The Edge

by Robert Creely, American Poet (1926 - 2005)

Long over whatever edge,

backward a false distance,

here and now, sentiment —

to begin again, forfeit

in whatever sense an end,

to give up thought of it —

hanging on to the weather’s edge,

hope, a sufficiency, thinking

of love’s accident, this

long way come with no purpose,

face again, changing,

these hands, feet, beyond me,

coming home, an intersection,

crossing of one and many,

having all, having nothing —

Feeling thought, heart, head

generalities, all abstract —

no place for me or mine —

I take the world and lose it,

miss it, misplace it,

put it back or try to, can’t

find it, fool it, even feel it.

The snow from a high sky,

grey, floats down to me softly.

This must be the edge

of being before the thought of it

blurs it, can only try to recall it.

Marie Bortolotto Art

 

This place is a dream
only a sleeper considers it real.

Then death comes like dawn,
and you wake up laughing
at what you thought was your grief.

But there's a difference with this dream.
Everything's cruel and unconscious
done in the illusion of the present world,
all that does not fade away at the death-waking.

It stays.
and it must be interpreted.

-- Rumi (1207 - 1273)
(translated by Coleman Barks - The Essential Rumi)

Marie Bortolotto Art

 
....still working on a new book of haiku,
though we've had a mild winter here in Western Canada

 

 
“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, 
nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” 

— The Lorax by Dr Seuss

Marie Bortolotto