I’m back after a hiatus for travel and khilvat (silent meditation). During khilvat this time, I fasted and prayed alone on the mountain (with daily silent visits from beloveds who brought water and one check in with my teacher) for 5 days. It was a remarkable and profound experience. I’ll share one poem that arose from that time and another that came from meditation at my sit spot yesterday on a rainy afternoon.
But first, with a bow to Amina Janet Berketa, who puts out a wonderful blog weekly, this poem from Wendell Berry that she posted recently (a great introduction to a post about poetry!):
How to Be a Poet – Wendell Berry (1934 – )
(To remind myself)
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill — more of each
than you have — inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
**************
Stillness
by Wakil David Matthews (6/2/2021)
I asked
for a sign…
What do I need?
Please show me!
The trees just stood there…
Well? I inquired…
The trees just stood.
I waited…
The trees continued to stand.
I slept, meditated, prayed…
When I searched for the sign
Listening, watching
The trees still stood
Solid, patient, rooted.
The trees stood…
Still
Still
Still
Stillness like the trees.
Aah… yes.
That’s it.
Thank you.
*************
Remembrance (Zikr)
by Wakil David Matthews (6/13/2021)
Raindrops twitch the bright salal leaves and dark fir needles.
Reminding me as I sit, sheltered beneath fir boughs to be grateful.
El arroyo fluye, the creek flows,
reminding me to flow with joy.
The crow scolds from a perch directly overhead,
reminding me I am seen.
The branch beneath me is solid and still,
reminding me I am held.