Wayfarer, the only way is your footsteps, there is no other. Wayfarer, there is no way, you make the way by walking. As you go, you make the way, and stopping to look behind you see the path that your feet will never travel again. Wayfarer, there is no way Only foam trails on the sea.
~ Proverbios y cantares XXIX ~ Antonio Machado (trans. Alan S. Trueblood)
A voice from the dark called out, ‘The poets must give us imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar imagination of disaster. Peace, not only the absence of war.’
But peace, like a poem,
is not there ahead of itself,
can’t be imagined before it is made,
can’t be known except
in the words of its making,
grammar of justice,
syntax of mutual aid.
A feeling towards it,
dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have
until we begin to utter its metaphors,
learning them as we speak.
A line of peace might appear
if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,
revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,
questioned our needs, allowed
long pauses . . .
A cadence of peace might balance its weight
on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,
an energy field more intense than war,
might pulse then,
stanza by stanza into the world,
each act of living
one of its words, each word
a vibration of light—facets
of the forming crystal.
“Making Peace” ~ Denise Levertov
Comments always are welcome. Please click here for more information about poet Denise Levertov.
Folds of a fading saltmarsh mallow draped across the morning sky
Now in the blessed days of more and less when the news about time is that each day there is less of it I know none of that as I walk out through the early garden only the day and I are here with no before or after and the dew looks up without a number or a present age
“Dew Light” ~ W.S.Merwin
Comments always are welcome. Click here for more information about the saltmarsh mallow (Kosteletzkya virginica).