. Each of us would
be testing excellence and endurance

in the other, though in the past I’d often
veer off to follow some feral distraction
down a side path, allowing myself
to pursue something odd or beautiful,
becoming acquainted with a few of the ways
not to blame myself for failing to succeed.

I had come to believe what’s beautiful
had more to do with daring
to take yourself seriously, to stay
the course, whatever the course might be.
The person in front seemed ready to fade,
his long, graceful stride shortening

as I came up along his side. I was sure now
I’d at least exceed my best time.
But the man with the famous final kick
already had begun his move. Beautiful, I heard
a spectator say, as if something inevitable
about to come from nowhere was again on its way.

(Stephen Dunn [source])

…and:

The Mind

The mind is a hotel with a thousand rooms. When I tilt my head a certain way, I think about certain things. When I tilt my head another way, I think about other things. If I sleep on the right side of my face, for example, I’d dream of a pale rose, the future, or a continental diner in Passaic, New Jersey. When I sleep on the left side of my face, I’d dream that a hand is squeezing my heart, that I’m in prison, or that I’m watching hockey at an airport bar, about to miss a flight.

(Linh Dinh [source])