The Pickaxe by Rumi

The Pickaxe

tear down this house. A hundred thousand new houses can be built from the transparent yellow carnelian buried beneath it, and the only way to get to that is to do the work of demolishing and then digging under the foundations. With that value in hand all the new construction will be done without effort. And anyway, sooner or later this house will fall on its own. The jewel treasure will be uncovered, but it won't be yours then. The buried wealth is your pay for doing the demolition, the pick and shovel work. If you wait and just let it happen, you'd bite your hand and say, "I didn't do as I knew I should have." This is a rented house. You don't own the deed. You have a lease, and you've set up a little shop, where you barely make a living sewing patches on torn clothing. Yet only a few feet underneath are two veins, pure red and bright gold carnelian. Quick! Take the pickaxe and pry the foundation. You've got to quit this seamstress work. What does the patch-sewing mean, you ask. Eating and drinking. The heavy cloak of the body is always getting torn. You patch it with food, and other restless ego-satisfactions. Rip up one board from the shop floor and look into the basement. You'll see two glints in the dirt.

Rumi

It's All Temporary

Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert

Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It's the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly. Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last. Every morning she was asleep in my bed like a visitation, the gentleness in her like antelope standing in the dawn mist. Each afternoon I watched her coming back through the hot stony field after swimming, the sea light behind her and the huge sky on the other side of that. Listened to her while we ate lunch. How can they say the marriage failed? Like the people who came back from Provence (when it was Provence) and said it was pretty but the food was greasy. I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.

It's All Temporary

I Give a Convincing Sermon

I Give a Convincing Sermon by Melissa Broder I give a convincing sermon. I say The body is a coat. It is a very dark and heavy coat but worthless. Mother Mary nods from the pews. If I give Mary all my atoms she will plant them in a garden where ripened women relinquish their bones to make room for littler women. It is dangerous to grow accustomed to a garden. Just when the flowers soften you, they disappear. Then you are a weepy fern among skyscrapers. I don't want my soul exposed like that. Neither can you make a garden stay. Don't even try. Every plot becomes a dark city over time. I have collected many dark ideas over time. I have so many ideas they are a second coat.

It's All Temporary

Dear Tiera by Sean Thomas Dougherty

Dear Tiara
by Sean Thomas Dougherty
I dreamed I was a mannequin in the pawnshop window of your conjectures. I dreamed I was a chant in the mouth of a monk, saffron-robed syllables in the religion of You. I dreamed I was a lament to hear the deep sorrow places of your lungs. I dreamed I was your bad instincts. I dreamed I was a hummingbird sipping from the tulip of your ear. I dreamed I was your ex-boyfriend stored in the basement with your old baggage. I dreamed I was a jukebox where every song sang your name. I dreamed I was in an elevator, rising in the air shaft of your misgivings. I dreamed I was a library fine, I've checked you out too long so many times. I dreamed you were a lake and I was a little fish leaping through the thin reeds of your throaty humming. I must've dreamed I was a nail, because I woke beside you still hammered. I dreamed I was a tooth to fill the absences of your old age. I dreamed I was a Christmas cactus, blooming in the desert of my stupidity. I dreamed I was a saint's hair-shirt, sewn with the thread of your saliva. I dreamed I was an All Night Movie Theater, showing the flickering black reel of my nights before I met you. I must've dreamed I was gravity, I've fallen for you so damn hard.

It's All Temporary

Self-Portrait by Ira Sadoff

I sniff after the sparrow and the spaniel, flitting around, barking, digging up the dirt: how could I not be at one with them? But I'm a spendthrift too, rummaging about old sport coats, selecting a style, a clash of styles— in a private moment trying to decide who I am today by trying on something discarded, something nobody treasured— I think I want everyone and everything to be loved so much I get dour, chastising, dark, and sometimes hate so much I can't go for a stroll without recycling the moment they dropped acid on my palm, the thousand ways I could ease their demise—dipping them into a river of invective that seems futile and enticing—whether it’s the Secretary of State or a species of white shirts and thin black ties who exude smugness, who quote from the bible as if it were the Bible. It's like having an affair— they all end badly, don't they?—thereby the passion flies out of me like an open window in February: take the heat, world, disperse it before I undress another thought.

It's All Temporary

Stone God and Goddess in an Ark

Stone God and Goddess in an Ark
by Tom Sleigh 

Out of the stone ark that carried them this far
in their two by two progress up to here,
they've outlived everyone
and everything they've known—

he in his fishscales up to his waist, she
in her grunge hairdo of stone:
and on each face no guilt for surviving,
no stony comprehension

of all they've left behind, just a joy
so of the moment it seems almost heartless,
the two little stone gods grinning mad little grins

at whoever could be so foolish as think stone
thinks, as to think they could get close
to what those grins might mean...

And in the hotel room
where all this is happening, traffic flow
halting in its own stalled glow
ricocheting pane to pane, I'm

coalescing out of sleep, dissolving back,
as if it were the moment just before
the moment cracks
and I become a little god,

that grin on my face making me
feel a little silly, silly immortal, silly
not to die when my dad's

long dead, Amy's dead three years,
Benny died a year ago, and Jason's
just died, his stare still dissolving in the room.



It's All Temporary

A Blessing by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.

It's All Temporary

ee cummings

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

It's All Temporary

Quietness by Rumi

Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an ax to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You're covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.

The speechless full moon
comes out now.

Rumi

----------------------

It's All Temporary

Corner Table

Corner Table

Dana Gioia

You tell me you are going to marry him.
You knew almost at once he was the one.
Your hands rest on the quilted tablecloth.
"Such clever hands," I used to say.
I gave them names I never spoke aloud.

You tell me how you met and where you'll live.
It's easier to watch your lips than listen.
Your eyes flash in the candlelight like knives.
The waiters drift by with their phantom meals.
Tonight the dead are dining with the dead.

You twist the wineglass slowly in your hand.
And I speak of other things. What matters most
Most often can't be said. Better to trust
The forms that hold our grief. We understand
This last mute touch that lingers for farewell. 

It's All Temporary

Frida Kahlo

It's obvious
by Greg Hewett
It’s obvious beauty is a postage stamp, a composed self-portrait of Frida Kahlo wearing a simple necklace, an image chosen by the USPS not because it was like one she painted for Trotsky. Of course beauty could not include imagery of hammer and sickle or black monkey leering over her shoulder or parrot twisted under her chin. And not the one with snakes. Not the one of her all butched-up, hair cropped short, wearing one of Diego’s suits after they split for the final time. Not one with wheelchair, spinal-brace, or scar down her long trunk. Forget the one of her cloven wide open, a jungle of history and myth, of poetry burgeoning forth from her innermost. Most definitely not the one of her wearing the collar of thorns in memory of Jesus and Trotsky and revolution lost.

It's All Temporary

Emerging by Pablo Neruda

A man says yes without knowing
how to decide even what the question is,
and is caught up, and then is carried along
and never again escapes from his own cocoon;
and that's how we are, forever falling
into the deep well of other beings;
and one thread wraps itself around our necks,
another entwines a foot, and then it is impossible,
impossible to move except in the well --
nobody can rescue us from other people.

It seems as if we don't know how to speak;
it seems as if there are words which escape,
which are missing which have gone away and left us
to ourselves, tangled up in snares and threads.

And all at once, that's it; we no longer know
what it's all about, but we are deep inside it,
and now we will never see with the same eyes
as once we did when we were children playing.
Now those eyes are closed to us,
now our hands emerge from different arms.

And therefore when you sleep, you are alone in your dreaming,
and running freely through the corridors
of one dream only, which belongs to you.
Oh never let them come to steal our dreams,
never let them entwine us in our bed.
Let us hold on to the shadows
to see if, from our own obscurity,
we emerge and grope along the walls,
lie in wait for the light, to capture it,
till, once and for all time,
it becomes our own, the sun of every day.

It's All Temporary

Shadow and Light Source Both by Rumi

How does a part of the world leave the world?

How does wetness leave water? Don't try to

put out a fire by throwing on more fire! Don't

wash a wound with blood.  No matter how fast

you run, your shadow keeps up.  Sometimes it's

in front!  Only full overhead sun diminishes

your shadow.  But that shadow has been serving

you.  What hurts you blesses you.  Darkness is 

                                                     

your candle.  Your boundaries are your quest.

I could explain this, but it will break the

glass cover on your heart and there's no

fixing that.  You must have shadow and light

source both.  Listen, and lay your head under

the tree of awe.  When from that tree feathers

and wings sprout on you, be quieter than

a dove.  Don't open your mouth for even a coo

Rumi

"I could explain this, but it will break the glass cover on your heart and there's no fixing that."  Isn't that a beautiful line? And then the last four lines, Don't open your mouth for even a coo. When I am feeling down I read Rumi who never fails to tell me what I need to hear.

It's All Temporary

The Shadow - Carl Jung

“I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me

and what can be the use of him is more than I can see.”

Robert Louis Stevenson

One of the most intriguing aspects of Carl Jung’s psychology is his concept of “The Shadow.” According to Jung, we all have a shadow resulting from over identification with our ego or social mask while neglecting other less favorable aspects of our personalities.  http://ieric2010.hubpages.com/hub/Carl-Jung-and-the-Shadow-An-Introduction

This pesky shadow is huge in spite of the fact that we can go through life completely unaware of the prominent role it plays in our lives. Because most of us excessively focus on the ego, the deeper, neglected aspects of our personality continually sabotage our conscious intentions. Having no place else to go, it projects itself onto other people. The results of this projection can result in a variety of ways, often diametrically opposed, but usually appearing as a strong emotional reaction to anyone or anything, both positive or negative. 

The immediate hatred of a politician speaking on TV is our shadow hard at work as much as falling head over heels in love with some innocent bozo buying a latto at Starbucks.  Both evoke strong emotions, both need serious attention.  We need to ask ourselves why is this person so disturbing to me, driving me?  Until we withdraw these projections and integrate them into our own persona, we will continue to stumble into harmful relationships and situations without a clue why it has happened.

This is a complicated subject requiring more time and space than I have available. I began with Robert Louis Stevenson, I’ll end with Charles Bukowski’s poem The Genius in the Crowd. It is long, not an easy poem to read, but I think Jung would have liked it.:
-------------------------------------------------

THE GENIUS IN THE CROWD

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average

human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it

and the best at hate are those who preach love

and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god

those who preach peace do not have peace

those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers

beware the knowers

beware those who are always reading books

beware those who either detest poverty

or are proud of it

beware those quick to praise

for they need praise in return

beware those who are quick to censor

they are afraid of what they do not know

beware those who seek constant crowds for

they are nothing alone

beware the average man the average woman

beware their love, their love is average

seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred

there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you

to kill anybody

not wanting solitude

not understanding solitude

they will attempt to destroy anything

that differs from their own

not being able to create art

they will not understand art

they will consider their failure as creators

only as a failure of the world

not being able to love fully

they will believe your love incomplete

and then they will hate you

and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond

http://bukowski.net/

How Attraction Happens by Rumi

Moses is talking to someone drunk with worshipping the golden
calf.  What happened to your

doubt?  You used to be so skeptical of me. The Red Sea parted.
Food came every day in the

wilderness for forty years.  A fountain sprang out of a rock.
You saw these things

and still reject the idea of prophethood.  Then the magician
Samiri does a trick to make

the metal cow low, and immediately you kneel!  What did that
hollow statue say?  Have you

heard a dullness like your own?  This is how attraction
happens: people with nothing

they value delight in worthlessness.  Someone who thinks
there's no meaning or purpose

feels drawn to images of futility.  Each moves to be with
its own.  The ox does not turn

toward a lion.  Wolves have no interest in Joseph, unless
to devour him.  But if a wolf

is cured of wolfishness, it will sleep close by Joseph,
like a dog in the presence of

meditators.  Soul companionship gives safety and light
to a cave full of friends.

Rumi

It's All Temporary

"a wild, fresh wind blowing. . ." by Charles Bukowski

a wild, fresh wind blowing…

I should not have blamed only my father, but,

he was the first to introduce me to

raw and stupid hatred.

he was really best at it: anything and everything made him

mad-things of the slightest consequence brought his hatred quickly

to the surface

and I seemed to be the main source of his

irritation.

I did not fear him

but his rages made me ill at heart

for he was most of my world then

and it was a world of horror but I should not have blamed only

my father

for when I left that… home… I found his counterparts

everywhere: my father was only a small part of the

whole, though he was the best at hatred

I was ever to meet.

but others were very good at it too: some of the 

foremen, some of the street bums, some of the women

I was to live with,

most of the women, were gifted at 

hating-blaming my voice, my actions, my presence

blaming me

for what they, in retrospect, had failed

at.

I was simply the target of their discontent

and in some real sense

they blamed me

for not being able to rouse them

out of a failed past; what they didn't consider was

that I had my troubles too-most of them caused by

simply living with them.

I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even

stupidly happy almost without cause

and left alone I am mostly content.

but I've lived so often and so long with this hatred

that

my only freedom, my only peace is when I am away from

them, when I am anywhere else, no matter where-

some fat old waitress bringing me a cup of coffee

is in comparison

like a fresh wild wind blowing.