source: Letters to a Young Poet (Letter Four, July 16, 1903) as translated by Stephen Mitchell.

Cind plecai de la fereastra, norii de seara erau tot pe cer. Pareau ca asteapta. Ce-ar fi sa le spun si lor o poveste? Le facui propunerea. Ei insa nu ma auzira. Ca sa-i fac sa ma inteleaga si ca sa scurtez departarea dintre noi, strigai: “Eu sint, ca si voi, un nor de seara”. Si ei se oprira si pareau ca se uita la mine. Apoi isi intinsera spre mine aripile fine, stravezii, rosietice. Asa se salute de obicei norii de seara. Ei ma recunoscusera.

“Noi sintem deasupra pamintului”, spusera ei, “mai precis deasupra Europei, dar tu?” Eu sovaii: “Vad jos o tara…” “Cum e?” se grabira ei sa ma intrebe. “Asa, ca o inserare amestecata cu lucruri…” “Asta e tot Europa”, rise un nouras. “Se poate”, zisei, “dar eu am auzit necontenit ca lucrurile din Europa sint moarte.” “Fireste ca da”, observa un altul cu dispret. “ce neghiobie ar mai fi si asta: lucruri vii!” “Ei bine”, staruii eu, “ale mele traiesc. Deci asta-i deosebirea. Ele pot sa capete forme felurite si un lucru, care a venit pe lume ca plaivaz ori ca soba n-are de ce deznadajdui ca miine va deveni altceva mai bun. Un plaivaz poate sa ajunga odata si odata, daca-i merge bine, un baston, un catarg, un camin sau macar o poarta de oras.”

“Nor de seara, tu-mi par cam prostanac”, zise nourasul care si mai inainte se exprimase atit de putin respectuos. Un nor mosneag se temu sa nu ma fi jignit cumva: “Sint fel de fel de tari”, cauta el s-o indulceasca, “eu ma aflam cindva deasupra unui mic principat nemtesc si nici pina azi nu pot crede ca facea parte din Europa.” Ii multumii si graii: “Dupa cite vad, greu vom putea sa ne intelegem. Fie-mi ingaduit sa va spun ce-am vazut pe sub mine in timpul din urma; ar fi cel mai nimerit lucru.” “ma rog, ” incuviinta inteleptul nor batrin ca din partea tuturor. Eu incepui: “Intr-o odaie sint oameni. Trebuie sa stiti ca eu ii vad foarte de sus si tocmai de aceea imi apar ca niste copii; deci am sa zic simplu: copii. Prin urmare: intr-o odaie sint copii. Doi, cinci, sase, sapte copii. Ar dura prea mult sa ma intrebati de numele lor. Si apoi, copiii parca discuta ceva foarte inflacarat; cu prilejul acesta se da pe fata, incet, incet, fiecare nume. Ei stau asa pilc un rastimp, caci cel mai rasarit dintre ei (aud ca-l cheama Hans) rosteste parca incheind vorba: <Nu, hotarit, nu mai merge. Eu am auzit ca mai inainte vreme parintii spuneau copiilor povesti in fiecare seara ori macar in serile cuminti, pina cind le venea somnul. Se mai pomeneste azi de asa ceva?> O mica pauza, apoi Hans raspunde tot el: < Nu se mai pomeneste nicaieri. Eu, din partea mea si fiindca sint oarecum mare, le las cu placere in seama pe ticalosii aia de zmei sa-si bata capul cu ei, dar, oricum, se cade sa ne spuna ca sint zine, pitici, printi si monstri de tot soiul. > < Eu am o matusa >, zise o fetita, < care-mi spune din cind in cind….> < Ah, ce >, i-o taie scurt Hans, < matusile nu conteaza, spun minciuni.> Aceasta afirmatie indrazneata si necombatuta intimida intreaga adunare. Hans continua: < Si inainte de orice e vorba de parinti pentru ca ei au intrucitva datoria sa ne invete aceste lucruri; din partea celorlalti e mai mult o bunatate. Lor nu poti sa le-o ceri. Bagati de seama ins ace fac parintii nostri? Ei umbla cu fete posomorite si suparate, nimic nu le intra in voie, striga si suduie si – culmea! – sint atit de nepasatori ca, de le-ar pieri lumea, mai ca n-ar baga de seama. Ei au ceva ce numesc idealuri. Poate ca si astea sint un fel de copii mici, pe care nu-I pot lasa singuri si care le dau foarte mult de lucru; dar atunci nu trebuia sa ne aiba pe noi. Eu, copii, ma gindesc asa: e trist, desigur, ca parintii uita de noi. Noi insa am indura totul, daca n-ar fi o dovada ca ce mari se prostesc, dau inapoi daca se poate zice asa. Noi nu le putem opri decaderea; caci noi, cit este ziua de mare, n-avem ragaz sa avem vreo inriurire asupra lor, iar cind ne intoarcem tirziu de la scoala, nimeni nu ne cere sa-l invatam ceva cu cap. Si-ti face rau cind sezi si tot sezi la lumina lampii si mama nu pricepe nici macar teorema lui Pitagora. Vedeti, asa e. Au sa se prosteasca cei mari din ce in ce mai rau… paguba-n ciuperci, ce-avem noi de pierdut? Educatia? Ei isi scot palaria, unul in fata altuia, si de se intimpla sa iasa la iveala o chelie bufnesc in ris. Atita stiu si ei: sa rida. Daca n-am fi noi atit de cu scaun la cap ca sa mai plingem din cind in cind, n-ar fi nici o cumpana nici in aceste lucruri. Si pe deasupra sint asa de ingimfati: cred chiar una ca asta, ca imparatul ar fi un om in virsta. Eu am citit in ziare ca regele Spaniei e un copil – asa e cu toti regi isi imparatii, - sa nu va lasati trasi pe sfoara! Dar pe linga toate lucrurile de prisos, cei mari au totusi ceva fata de care nu putem ramine nepasatori: pe Bunul Dumnezeu. Eu nu l-am prea vazut la nimeni – dar tocmai asta da de banuit. L-au pierdut, pesemne, pe undeva, distrati, ocupati si grabiti cum sint. El insa e ceva de care avem absoluta nevoie. Fara dinsul multe lucruri nu se pot intimpla, soarele nu poate sa rasara, copiii nu pot sa vina pe lume si piinea, si ea, se ispraveste. Chiar daca brutarul o scoate, totusi Bunul Dumnezeu e acela care sade si invirteste morile cele mari. Din multe motive Bunul Dumnezeu e ceva de care avem nevoie. Dar un lucru e sigur: ca celor mari nu le pasa de dinsul, asa ca noi, copiii, trebuie sa rezolvam asta. Noi sintem taman sapte copii. Fiecare sa-l poarte pe Bunul Dumnezeu o zi si astfel intreaga saptamina va fi la noi si vom sti totdeauna sigur unde se afla. >

Aici se isca o mare nedumerire. Cum are sa se petreaca asta? Poti oare sa iei pe Bunul Dumnezeu in mina si sa-l viri in buzunar? In legatura cu asta, un micut povesti: < Eram singur in odaie. O lampa mica ardea linga mine si eu sedeam in pat si-mi spuneam rugaciunea de seara, cu glas tare. Ceva se misca in miinile mele impreunate. Era moale si cald, si mic ca o pasarica. Nu puteam sa-mi desprind miinile, caci rugaciunea nu se sfirsise inca. Dar eram foarte curios si ma rugam grozav de repede. Apoi, la Amin, facui asa (micutul intinse miinile si rasfira degetele), dar nu era nimic in palme.>

Asta si-o putea inchipui oricine. Nici Hans nu stiu sa dea vreun sfat. Toti se uitau la dinsul. Si deodata zise: < Asta e o nerozie. Orice lucru poate fi Dumnezeu. Numai sa-i spui. > Se intoarse catre cel care statea linga el, un baiat cu parul rosu. <Un dobitoc nu poate, fuge. Dar un lucru, intelegi tu, sta, tu vii in odaie ziua, noaptea, si el e mereu acolo, el poate fi Bunul Dumnezeu.> Incet, incet, se patrunsera si ceilalti de acest adevar. < Avem nevoie insa de un obiect mic, pe care sa-l poti lua cu tine pretutindeni, altfel n-are nici un sens. Ia goliti-va buzunarele!> Si-acum se aratara foarte ciudate lucruri: bucati de hirtie, bricege, gume de sters, penite, sfori, pietricele, suruburi, fluiere, betisoare si multe altele care nu se pot vedea bine de departe sau al caror nume imi scapa. Si toate aceste lucruri sedeau in miinile copiilor, inspaimintate parca de gindul naprasnic ca ar putea deveni Bunul Dumnezeu, si care dintre ele era in stare sa luceasca, lucea ca sa-i placa lui Hans. Alegerea sovai multa vreme. In sfirsit, la mica Resi se gasea un degetar pe care ea il luase odata de la mama-sa. Stralucea ca argintul si pentru frumusetea lui deveni Bunul Dumnezeu. Hans il lua cu sine, fiindca el incepea sirul si toti copiii se tinura dupa el intreaga zi si erau mindri de dinsul. Numai cu greu se invoiau cine are sa-l poarte mine si atunci Hans, in prevederea lui, hotari programul pentru toata saptamina, ca sa nu se mai iveasca vreo cearta.

Aceasta rinduiala se dovedi intru totul neobisnuit de bine chibzuita. Cel care-l avea pe Bunul Dumnezeu se putea recunoaste dintr-o aruncatura de ochi. Caci acela mergea mai tantos si mai solemn, si facea o fata ca de duminica. In cele dintii trei zile, copiii nu mai vorbeau despre nimic altceva. In orice clipa cerea cite unul sa vada pe Bunul Dumnezeu si daca degetarul, sun inriurirea inaltei lui demnitati, nu se schimbase nicidecum, tot ce era in el degetaresc parea acum numai o haina modesta pentru faptura cea adevarata. Totul mergea in rinduiala. Miercuri il avu Paul, joi micuta Anna. Sosi simbata. Copiii se jucau de-a prinselea si zburdau intr-un suflet claie peste gramada cind Hans striga deodata: <La cine e Bunul Dumnezeu? > Toti se oprira pe loc. Fiecare se uita la celalalt. Nimeni nu-si aducea aminte sa fi vazut degetarul de doua zile. Hans numara cine era la rind si iesi: mica Marie. Si acum, fara multa vorba, i se ceru micutei Marie sa-l scoata pe Bunul Dumnezeu. Ce era de facut? Micuta scotoci prin buzunare. Abia acum isi aduse aminte ca-l primise de dimineata; dar acum nu mai era, poate ca-l pierduse jucindu-se. Si cind copiii plecara acasa, micuta ramasa in poiana, si cauta. Iarba era inalta. De doua ori o intrebara trecatorii daca a pierdut ceva. Copila raspundea: < Un degetar>, si cauta. Oamenii faceau si ei la fel o vreme, dar in curind li se ura de cautat si unul o sfatui in vreme ce pleca: < Mai bine du-te acasa, poti sa cumperi unul nou. > Dar Marie cauta mai departe. Poiana se facea tot mai singuratica in amurg si iarba incepu sa se umezeasca. Atunci mai sosi un trecator. El se apleca si o intreba pe copila: < Ce cauti tu? > Acum Marie raspunse, cit pe-aici sa izbucneasca in plins, dar indrazneata si dirza: < Pe bunul Dumnezeu. > Strainul surise, o lua de mina si ea se lasa dusa ca si cum acum totul ar fi mers bine. Pe drum strainul ii zise: < Ia te uita ce degetar frumos am gasit eu astazi.>”

Norii de seara erau inca de mult nerabdatori. Acum se intoarse spre mine norul cel batrin care in vremea asta crescuse din plin: “Scuza-ma, as putea sa stiu numele tarii peste care…” Dar norii ceilalti se grabeau rizind spre adincul cerului si-l trasera pe batrin dupa ei.

rainer maria rilke / povestiri despre bunul Dumnezeu, nemira 2007. traducere: nichifor crainic

[cu dedicatie pentru c'est moi :)]

***

l-am gasit pe arthur stind in pat, in capul oaselor. pe masa de alaturi era un exemplar din myths of the norsemen.

si tie iti place cartea asta? am intrebat eu.

si tie iti place cartea asta? a intrebat el.

in clipa urmatoare tineam amindoi cartea in miini, sedeam cu capetele aplecate deasupra ei, aratam cu degetul, citam, vorbeam - aproape strigam - descoperind, intr-un torent de intrebari, ca eram incintati nu doar de acelasi lucru, ci si de aceleasi fragmente si in acelasi fel; ca amindoi simtiseram sagetarea Bucuriei si ca, pentru amindoi, sageata fusese trasa din nord. mii de oameni au avut experienta descoperirii celui dintii prieten, dar ea continua sa fie o minune; o minune la fel de mare [pace romancierilor] ca prima iubire, sau chiar mai mare. fiind departe de a crede in posibilitatea de a avea un prieten, nu tinjisem niciodata sa am unul, nu mai mult decit sa ajung regele angliei. daca as fi descoperit ca arthur concepuse in mod independent o replica exacta a lumii boxoniene, nu as fi fost din cale-afara de surprins. probabil nimic nu este mai uluitor in viata unui om decit descoperirea ca exista de fapt oameni care-i seamana foarte, foarte mult.

c.s. lewis / surprins de bucurie, humanitas 2008. traducerea: emanuel contac

New Book of Enoch [1:1]

I remember from the first moment I was taken up, at the moment of transition. I discovered something magical and for the first time, I had the impression that this required looking in a different way.  In other words, going along with the meaning of what unfolded before me. It was no longer a matter of being, but rather a kind of attentive poetry in play. I don’t know how to explain it. For me, all of a sudden, an understanding that every movement had a meaning and that it meant something other than itself.

This was an incredible sensation and it frightened me because I felt charged with a very important obligation: to do it well because it was extremely important and because I was chosen.  I felt I understood everything the angels understood, and I began to understand their questions.

* * *

______

Sources: Rilke, William Blake, Agnes Godard

...und bräche nicht aus allen seinen Rändern
aus wie ein Stern: denn da ist keine Stelle,
die dich nicht sieht. Du mußt dein Leben ändern.

...it wouldn't be breaking out from every edge
like a Star: for there is no place on this stone
that does not see you. You must change your life.

I think that something like this radiality is what Descartes has in mind.

So many live on and want nothing
and are raised to the rank of prince
by the slippery ease of their light judgments.

But what you love to see are faces
that do work and feel thirst.
You love most of all those who need you
as they need a crowbar or a hoe.
You have not grown old, and it is not too late
to dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.

Rainer Maria Rilke. Das Studenbuch
Found in: Yoga and the Quest for Self by Stephen Cope

There wasn't a lot of work in New Hampshire. I would go through the classifieds every day and it was a real low point when I came across the following ad and actually thought about applying (and no, I'm not making this up):

Help Wanted - MATTRESS PERSON
friendly, good-natured individual wanted to act as
''Mattress Person'' mascot for local mattress store.
Must be available for weekend work. Call 978-974-xxxx.

I could just see it. Me, with my useless $120,000 law degree, spending my weekends waving to passersby in a smiling mattress costume. Some little kid would come up to me and ask, "Who are you?" and, in my best silly, David Sedaris voice, I would say: "Why, I'm MATTRESS PERSON!"

"Do you have any super powers?"

"Why, of course I have super powers!"

"What are your super powers?"

"My super power is this: If you keep asking me questions I'm going to get angry and anger makes me powerful. Eventually, I'll become so powerful that I won't be able to control myself and I'll PUNCH YOUR LIGHTS OUT! And then you can go to sleep on a brand new mattress."

It was a dark time.

One day, I hiked up Mt. Moosilauke and, on the way down, a voice came rushing out of the heavens as though I were Rilke at Duino. It said: "Leave New Hampshire now you fool. You should never have come. If you want to be a criminal defense attorney, you need to be in a place with lots of crime. A big city. Fly! Fly to a big city!" And so, I descended from the mount and told my wife that we needed to move to a certain big city, which is what she wanted anyway. But first, did she think her mother would let us live with her in Florida for say ... six months?

Luckily, my mother-in-law is the coolest person ever and, not only did she say yes, she never complained that her daughter had married an unemployed pauper who, less than a month after the wedding, had to be supported in full. At least, I never heard about it if she did.

We fled to Tallahassee and I studied, this time, for real. After several months of studying, I flew to what was hopefully soon to become my new home state and took the bar for a second time. Now, nothing to do but wait. And get a job. I had lived off another's charity long enough.

I saw an ad in the paper for a "Rug Flipper." It immediately appealed to me. There's a cleanness to manual labor, I thought, that I've never really been able to enjoy. It's like farming; there's a certain honesty to it. Why not experience that? I had been a "brain toiler" my whole life and very soon, I was probably going to be office-bound yet again. Why not gather my muscular rose buds while I may, so to speak? So, I went to the interview.

Apparently, the position of "Rug Flipper" is in high demand. The place was full of applicants, the smallest of which was roughly twice my size. I should have left the instant I noticed that they were all wearing those velcro belt-things that the guys at Home Depot have. You know, the ones that are supposed to keep your back from exploding or whatever. They towered over me in their big black belts and I just sort of tried to fit in in my slacks and a button down.

I got in line. Other people started to line up behind me, including one very serious-looking woman. She had one of those back things too.

I couldn't see the interviewer because the guy in front of me was only slightly smaller than a Sherman tank, but I could hear her questions. I was going to be just fine. I was going to sail past these other applicants. She was asking things like "are you a U.S. citizen?" and "do you have a valid driver's license?" Please. If that's the criteria, I am Mr. Qualified.

I finally got to the table and saw her for the first time. I was taken aback. She was quite pretty.

She looked at me a moment and then she asked a question that she hadn't asked any of the other applicants and that I'd never heard before, which was this: "How much can you lift at one time?"

"Pardon?"

"How much can you lift at one time?"

"I don't know. I've never really been in a situation where I've had to lift something one time."

"Some of these rugs weigh over eighty pounds."

"Alright."

"And they're very expensive. Thousands of dollars."

"Really? A rug can cost a thousand dollars?"

"They can cost several thousands of dollars. The customers are very particular. They're going to want to view many different rugs. You may have to lift these heavy rugs several times."

At this point, I should have attempted to make a graceful exit and said something like: you know what? You're right. There's been a terrible mistake. I thought this was the audition for Rug Flippers, the new Sondheim musical. I can see now that this is something else. Please excuse me. Please enjoy your day.

But no. I couldn't let a cute girl just look at me at tell me that I'm not strong enough, not man enough, to flip a rug. My great-grandfather was five-foot-two and he worked in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. Strength pours through these veins, I wanted to say. I'm going to flip these rugs bald.

"Well," I said. "Maybe I should give it a try."

"Ok. Why don't you try that one there? Would you like a safety belt?"

"No. That's fine. I'll just give her a quick fliperoo and then pick one up at the hardware store."

"Suit yourself."

I headed over to the flipping area and looked at the rug. It was rolled into a tight, thick tube. It was about twelve feet long. There was no way on this green earth that I would have been able to lift it. It would have been folly to try.

The chance to leave with dignity, if there had ever been one, had long passed. I turned and said, "I think you may be right. Sorry to bother you."

"No problem," she said. "Have a nice day. Next. Good morning Ma'am. Are you a U.S. citizen?"

I got back into my car. People suck, I thought. I've had it with people. I need a job where I can be alone. My loan repayments are about to kick back in. I may well have failed the bar exam a second time. I can't get a job. I need Bach. Only Bach can save me now. I need a job where I can make some money and be alone with my thoughts and where I can listen to Bach and be away from all the bastard people. What kind of job is that? How can I do that?

On the way home, I passed the local pizza place. There was a sign on the door.

"Drivers Wanted," it said.

Tú que nunca viniste
a mis brazos,
amor que perdí
desde el comienzo,
que ni siquiera sé
las canciones que
te gustan,
he renunciado a tratar
de reconocerte
en la emergente ola
del siguiente momento.

Todas los grandes
recuerdos dentro de mí,
lo remoto,
el campo amado,
ciudades, torres, puentes,
y vueltas
imprevistas en el sendero,
y esas poderosas tierras
que una vez latieron
con la vida de los dioses
todo eso viene a mí,
y quiere decir tú
la que siempre me fue esquiva

Tú, amada,
que eres todos
los jardines que siempre
he contemplado fijamente..

una ventana abierta
en una casa de pueblo
y casi apareces tú
viniendo a mi encuentro.

Calles que he pasado
por donde te has ido
y te perdiste..
Y, algunas veces, en una tienda,
los espejos me marean
con tu presencia y me asustan,
con mi imagen repentina.

¿Quién sabe?
quizás el mismo pájaro
que nos dió su eco
ayer,
nos separe,
por la tarde…
 

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926), born in Prague, lived in France, Italy, Denmark, travelled widely, served in the Austrian army, died in Switzerland, considered one of the German language's most important 20th century poets. His work addresses the difficulty of communion with the ineffable.

 ... You, Beloved, who are all

 the gardens I have ever gazed at,

longing. An open window

in a country house--, and you almost

stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon,--

you had just walked down them and vanished.

And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors

were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back

my too-sudden image. Who knows? perhaps the same

bird echoed through both of us

yesterday, separate, in the evening . . . 

source:  Mitchell, S. (1982). (ed. & trans.). The selected poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. New York:  Vintage, p.131. image:  score to Beethoven's song cycle "To the distant beloved."

Invitation

Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude—
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world.
I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.

From Red Bird: Poems by Mary Oliver, published by Beacon Press, 2008

-Rilke and Benvenuta: an Intimate Correspondence

Day in Autumn

by Rainer Maria Rilke

Reading: You Know You've Been A Bad Blogger When...

Thinking: Time to take out more frustration on Laurie's kitchen floor.

How to Annoy Me: Have the entire conversation revolve around boys. THERE IS MORE TO LIFE, PEOPLE!

How to Charm Me: Offer to let me stay the night and quickly follow with "That wasn't supposed to be an indecent proposal."

Quote of the Day: Be patient toward all that is unresolved in your heart. And try to love the questions themselves. - Rainer Maria Rilke

Los EPITAFIOS, esas palabras que uno elige o no para que queden en la tumba etermamente como testigo de lo que fuimos, o simple legado fueron las invitdas de hoy...

Aquì les dejo las que citamos en el programa y algunos más...

saludos..

EPITAFIOS

"Si no viví más, fue por que no me dio tiempo" Marqués de Sade

«Estoy aquí en el último escalón de mi vida. Marlene 1901-1992» Marlene Dietrich

«Sólo le pido a Dios que tenga piedad con el alma de este ateo». Miguel de Unamuno

Rainer María Rilke: escritor austriaco, murió de una leucemia en Diciembre de 1926. El empeoramiento de su estado físico se produjo a raíz de haberse pinchado con la espina de una rosa mientras cuidaba el jardín del castillo Muzot, en Suiza, donde vivió retirado los últimos años de su vida. En su tumba un epitafio que él mismo escribió, reza así: Rosa, oh contradicción pura, placer, ser el sueño de nadie bajo tantos párpados.

 «No es que yo fuera superior. Es que los demás eran inferiores». Orson Welles

"Aquí yace Molière el rey de los actores.

En estos momentos hace de muerto

y de verdad que lo hace bien." de Molière para si mismo

"Aquí yace el poeta Vicente Huidobro 

Abrid su tumba

debajo de su tumba se ve el mar."

de Vicente Huidobro, hecho con un fragmento de uno de sus poemas

"Aquí reposan los restos de un ser que poseyó la belleza sin la vanidad, la fuerza sin la insolencia, el valor sin la ferocidad y todas las virtudes de un hombre sin sus vicios." de Lord Byron para su perro “Botswain"

Francis Scott Fitzgerald dejó escrito para su epitafio: “Estuve borracho muchos años, después me morí”.

"Volveré y seré millones", dice el  epitafio en la tumba de Evita Perón.

Alfred Hitchcock pensó en su epitafio: "Esto es lo que le pasa a los chicos malos". Nadie se atrevió a ponerlo

Mel Blanc el actor que le prestaba su voz a Bugs Bunny- dice lo único que podía decir: “Eso es todo, amigos”

Algunos mausoleos son grandiosos, como el de Oscar Wilde, que fue bastante comedido en su epitafio: “O se va el papel tapiz, o me voy yo”. Pocas palabras para una vida tan ajetreada.

 
"Buen amigo, por Jesús, abstente de cavar el polvo aquí encerrado. Bendito el hombre que respete estas piedras, y maldito el que remueva mis huesos." - William Shakespeare;

"Feo, fuerte y formal" - John Wayne;

"El cielo estrellado sobre mí, la ley moral en mí" - Immanuel Kant;

"Ya decía yo que ese médico no valía mucho." - Miguel Mihura;

"Desde aquí no se me ocurre ninguna fuga" - Johann Sebastian Bach;

"Intenté librarme, pero no pude”. - Truman Capote;

Fill in the blanks to create your own poem. Peek at the completed ones and fiddle with your own as necessary. Feel free to use some elements from the examples. I have included the original excerpt by Rilke, Rob Brezsny's example, and my own. The more specific you are, the better your results will be. He cues readers to "fantasize about what you're circling around and what force of nature you might be."

If you try this, please either leave your poem or a link to it. I love seeing the variations.

1. Something greater than the self/inspiring/sacred:_________

2. A mythic place or object:___________________

3. Measurement of time:__________________

4. Creature or person/vocation:____________________

5. Weather: _________________________

6. Creative act:_______________________

I am circling around ______1_______, around the _______2________, and I have been circling for __________3____________, and I still don't know if I am a _____4______, or a _____5_______, or a _______6_______.

Here are two of mine:

I am circling around the dark, around the unmapped labyrinth, and I have been circling for a few blue moons, and I still don't know if I am a lunar moth, or a tsunami, or a self portrait.

I am circling around the void, around the gaping maw, and I have been circling since the beginning of language, and I still don't know if I am a manta ray, or a squall, or an ululation.

Rob Brezny's version:

"I am circling around love, around the throbbing hum, and I have been circling for thousands of days, and I still don't know if I am a wounded saint, or a rainy dawn, or a creation story."

This is the original:

"I am circling around God, around the ancient tower, and I have been circling for a thousand years, and I still don't know if I am a falcon, or a storm, or a great song."

Excerpt from "The Seeker," a poem by Rilke in his *Book of Hours* (translated by Robert Bly)

Want the Change. Be inspired by the flame
Where everything shines as it disappears.
The artist, when sketching, loves nothing so much
as the curve of the body as it turns away.

What locks itself in sameness has congealed.
Is it safer to be gray and numb?
What turns hard becomes rigid
and is easily shattered.

Pour yourself like a fountain.
Flow into the knowledge that what you are seeking
finishes often at the start, and, with ending, begins.

Every happiness is the child of a separation
it did not think it could survive. And Daphne, becoming a laurel,
dares you to become the wind.

We're all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It's in them all.

And yet there is someone, whose hands,
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

.
Sour times.

For golliwog.
Things will get better.

.
llustration Friday - Sour
Inspire Me Thursday - Healing

.

TIme and again, however well we know the landscape of love,
and the little church-yard with lamenting names,
and the frightfully silent ravine wherein all the others
end: time and again we go out two together,
under the old trees, lie down again and again
between the flowers, face to face with the sky.

(Rainer Maria Rilke )

Nel 1902 Franz Xaver Kappus, un giovane combattuto tra l'aspirazione poetica e la prospettiva di una carriera militare, scrive a Rainer Maria Rilke chiedendo un giudizio sul proprio modo di poetare. A quel tempo Rilke è un altrettanto giovane ma già affermato poeta che risponde alla lettera offrendo all'altro, più che un mentore, l'interlocutore di cui ha bisogno. Benchè nel libro si leggano solo le lettere rilkiane, è chiaramente intuibile che il poeta non si sarebbe aperto in una determinata direzione senza ricevere le vive sollecitazioni di Kappus e, infatti, quello che emerge nel corso del loro scambio epistolare, è un dialogo che ha luogo grazie alla compresenza delle due parti. Durante la corrispondenza, quindi, il poeta delle Elegie duinesi non si pone mai nè come guida nè come figura paterna (dispensando però qualche consiglio tratto dalla propria condizione esistenziale). Al contrario, accoglie il giovane poeta facendosi permeare dalle poesie che lui gli invia e, da lì in poi, instaura una conversazione da uomo a uomo - l'unico comportamento che l'autore praghese reputasse maturo e umano, anche nel caso di persone di sesso diverso -, e rifuggendo così il clichè maestro-discepolo. Ciò che leggiamo, di conseguenza, è il racconto di come Rilke giungesse alla poesia, narrato da chi sia ancora coinvolto nell'opera e ne porti il peso e la gioia. L'invito del noto poeta rivolto a Franz Xaver Kappus, è quello di diventare maestro di se stesso ponendosi nella condizione di ascolto, capace di leggere i propri versi come se fossero stati scritti da un altro, trasformandosi in un ricercatore interessato alla vita mentre la distilla nelle parole, senza però pretendere di afferrarla, oggettivarla e risolverla in maniera logica e incontrovertibile. Lo stimolo principale consiste nell'ascoltare ciò che è vivo dentro di sè, disinteressandosi dello sguardo e del giudizio esterno di chi non capisce i motivi e lo sforzo della lenta gestazione poetica, perchè brama il risultato a discapito del processo. "L'opera della vista è compiuta,/ compi ora un'opera del cuore/ sulle immagini in te, prigioniere...Guarda, intimo uomo, l'intima tua fanciulla", si legge in Svolta, poesia scritta da Rilke nel 1914. In questo senso il suo discorso non si esaurisce nei confini della poesia ma può essere esteso a tutti i percorsi di ricerca che si svincolano dalle immediate urgenze della realtà e fondano la propria ragion d'essere nei moti dell'animo di chi intraprende quel cammino. Il poeta, nella filosofia rilkiana, non è un creatore che forgia un mondo ex novo partendo da una tabula rasa ma, invece, è un 'ascoltatore' di realtà impalpabili e inafferrabili per chi sia soggiogato dalle impellenze della quotidianità. "Sempre l'augurio che lei possa trovare in sè pazienza sufficiente a sopportare, e una ingenuità sufficiente a credere; e che lei possa acquistare sempre più fiducia in quello che è difficile, e nella sua solitudine tra gli altri. E per il resto, lasci fare la vita. Mi creda: la vita ha ragione, in ogni caso." Queste, alcune tra le parole dirette a Franz Xaver Kappus, poco prima che il più giovane dei due, in modo definitivo, si facesse catturare dalla vita militare.

*****************************************************************************************************************

Deux phrases trottent dans ma tête en ce moment. Similitude ?

La première de Oscar Vladislas de Lubicz Milosz :

Si l'impossible attendu si longtemps

Frappait à la fenêtre, comme le rouge-gorge au coeur gelé,
Qui donc se lèverait ici pour lui ouvrir ?"

et la seconde de Rainer-Maria Rilke :

Si je criais,
qui donc entendrait mon cri parmi les hiérarchies des anges ?"

Wer wenn ich schriee...
Le poème de Milosz en entier
Le canari de Milosz
Le canari de Kazantzaki

--
Oui, je sais, l'image et la phrase de Milosz ne sont pas vraiment de saison mais peu importe : toutes les saisons sont belles !

Since 1974, The American Institute for Creative Education has been dedicated to the proposition that teaching is an art form and effective teachers must be reflective practitioners and life-long learners.  As such, teachers’ commitment to sharpening their own skills in the areas of critical reading, writing, and thinking are essential in order to effectively teach students to do likewise in today’s classroom.

The mission of AICE is to provide educators with opportunities for professional growth by offering rigorous graduate and CEU courses in a non-traditional, creative manner.  AICE courses are predicated on an understanding of adult developmental and learning theories.  The goal is to have meaningful learning through student-centered and project-based work, with a critical emphasis on teacher reflection.

Under the leadership team of Director Melody Christensen and Dean Stephen York, the AICE faculty embraces the challenge to uphold progressive educational values in the 21^st century.

______________________________________________________________________________

Course Conceptual Framework:

The American Institute for Creative Education is committed to best practices for teaching adults.  These “best practices” are historically and philosophically informed by the progressive education movement and the contemporary research of Anne Brockbank, Ian McGill, and Patricia Cross.  AICE finds significant value in the “project based methodology” of William Heard Kilpatrick and the “experiential learning” posited by John Dewey.  Both men were leading teachers, philosophers, and reformers who taught at the Teachers College at Columbia University.  Course work is further predicated on the seminal psychological studies of Lev Vygotsky.  Consideration is also given to reflective/practitioners:  Malcolm Knowles, Paulo Freire, Jane Vella, and Myles Horton.

The instructional process values the following principles:

·         Reflective Practice

Participants will take responsibility to shape their study through an Individualized Learning Plan based on the Vygotsy’s Zone of Proximal Development and the reflective practitioner methodology of Brockbank and McGill.

·         Dedication to Teaching and Learning

Instructors respect and respond to the evolving learning goals and learner needs from the variety of settings students are participating in.  It is expected that both the instructor and the students will actively engage in the teaching/learning process.  Technology is an essential part of empowering the teaching/learning process. 

·         Synthesis of Theory and Practice

“Stories have the power to direct and change our lives.” --Nel Noddings, Stories lives tell:  Narrative and dialogue in education, (p.157) New York:  Teachers College Press. (1991) 

AICE is committed to merging theory and practice in a praxis methodology—through the lens of Vygotsky’s psychological perspective:  learning is social. 

·         Collaboration and Mentoring

AICE holds to the value that effective communication is an essential part of the creative learning process.  Trust among course participants will be emphasized for encouraging positive learning relationships.  The course aims to foster an open exchange of ideas and respect among faculty, students, and the broader community.  A key component of teaching as a reflective practice includes a strong commitment to dialogical education. Thus, many of our courses also aim to provide teachers and educational technicians with the opportunity to work together as a cohort of learners. 

In chapter four, "The Requirements for Reflection," Brockbank and McGill write:

". . . We have already referred. . . to the tendency in higher education for knowledge to be treated as static, disembodied, as a product rather than a process where students may be detached from the knowledge being imparted."   My comment:  Is it any wonder why this "tendency" is passed down as legitimate practice in the K-12 classrooms?  No wonder our students complain of "boredom" and are disengaged with the learning process at an early age.  Apples do not fall far from the tree!  What is modeled in higher educated is too often replicated, to the detriment of the K-12 students, and legislated into policies by the bureaucrats in state departments of education and, of course, Washington, D.C.--home of unfundated and ridiculous mandates, e.g., No Child Left Behind.

" In recognizing the interaction for dialogue as constituting a relationship between teacher and learner and between learners we are saying that is knowledge that is the material of the interaction comes through communication."  (Italics are mine.)  I remembering distinctly having a phone conversation about this very concept with Til Evans my long-time friend, mentor, and teacher from my days at Starr King School in Berkeley.  Til, now 85, has more "on the ball" then all of the bureaucrats in the entire Department of Education in Washington, D.C. put together.  Til said that the curriculum IS the communication between teachers and students.  Alfred North Whitehead in his seminal book, THE AIMS OF EDUCATION, wrote at the beginning of the 20th Century about the "inert ideas" that are taught in the classroom and the deadness of it all.  Much of what is passed along as "teaching" is really a mere "transference" of information.  Many educational bureaucrats, who in the opinion of this writer have been out of the classrooms far too long to be making policy decisions, think that "transference" and "testing" the recall of said transference is "education."  I don't know how much more ludicrous it can become. 

Teaching is far more than informational.  It is transformational.  It is not teaching for students to "be told" or "lectured to."  Teaching requires dialogue--meaningful, reflective, conversation.  This level of teaching is why Brockbank and McGill are justifiably holding higher educators responsible.  Unless the Academy changes, the classrooms in K-12 will not be able to change effectively.

We must move beyond the "Henry Ford" mentalitiy of "education as product."  For more information on that, I encourage you to read Aldous Huxley's prophetic, prescient work, BRAVE NEW WORLD and the PS written years later.  Education is not a product.  It is a product.

Brockbank and McGillfurther write, "For us dialogue that is reflective, and enables critically reflective learning, engages the person at the edge of their knowledge, their sense of self and the world as experienced by them.  Thus their assumptions about knowledge, themselves, and their world is challenged.  By this we mean that the individual is at the edge of their current understanding and the sense of meaning they give to and with the world.  Existing assumptions about understanding, self, and the world are challenged.  That learning becomes reflectively critical when the emergent ideas are related to existing sense of knowledge, self, and the world and a new understanding emerges."

I believe this.  What do you think?

Write back, dear readers.   Kind Regards,  Stephen York

Shunryu Suzuki Roshi (1904-1971), founder and long-time teacher at San Francisco Zen Center, told us that "in the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities but in the expert’s there are few." With that line--by now a classic--the teacher throws us back to the question that underlies everything: Who am I? He points to the fact that we're beginners always (how nice if I were to remember that more often). Each time I breathe, a new beginning. Each time I shave my head, for the first time. Each time I think of the one I love, a fresh kiss. Each loaf of bread I bake, the first. Each moment, unknown.

With this I sit quietly, scanning my body for physical sensations. Within seconds, monkey mind takes off, going here and there, jumping from thought to thought. Gently I refocus, notice breath rising and falling. Notice also cravings and aversions—what I wish for and what I dislike. Somewhere between polarities, so I imagine, resides Beginner’s Mind ... flush with possibilities. 

“Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart,” offers Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) in his Notes to a young poet, “and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language.” Not something I’m good at, I want to say ... resorting to the familiar dualistic worldview: that good/bad view of things, that habit of seeing the world in opposites. Seek the middle way, the Buddha taught, see things as containing aspects of right and wrong, happy and sad, old and young. Each item, be it thought, feeling, fear, hope, etc, contains aspects of the extremes.

Rilke again: “Don’t search for answers, which could not be given now … the point is, to live everything. Live the question now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

sources: Rilke, R.M. (1984). Notes to a young poet. (trans. S. Mitchell). New York: Random House, p.34; Suzuki, S. (1970). Zen mind, beginner's mind. New York: Weatherhill. 

Und plötzlich ist er Flamme, ganz und gar.

Mit einem Blick entzündet sie ihr Haar
und dreht auf einmal mit gewagter Kunst
ihr ganzes Kleid in diese Feuersbrunst,
aus welcher sich, wie Schlangen die erschrecken,
die nackten Arme wach und klappernd strecken.

Und dann: als würde ihr das Feuer knapp,
nimmt sie es ganz zusamm und wirft es ab
sehr herrisch, mit hochmütiger Gebärde
und schaut: da liegt es rasend auf der Erde
und flammt noch immer und ergibt sich nicht-.
Doch sieghaft, sicher und mit einem süßen
grüßenden Lächeln hebt sie ihr Gesicht
und stampft es aus mit kleinen Füßen.

Rainer Maria Rilke