Let Them In

by John Gorka 

On this Veteran's Day, my favorite stunning song by John Gorka. Youtube version here.

"Let Them In" was made into song by John Gorka from a poem found in a hospital in the Philippines during World War II. The nurse that found the poem kept it all these years until the recent war brought out all the memorabilia. Luckily, her daughter sent a copy to John. 

Let them in, Peter

They are very tired

Give them couches where the angels sleep

And light those fires

Let them wake whole again

To brand new dawns

Fired by the sun not wartime's

Bloody guns

May their peace be deep

Remember where the broken bodies lie

God knows how young they were

To have to die

God knows how young they were

To have to die

So give them things they like

Let them make some noise

Give dance hall bands not golden harps

To these our boys 

And let them love, Peter

For they've had no time

They should have trees and bird songs

And hills to climb

The taste of summer in a ripened pear

And girls sweet as meadow wind

With flowing hair

And tell them how they are missed

But say not to fear

It's gonna be alright

With us down here

Let them in, Peter

Let them in, Peter

Let them in, Peter

© John Gorka, all rights reserved

Foreign Objects

Sometimes...

sometimes this life is a foreign object to me.

It's like something shiny but odd-looking,

that one comes across on the beach.

You pick it up

- two fingered because of the sand and the muck -

And notice right away that there's that one wicked sharp edge...

too sharp, in fact -

to smooth with the fat skin of your thumb.

But by using the edge of that soft old warm sweatshirt,

protection is gained as well as a glorious and unexpected sheen.

Thus pocketed, the mysterious find is safeguarded amongst agates, sand dollars, purple lint and torn grocery lists that you saved because the last item read:

"and I love you, my darling."

november 2010 © martha lee phelps

Small Things

"Do not think that love in order to be genuine
has to be extraordinary.
What we need is to love without getting tired.
Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies."
(Mother Teresa)

Small things....like threads in an intricate and perfect web - a thousand tiny lifelines that keep one's heart intact at just the right moment... 

Small things...like whispering joy that rustles across the pavement below your open window - late autumn leaves dancing one last time before the rain falls...

Small things...like beads on a string, slipping easily into place - tiny yet essential to the whole....

Small things, small prayers, small dreams...

the power of one - multiplied by faith and love.

You Reading This, Be Ready

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
 
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?
 
When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life -
 
What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?
 

~ William Stafford ~

 Photography by Martha Lee Phelps

Life While-You-Wait

I rarely re-post things that others have sent via email on the same day or even in the same month, but this incredible poem really called out to me to "send it along." A large and warm "hat tip" to Joe Riley and his ongoing sharing through Panhala, and to the poet, of course -Wislawa Szymborska. The photos are from me. ~ Enjoy, mlp

Life While-You-Wait.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.
I only know it's mine. I can't exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot
just what this play's all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,
I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.
I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.
I trip at every step over my own ignorance.
I can't conceal my hayseed manners.
My instincts are for happy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.
Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can't take back,
stars you'll never get counted,
your character like a raincoat you button on the run ?
the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,
or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!
But here comes Friday with a script I haven't seen.
Is it fair, I ask
(my voice a little hoarse,
since I couldn't even clear my throat offstage).

You'd be wrong to think that it's just a slapdash quiz
taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.
I'm standing on the set and I see how strong it is.
The props are surprisingly precise.
The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.
The farthest galaxies have been turned on.
Oh no, there's no question, this must be the premiere.
And whatever I do
will become forever what I've done.
 
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~

The Territories of Joy and Sorrow

How does one who lives a wild and untamed life keep the inevitable sadness that goes with such a life at bay? Because, it's true. To live in the fullness of a passionate life that is creative, intentional, in motion and ever-changing, one must be prepared for unexpected risks into the deepest territories of both joy and sorrow. The joy...well, most of us risk-takers know exactly what to do with joy. But the sorrow can be a bit trickier to manage. Either way -  learning to completely embrace either state of being is not for the faint of heart.

T.H. White wrote, in a conversation between Merlin and Arthur in the novel The Once and Future King a bit of wisdom that helps me when I find myself disoriented by fear of the unknown, or despair over the state of the world, or the simple but profoundly intense experience of missing someone I love.

"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.

My current "to learn" list looks something like this:

• a new language
• the fiddle
• more patience and trust
• all the new web-building programs that my boss has asked me to digest
• how to streamline my practical tools (camera, computer, phone). Whew!
• more kindness
• more surrender
• more faith - that all will be well
• and maybe a wee bit of step dancing...because, when I'm truly sad, dancing is a temporary and wonderful remedy.

So that seems like plenty for now. It may not abolish the sadness completely, but it will - at least - keep my wild and untamed fire burning while I wait to turn the next corner into the realm of joy!

 

 

A Reprise

Today news came that a good friend's son has been diagnosed with cancer. Our hearts and strongest prayers go out to him.


He and his family are in a state of rapid change - a vibrant young man launched on a journey that no one should have to endure, and his loved ones already learning to pull from inner resources of focus, courage and hope whose magnitude of spirit have yet to fully reveal.


I'm offering up this "re-post" of a piece I wrote several months ago as an educational reminder to those in our community of healthy ways to support and talk to cancer patients and their families. What Not To Say To Someone With Cancer


Please let Love, Compassion and Hope be your guides.
All will be well ~ mlp


"to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again."
— Ellen Bass

"North Star"

“Make your plans. Make them now,”

urges the light filtering through the curtains.

“Move honey, just move,”

calls out the road map from the trunk of the car.

“What are you waiting for?”

Asks the able-bodied adventurer in my heart,

shaking her head with impatience

from waiting - 

too long, 

pack ready,

to move forward on the trail.

See that compass?

See the sun moving across the sky?

Another day is passing.

Another moonrise is certain.

Which vista will be your viewpoint?

Are you paying attention, my beloved?

Will you see from inside the same room

and through the same window?

Or will you step outside?

Will you

let Polaris be your marker?

It’s time to open the front door and walk away.

Go deep into the woods and 

find the path though the underbrush;

roam the edge

of the desert,

turn away from the sign posts reading “Wait

Until Tomorrow,”

cross the ocean

and make passage along roads 

so well-seasoned by memories

and movement 

that ghosts of ancient travelers 

watch over you in sleep

and never let you lose your waking way.

“Take yourself by the hand,” whispers my soul,

“Don’t wait, don’t wait,

dear god....

don’t wait.

Just seize your heart -

and go.”

"North Star" © 2010 and beyond by Martha Lee Phelps

Remembering springtime in Wales

When I close my eyes,
I can see those childhood haunts
and an ocean with waves rolling back against
the shore we're standing on.

the sweet dreams I used to have
with the swell of tall grass about my head and body,
all the secret special hillsides that my heart took photos of,
and the scores of music I wrote 

while wildly running through pastureland after sheep....

A bryn noel
has rustled the papers
atop the desk in my mind,
and every favorite poem, prayer and lyric returns -
unforgotten.

If every ache inside I have felt, every spasm of longing
for my homeland,
were to take me back,
I should have been there the second that I left
and dwelt on until eternity
searching only for a love to share it all with.

Thus,
we would be complete,
and I would never again
close my eyes to see.


"Matti" by Martha Lee Phelps

Words & Art ~ Cutting Loose

Cutting Loose

Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason,
you sing. For no reason, you accept
the way of being lost, cutting loose
from all else and electing a world
where you go where you want to.

Arbitrary, a sound comes, a reminder
that a steady center is holding
all else. If you listen, that sound
will tell you where it is and you
can slide your way past trouble.

Certain twisted monsters
always bar the path -- but that's when
you get going best, glad to be lost,
learning how real it is
here on earth, again and again.

~ William Stafford ~

Original art snapshot of
"She Dances!"Acrylic on four panel door, (circa 1907)
Available for purchase

 

Tribute to the birth of a Welsh poet

From the third story bay of an abandoned
250 year old woolen mill,
I stared across rolling pastures along Felinfach Road.

It was, quite certainly,
the most marvelous sight I had ever beheld:
the narrow lane disappeared round a corner,
while perfectly tended hedgerows
loosely held back wildness and the fertility of
rambling dreams.

Never had I seen so many shades of green.
Never had I felt transported
simply by drawing breath,
and never, ever, had my heart been all-at-once
unfettered
and calm.

At ease for the first
time in life, I experienced vast
Silence wrapping around my small body
(a dark, rich, purple tapestry
very like those that had once rhythmically
unfolded off the dusty looms two floors below me)

and I was alone.

I might have been afraid,
as each fiber of my soul expanded.

I might have leaned back
against the safe smooth timber beams,
and closed my eyes against the spinning prayers of hawk in flight
toward Aberystwyth.

I might have fled, yet
my ancestors convened.

“Bare witness,” said my Grannie
as she reached her soft gnarled hand toward mine, and gathered
me into the circle. “It’s time.”

Then, looking into my eyes, the old ones began to whisper.
They told stories of warrior’s hearts, uncommon loyalty and
the glorious rise of the great Bear.

They recited poems of faith held fast
through long hushed winters, as well as
ballads of the Beltane Queen and passions’ sweet adventures.

Laughing, the men bellowed songs about harvest fires
while the women,
skirts swinging and checks flushed,
made the floorboards tremble with their breathless dancing.

Smells of wool and
wood, sweat on sun-browned shoulders,
fermenting ale, sweet cream and
raw sugar, and the smoke of
tobacco kissed by fire
swirled like incense all around.

Joy raised the rafters, and translucent memories,
like particles of dust in sunlight, filled the old building
and showered everything within.

Finally, embraced as a child
who has arrived at last on home’s doorstep,
they marked my eyes
with rich dark coal, and baptized me in the name of
Mystical Grace and Love.

Then, Ceridwen nodded with a smile.

She guided me back to the lofty opening and pointed across the shire,
“Look there, daughter. This is your poem.

When you lose your way;
when you have forgotten who you are;
when the wildness has been tamed and the colors start to fade,
remember this day, and your heart will follow.”

She kissed me sweetly on the lips,
filled my lungs with her blessing and
left me there gazing
across the rolling pastures of Felinfach Road.

Quite certainly,
it was the most marvelous sight I had ever beheld.


Felinfach \ velin-vahk \ meaning “a small mill.”
Ab·er·yst·wyth \ˌa-bə-ˈris-ˌtwith, -ˈrəs-\ the geographical name of a Borough in W. Wales on Cardigan Bay
Ceridwen \ce-rid-wen, cer(i)-dwen\ is pronounced ke-RID-wen. It is of Welsh origin, and its meaning is "fair, blessed poetry". Celtic mythology: name of the goddess of poetic inspiration. Also supposedly the name of the mother of the legendary sixth-century Welsh hero Taliesin.

Squeak (Part II)

(A continuation from yesterday's post...
Death Valley, California
Monday, March 22, 2010)

Badwater Basin and the Salt Flats were incredibly beautiful. 

With Telescope Peak rising to its full 11,000 feet on the west and Dante's Pass behind us, we tip-toed around honeycombed basins of salt water. The rims of delicate crystal and mineral deposits, encircling each pool like lace-work and hand-hewn tatting, stretched for miles around us. The whole white scene was blinding to the eye and compelling to the soul. We simply HAD to look.

The girls picked carefully at the salt deposits. Mindful of the strength of their human hands on this hardy yet tender ecosystem, they touched with tenderness and marveled at the wet glistening gems on their palms and the sensation of soft chalk that it left on their skin. None of us could resist putting out tongues against our fingertips, as though our palates were the final authority of whether or not this was, in fact, a salt basin.

Heading back toward Furnace Creek, we detoured along the Artists Palate Drive to see an amazing crayola box of natural hues stacked upon each other throughout the surrounding cliffs and hills. 

This particular spot is a six mile stretch of tribute of the planet's age and ever-changing form - the layers of color showed us where glaciers, volcanoes, water, ice and heat have all conspired over time to geologically blend and separate varying colors and textures. It was powerful to acknowledge that whole mountains have uplifted and laid themselves upon one another, like great stone sweaters on a shelf. Moving mountains...now there's a concept.

Rich dark browns, tans, reds, black, beautiful swaths of palest blue, washed-out green and even an occasional stripe of lavender showed up for us as we roller coaster-ed through the looping narrow road of the scenic drive. 

 

The squeak had retired, both literally and metaphorically, as we made our way along in the Beckinator with mid day desert heat rising around us. 

Virginia's biggest concern was the number of images her wee Nikon would hold. Sarah was momentarily beyond concerns, as she was on an internal hike deep into a John Muir-ian state of being. I was just hanging out in a willingly suspended state of awe - for the day, the planet and the miracle known as "right now." 

Words & Art

“Every now and again take a good look at something 

not made with hands:

a mountain, a star, the turn of a stream. 

There will come to you wisdom and patience and solace and,

above all, the assurance that you are not alone in the world.” 

~Sidney Lovett

"Bird" monotype-collage by Martha Lee Phelps

Available for purchase

Words & Art

Since the Southern Oregon weather forecast calls for snow showers right into Easter, I can't resist posting this favorite poem of mine by Billy Collins. Enjoy, and by the way - Happy Springtime!

Shoveling Snow With Buddha

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

Snow covered Buddha Photo
 taken By MLP 

 

Faith

I want to write about faith,
about the way the moon rises
over cold snow, night after night,

faithful even as it fades from fullness,
slowly becoming that last curving and impossible
sliver of light before the final darkness.

But I have no faith myself
I refuse it even the smallest entry.

Let this then, my small poem,
like a new moon, slender and barely open,
be the first prayer that opens me to faith.

 

David Whyte 

This Sunday, March 7 would have marked the 97the birthday of Virginia Way Cotton, one of the grandmothers for whom my youngest child is namesake. Virginia Way brought many gifts into the lives of her friends and family. One seemingly small, but enormous gift I received from her - at the time of her passing - was an introduction to Welsh poet, David Whyte. For eleven years now, this favorite poem still brings me to my knees with gratitude and humility. In celebration of Ginny and with joy for the poets who help change our lives, may your day be open to goodness.


"Faith" © David Whyte

Original art snapshot:

Acrylic on four panel door, (circa 1907)

Available for purchase

The Sanctuary of God

Ahead on the desert path, your voice reaches back  
as if from hundreds of miles away, 

as if from the home of deep stillness,
from the concave
belly of ancient earth,
where life's rhythmic pulse quietly drums. 

I watch you in the lavender frozen afternoon light.
The braided limbs of a Juniper are rising behind you in a perfectly carved wingspan in angelic silhouette 
unfolding from your very being, 

and the vision is powerful but fragile.
It is contrasting, like the tree itself, 

for even among the sinewy and contorted wooden twists of
brown gold and blood sharp needles,
the crevices are laced with delicate threads of snow and glimmering ice particles. 

Small, here,
with this wild landsea swelling around us,
all lungs and hearts rising and falling,
we are briefly fused to one another by warm
gauze-like breath which escapes our lips into the cold air. 

Tender and momentarily-tangible bits of soul, they
linger before our eyes. Then vanish. 

Turning toward the steep slope, 

we cross that place where once the thick
fawn-colored dust of summer held your boot track
for days on end,
for ant to quietly explore and coyote to pause over. 

Now, but now - we travel atop deep drifting snow, gleaming
whiteness that reaches toward the mesa
where raven is the season’s
only witness to our quiet passing,
and the long snowshoe patterns we’re leaving behind 

will be wind-swept in gracious concealment by nightfall. 

Upon the ascent, you turn to face me; we are
exposed against the pale rounded breasts of winter; 

we are surprised and fleeting guests in the sanctuary of God.
We are small grateful offerings on a high alter and also,
to each other.

Bowing down 
into the wind, we begin the descent toward home.

~ m.l.p. February 2010

Words & Art

Has the moon been up there
All these nights

And I never noticed?

A whole week with my nose

To the ground, to the grind.

And the beloved faithfully
Returning each evening
As the moon.

Where have I been?
Who has abandoned whom?
Gregory Orr

Multimedia (Ink, pencil, pastel & collage) 16"x20"
Available for purchase. 

 

"Moon" from How Beautiful the Beloved © Gregory Orr