Soul receives from soul that knowledge,
therefore not by book nor from tongue.
If knowledge of mysteries come after
emptiness of mind, that is illumination of heart.
Soul receives from soul that knowledge,
therefore not by book nor from tongue.
If knowledge of mysteries come after
emptiness of mind, that is illumination of heart.
What hidden sweetness there is in this emptiness of the belly!Man is surely like a lute, no more and no less;For if, for instance, the belly of the lute becomes full, nolament high or low will arise from that full lute.If your brain and belly are on fire through fasting, because ofthe fire every moment…
clouds in rafts above, upon one another, pushed up alongthe margin of skydark underbelliesShirring of grasses and the nearly empty apple tree behindWhere is this beginning from?The roll of clouds bolsters up closemoves vaguely eastHear the interstate, its rush of backdrop constantOh those deep colors are something sacredThere are patches of olive green, chartreuse, umber,…
Then a stretcher will come from graceTo gather us up.We are too dull-eyed to see that beautyIf we say we can, we’re lying.If we say No, we don’t see it,That No will behead usAnd shut tight our window onto spirit.So let us rather not be sure of anything,Besides ourselves, and only that, soMiraculous beings come…
When icicles hang by the wallAnd Dick the shepherd blows his nailAnd Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-who;Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns…
I need to start talking about my head.I need to start talking about why I want me dead.The fact in the mirror I can’t see me.Takes me a few minutes to process what I see.But you see all of the darkness I see behind my eyes.And the scars on my arms are the perfect despise.The…
Who will believe my verse in time to come,If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tombWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.If I could write the beauty of your eyesAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say…