poetry

I wanted a line in a poem to be the hollow ney of the dervish orchestra whose plaintive wail is a call to God. But all I achieved was awkward shrieking. Not even the pure shriek of a reed in the rain.

"It's a matter of seeing the original meaning of all things.  The world is full of all kinds of meanings. But our minds are so fettered by the lies and falsehoods they make for themselves, that they cannot see the beauty, goodness, or truth of those meanings.  Only a mind that has become free can see such things, and that seeing is also a making.  Because what exists, if no one can see it, might just as well not exist at all, but if seeing comes, nonbeing is turned into utter being.  Originally a poem is something seen, and although we don't say that we see a poem but that we make it, that is what is meant."

There will be miracles
After the last war is won
Science and poetry rule in the new world to come
Prophets and angels
Gave us the power to see
What an amazing future there will be

Maybe you’ve heard of us...

If not then you must be trying to hear us
and in such cases we cannot be heard. We
remain in the darkness, unseen. In the center
of unpeeled bananas, we exist. Uncolored by
perception. Clothed to the naked eye. Five
senses cannot sense the fact of our existence.
And that’s the only fact. In fact, there are no
facts.

Fax me a fact and I’ll telegram a hologram
or telephone the son of man and tell him he
is done. Leave a message on his answering
machine telling him there are none. God and
I are one. Times moon. Times star. Times sun.
The factor is me. You remember me.

The Birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again,
I heard them say,
Don’t dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.

The wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again;
the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.

Poetry has never been a favorite American pastime.

Since the history's first epic poem recorded the visit of the Sumerian hero Gilgamesh to a special grove of cedars, certain natural spots scattered around the world - Ayers Rock, Mount Fuji, Canyon de Chelly, the springs at Lourdes, the Ganges River, and hundreds of others - have drawn people seeking insight, inspiration, healing or proximity to the divine.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.