“Here is the best true story on giving I know”

May 30, 2013 § Leave a comment


“Undine Giving the Ring to Massaniello, Fisherman of Naples”, Joseph Mallord William Turner, 1846

“Here is the best true story on giving I know, and it was told by Jack Kornfield of the Spirit Rock Meditation Centre in Wood acre. An eight-year-old boy had  a younger sister who was dying of leukemia, and he was told that without a blood transfusion she would die. His parents explained to him that his blood was probably compatible with hers, and if so, he could be the blood donor.  They asked him if they could test his blood. He said sure. So they did and it was  good match. Then they asked if he would give his sister a pint of blood, that it could be her only chance of living. He said he would have to think about it overnight. 

The next day he went to his parents and he said he was willing to donate the blood. So they took him to the hospital where he was put on a gurney beside his six-year-old sister. Both of them were hooked up to IVs. A nurse withdrew a pint of blood from the boy, which was then put in the glrl’s IV. The boy lay on his gurney in silence while the blood dripped into his sister; until the doctor came over to see how he was doing.  Then the boy opened his eyes and asked, “How soon until I start to die?”

Sometimes you have to be that innocent to be a writer.” (Anne Lamott)


The Rain Gods

May 24, 2013 § Leave a comment


by Nancy Ellen Miller

the rain split
the surface
of the puddle –
a speaker for rain sound,
ring upon ring radiating,
and the clouds bent down
like Dante’s angels,
shifting their shapes between
a heaven and hell form,
singing the verses for
a transfigured night.
if there was lightening,
she thought, it might ignite
the pavement, the trees, her hair,
eventually her body, and the
breath inside her mouth,
the same breath that formed
in insistence all the words
spun in seeming necessity,
it would burn them to ash,
leave them wet
and disintegrating
on the dark earth.
imagine such a lightening,
she thought, one that might alight all
our fear, turn all our syllables
into nothing but antidotes
to the poisons of pain.
imagine such a force,
omniscient, omnipotent.
but no such lightening
came, perhaps no such
lightening existed:
such fantasies
she has placed upon
the weather.
so the puddle before her
unfolded, or
rather it rippled
outward like a story
or a memory opened
and trembling to the brink,
appearing nearly like
shattered glass
or tears on watercolour paper,
depending on the angle,
it said these things:
flowers, silence, nothing,
and she stared blinking,
as if in disbelief.
“that’s it?”
she thought.
the rain was cold,
so she went inside
to get warm.

A Tree Within

May 24, 2013 § Leave a comment


By Octavio Paz

A tree grew inside my head.
A tree grew in.
Its roots are veins,
its branches nerves,
thoughts its tangled foliage.
Your glance sets it on fire,
and its fruits of shade
are blood oranges
and pomegranates of flame.

Day breaks
in the body’s night.
There, within, inside my head,
the tree speaks.

Come closer—can you hear it?

The Rain

May 11, 2013 § Leave a comment

The Rain
By Robert Creely

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.


Mind, Give Me

May 7, 2013 § Leave a comment

by Juan Ramón Jiménez


Mind, give me
the exact name of things,
…that my word may be
the thing itself,
recreated by my soul.
So that all who do not know them
go through me,
                              to things;
all who have forgotten,
go through me,
                              to things;
all those who love them
go through me,
                              to things…
Mind, give me
the exact name, and yours
and theirs, and mine, of things!

(translated by Peter Levitt)


May 3, 2013 § Leave a comment



by Nuar Alsadir

I close the wardrobe, it opens.
I close the wardrobe, it opens.
Is that the way it will always be,
persistence as a form of flight;
my summons the rising and slamming tight
though rust will gather despite me?
I’ve folded my dresses, placed them
on shelves. I could affix
another hinge, but the walls
have become a cluster and repetition
a way to light—to light
through the absence it exposes.

Where Am I?

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