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To become a warrior...

by whataboutbob Tue Mar 13th, 2007 at 01:16:37 PM EST

A number of years back, a friend gave me this poem as a birthday gift...and every once in awhile I stumble across it in my archives...I really love it. It's a poem by a Judy Wyatt, called "To Become A Warrior"...I'll post it below...

To become a warrior
Is simple

To live with no security
Look it in the face
Know it, feel it
Hold it's sharp edges
In your hand

To become pieces of stone
Swept to new shores
Edges rounding to
The roll of waves

To live with no marriage
But the unfolding heart
Certain growth, certain death
As a fountain sheds water
Riding the slippery back of joy
Through bursting skins

No child except the path
Aching in your womb
Moving with the same small steps
As a child, drawing forward
But with less dream
Of holding on

No work
But fire welling up to create
And burning through you
In whatever crazy tunes
As though you were music being played
By someone too huge to see

And learning to love it
Climbing up air
Leaning on wind
Learning to skate on God's nose
And let go of the rail

To have nothing
And find everything

Divine garbage collector
Turning magic to fear
To step off one more cliff
And find the bridge
Blossoming under foot

Tears opening again and again to love
To feel the love keep pouring
Though you are an empty jar
The dead weight sloughing off

Each day moving into some void
To find it full
Each day a discovery
A tightrope
A silent spring

To pack up identities
For bins on the street
Tear them off
And see the sore wounds flower
With some new plant

A kind of fever
A kind of madness

To serve only the unfolding
Of hidden light
And refuse to see the rest
Refuse to scramble or hide
Even now
Especially now
To know that safety is a lie

And to give up
And come home only to love
That feeds in you
One foot at a time
And to keep on learning
This is all there is

~ Judy Wyatt

It is profoundly alive and real when you leap, isn't?  Most people never dare live through that.

There is one piece I picked up somewhere and I never forget:

When you reach the end
of all the light you have,
and take the step into the Unknown,
you will find
there is a floor for you to stand on,
or you will be taught to fly.       

Our knowledge has surpassed our wisdom. -Charu Saxena.

by metavision on Tue Mar 13th, 2007 at 07:06:14 PM EST
e.e. cummings - my father moved through dooms of love

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
yes humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise  
offered immeasurable is

proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
--i say though hate were why men breathe--
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all


A year or so ago I was memorising poems.  I thoroughy recommend having a go: the internal rhythms and all the other subtleties...and ee cummings was a poet who said his poems were meant to be read in the head.  I found trying to memorise one was like explaining the plot of a very complicated, yet fascinating and...oh...vast, intricate, beautiful...strange,  marvelous...

Don't fight forces, use them R. Buckminster Fuller.

by rg (leopold dot lepster at google mail dot com) on Wed Mar 14th, 2007 at 04:50:23 AM EST

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