"The Farmer, Speaking of Monuments"

 
Always, on their generation's breaking wave,
men think to be immortal in the world,
as though to leap from water and stand
in air were simple for a man. But the farmer
knows no work or act of his can keep him
here. He remains in what he serves
by vanishing in it, becoming what he never was.
He will not be immortal in words.
All his sentences serve an art of the commonplace,
to open the body of a women or a field
to take him in. His words turn
to leaves, answering the sun with mute
quick reflections. Leaving their seed
his hands have a million graves, from which wonders
rose, bearing him no likeness. At summers
height he surrounded by green, his doing,
standing for him, awake and orderly.
In autumn all his monuments fall.

-- Wendell Berry

I find this poem healthfully sexual.

sweet Jesus hasten the day

edit:

So this trailer started me thinking about the last time I was a real human animal. It also reminded me of something Ray Bradbury said about a more noble race, "They didn't try too hard to be all men and no animal." So here are some questions I've been asking myself. Maybe you will add some more. I think the list applies equally to both men and women.

can you remember the last time you

were thoroughly dirty with good black earth
and didn't shower
didn't shave
found leaves in your fur
were naked.. outside
knew that rain was a good thing
knew anything
gathered food from its source
and ate it raw
were hungry, ravenous
ran, sprinted as if for your life
yelled with your whole body
felt a loss threatened your survival
felt justified rage
were loyal
were bruised by hard work
worked for something other than money
bartered
howled exhausted at the sunset
slept on the ground
barked, growled satisfied at the sunrise
indulged your warrior spirit
played
snarled and
didn't feel guilty about wanting to just fuck
defended a child
defended her mother
fought beside his father
kissed a friend
disobeyed

Impassioned Clay

Impassioned Clay
by Ralph N. Helverson

Deep in ourselves resides the religious impulse.
Out of the passions of our clay it rises.
We have religion when we stop deluding ourselves that we are self-sufficient,
self-sustaining or self-derived.

We have religion when we hold some hope beyond the present,
some self-respect beyond our failures.
We have religion when our hearts are capable of leaping up
at beauty,
when our nerves are edged by some dream in our heart.
We have religion when we have an abiding gratitude for all
that we have received.

We have religion when we look upon people with all their
failings and still find in them good;
when we look beyond people to the grandeur in nature and to the purpose in our
our own heart.

We have religion when we have done all that we can,
and then in confidence entrust ourselves to the life that is
larger than ourselves.

Def Poetry (1)

this women is mad awesome 

Gustave Doré

(Israel Cillio on a musicians quest. He got a new ethnicity for this one)

(Dante and Beatrice see God as a point of light surrounded by angels)

via

I am this one

"I am not I"

By Juan Ramon Jimenez

translated by Robert Bly

I an not I
                                                                  I am this one
Walking beside me, whom I do not see,
Whom at times I manage to visit,
and at other times I forget.
The one who forgives, sweet, when I hate,
The one who remains silent when I talk,
The one who takes a walk when I am indoors,
The one who will remain standing when I die.

Finite and Infinite Games

Today I began the following.




"The rules of the finite game may not change; the rules of an infinite game must change.

Finite players play within boundaries; infinite players play with boundaries.
Finite players are serious; infinite games are playful.
A finite player plays to be powerful; an infinite player plays with strength.
A finite player consumes time; an infinite player generates time.
The finite player aims for eternal life; the infinite player aims for eternal birth.
The choice is yours."

"There is but one infinite game."

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

This poem was a gift from my new acquaintance and now facebook friend, Kinsley Koons. She recommends reading it every day, and I agree.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

my time back

I jumped from the sky
landed with a melody
in a body surprised
it fits
naturally