p

Coplas about the soul which suffers with impatience to see God

I live without inhabiting

Myself—in such a wise that I

Am dying that I do not die.

Within myself I do not dwell

Since without God I cannot live.

Reft of myself and God as well,

What serves this life (I cannot tell)

Except a thousand death to give?

Since waiting here for life I lie

And die because I do not die.

This life I live in vital strength

Is loss of life unless I win You:

And thus to die I shall continue

Until in You I live at length.

Listen (my God!) my life is in You,

This life I do not want, for I

Am dying that I do not die.

Thus in your absence and your lack

How can I in myself abide

Nor suffer here a death more black

Than ever was by mortal died.

For pity of myself I've cried

Because in such a plight I lie

Dying because I do not die.

The fish that from the stream is lost

Derives some sort of consolation

That in his death he pays the cost

At least of death's annihilation.

To this dread life with which I'm crossed

What fell death can compare, since I,

The more I live, the more must die.

When thinking to relieve my pain

I in the sacraments behold You

It brings me greater grief again

That to myself I cannot fold You.

And that I cannot see you plain

Augments my sorrow so that I

Am dying that I do not die.

If in the hope I should delight,

Oh Lord, of seeing You appear,

The thought that I might lose Your sight,

Doubles my sorrow and my fear.

Living as I do in such fright,

And yearning as I yearn, poor I

Must die because I do not die.

Oh rescue me from such a death

My God, and give me life, not fear;

Nor keep me bound and struggling here

Within the bounds of living breath.

Look how I long to see You near,

And how in such a plight I lie

Dying because I do not die!

I shall lament my death betimes,

And mourn my life, that it must be

Kept prisoner by sins and crimes

So long before I am set free:

Ah God, my God, when shall it be?

When I may say (and tell no lie)

I live because I've ceased to die?

St. John of the Cross

(trans. By Roy Campbell)

q

Just think of the tragedy of teaching children not to doubt.

-Clarence Darrow, lawyer and author (1857-1938)

p

Stone

Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger's tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river;
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed,
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star-charts
On the inner walls.

~ Charles Simic ~

p

Salt Heart

I was tired,
half sleeping in the sun.
A single bee
delved the lavender nearby,
and beyond the fence,
a trowel's shoulder knocked a white stone.
Soon, the ringing stopped.
And from somewhere,
a quiet voice said the one word.
Surely a command,
though it seemed more a question,
a wondering perhaps-"What about joy?"
So long had it been forgotten,
even the thought raised surprise.
But however briefly, there,
in the untuned devotions of bee
and the lavender fragrance,
the murmur of better and worse was unimportant.
From next door, the sound of raking,
and neither courage nor cowardice mattered.
Failure-uncountable failure-did not matter.
Soon enough that gate swung closed,
the world turned back to heart-salt
of wanting, heart-salts of will and grief.
My friend would continue dying, at last
only exhausted, even his wrists thinned with pain.
The river Suffering would take what it
wished of him, then go. And I would stay
and drink on, as the living do, until the rest
would enter into that water-the lavender swept in,
the bee, the swallowed labors of my neighbor.
The ordinary moment swept in, whatever it drowsily holds.
I begin to believe the only sin is distance, refusal.
All others stemming from this. Then, come.
Rivers, come. Irrevocable futures, come. Come even joy.
Even now, even here, and though it vanish like him.

 

            Jane Hirschfield