"Sojourns in the Parallel World": Poems for the Solstice

I woke early, on this longest day:

the light rose among

 the green conversation 

of  trees, a fading star, exultant starlings,

  two grey squirrels 

performing their morning ritual

greeting the only God 

they know, 

the Sun

Lauren Raine (2014)

SOJOURNS IN THE PARALLEL WORLD

We live our lives of human passions,

cruelties, dreams, concepts,

crimes and the exercise of virtue

in, and beside, a world 

devoid of our preoccupations, free

from apprehension—though affected,

certainly, by our actions.

 A world parallel to our own though overlapping.

We call it “Nature”; only reluctantly

admitting ourselves to be “Nature” too.

Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,

our self-concerns, when we drift for a minute,

an hour even, of pure (almost pure)

response to that insouciant life:

cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing

pilgrimage of water, vast stillness

of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,

animal voices, mineral hum, wind

conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering

of fire to coal—then something tethered

in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch

of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.

No one discovers

just where we’ve been, when we’re caught up again

into our own sphere (where we must

return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)

—but we have changed, a little.

by Denise Levertov

2014:  A HYMN

 Our prophets lead our people on

    fast to the promised land,

and where we pass, the green of grass

    turns to bare brown sand.

So high our cities' towers soar

    above the deep-set fault,

immense they rise into the skies,

    pillars of cloud and salt.

Impatient with the patient day,

    we rush to gain tomorrow,

Our ships that plough the seas with nets

    leave a long and empty furrow.

Our quick inventions spend our time

    faster and ever faster, 

while kind and unforgiving Earth

    endures our brief disaster.

For all we do is nothing to

    Her bright eons of days.

So let my dark tune turn and end

    as all song should, in praise.

And in the hope of wisdom yet,

    I'll sing the hymn that praises

Earth's greater life that gives us life,

    the grace that still amazes.

Ursula K. Leguin 

(from Late in the Day: Poems 2010 -2014)

 

PRAISE THE DAY

 

The colors and taste of it!

Praise the light, dappled among amber leaves,

the light framed by an open window.

And all things blue!

Praise, praise summer skies,

their endless exaltation,

and all waters reflecting blue,

and a blue-eyed cat, sleeping on the windowsill.

Oh, praise the light, and all windows!

 

Praise the sand between my feet:

Praise the Song the ocean sings

today and forever, with or without me to listen.

Praise these ears, praise all eyes,

 

praise to the pearl of sweat

on your brown arm,

Praise, praise to you!

And praise to the woman

who regards me from mirrors.

Praise to the dark eyed waitress,

the bus driver, the cashier,

a child in a yellow sweater

running among the trees.

 

Praise them all!

All those I've loved,

the ones gone, the ones that remain -

the multitudes I've walked among

the company that's shaped me:

Praise, Praise the Day!

 

Lauren Raine (1998)

The Summer Solstice 2024

 

SOJOURNS IN THE PARALLEL WORLD

by Denise Levertov

We live our lives of human passions,

cruelties, dreams, concepts,

crimes and the exercise of virtue

in and beside a world devoid

of our preoccupations, free

from apprehension—though affected,

certainly, by our actions. A world

parallel to our own though overlapping.

We call it “Nature”; only reluctantly

admitting ourselves to be “Nature” too.

Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,

our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,

an hour even, of pure (almost pure)

response to that insouciant life:

cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing

pilgrimage of water, vast stillness

of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,

animal voices, mineral hum, wind

conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering

of fire to coal—then something tethered

in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch

of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.

No one discovers

just where we’ve been, when we’re caught up again

into our own sphere (where we must

return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)

—but we have changed, a little.

Denise Levertov

I woke early, on this longest day:

the light rose among

 the green conversation 

of  trees, a fading star, exultant starlings,

  two grey squirrels 

performing their morning ritual

greeting the only God 

they know, 

the Sun

Lauren Raine

The Night Blooming Cereus

With wishes for fullness of life, nature, and friendship for all

 at this most potent of times.  

O Taste and See

O Taste and See

by Denise Levertov

The world is not with us enough

O taste and see

the subway Bible poster said,

meaning The Lord, meaning

if anything all that lives

to the imagination’s tongue,

grief, mercy, language,

tangerine, weather, to

breathe them, bite,

savor, chew, swallow, transform

into our flesh our

deaths, crossing the street, 

plum, quince,

living in the orchard 

and being

hungry, and plucking

the fruit.

The Night Blooming Cereus

We go about the circles of our daily lives, the chores, the small dramas, the contentments and irritations, occasionally looking up to notice the colors of a brilliant sunset, or a dedicated parade of summer ants bearing purple petals to who knows where, or the delicious, sugared dark taste of the morning coffee, or the familiar cat, radiating pure love as she purrs in one's lap.  Occasionally we notice, sigh, perhaps say to ourselves "Nice".  Or "Wow".  Then back to the lists, the rising and falling of domestic or economic life.

Why does it often take an encounter with one's mortality to awake to the incredible, rich, gorgeous artistry of Life, all around us?  I suppose the answer to that is obvious.  But then....... there it is, and all one can do is stand, with mouth open, noticing, recognizing, "tasting and seeing".  

Lemons from my lemon tree

Just a week ago I spent three days in the ER at a local hospital to emerge with a diagnosis of congestive heart failure and an aneurism.  Now I wait another week to have open heart surgery.  An interim, a "liminal zone" of time in which I am awake.  All of this, all of this I've loved, and built, and collected, the garden I love,  the paintings I've done or imagine are yet to be done, the plans, the disappointments, the squabbles and the friendships, the cup I particularly like to drink tea out of, the sun coming through a yellow bottle I always notice...........it all could be over pretty soon  now.  Or not, but my perception of my "time" will not be the same, ever again.   What does one do with that kind of awakening.  Not a poetic or metaphysical abstraction, but carnal, immanent, solid?  Well,  gratitude helps.  And,...........

                                                                    O Taste and See

What a feast!  What if we daily understood (meaning, to "live under "a truth)  that it's such a Privilege to be here?  To experience and be a part of this amazing world with all of its polarities and struggles, among vast mysterious  communities of other Beings evolving in their own unique ways all around us?  And each moment with its own unique Beauty that blooms and dies and seeds, so fast, so precious, so amazing.  Collateral beauty, ackward beauty,  dark beauty that opens the heart and teaches the hard lessons too.  Who is the Conductor, who the orchestra?

For the past few years I've had the peculiar experience of having "life reviews" without the necessity of being dead. I think a lot of older people experience this.   In other words,  it's like long forgotten moments seem to arise from the well of my memory, often in ways that seem unrelated to whatever I am doing or even thinking about at the time.

I tend to feel those moments are part of the ineffable and  timeless gestalt that I really am, and they are worth looking at for what they may have to teach me now as I try to get an overview of the threads that weave the tapestry of my long life. 

Of  course, so many of those memory moments aren't happy, or illuminated, many are sad or painful or embarrousing or traumatic or show me the ways I may have hurt someone, been very unconscious, hurt myself, wasted time or love or purpose.   Those too are welcome now,  they are wise teachers in the unfolding of this grand adventure that has been (and is still, it's not over yet!) Lauren Raine.  I know, a strange post this, but I find myself in a state of awe.  It's a funny thing, but I find it strange that it would take heart disease to open my heart so.  May healing come to my heart, and may that vision that is with me now, remain.  I think of a line from a poem I wrote a long time ago, so here I quote myself:  

"We are given a vision so bountiful

we can only gaze with eyes wide,

like a child in summer's first garden.

Here is a poem by Rumi that also comes to mind today.  

The Guest-House 

This being human is a guest-house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you

out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

  

 

SOJOURNS IN THE PARALLEL WORLD

 

by Denise Levertov

We live our lives of human passions,

cruelties, dreams, concepts,

crimes and the exercise of virtue

in and beside a world

devoid of our preoccupations, free

from apprehension—though affected,

certainly, by our actions.

A world parallel to our own though overlapping.

We call it “Nature”; only reluctantly

admitting ourselves to be “Nature” too.

Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,

our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,

an hour even, of pure (almost pure)

response to that insouciant life:

cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing

pilgrimage of water home to Ocean, 

vast stillness of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,

animal voices, mineral hum, wind

conversing with rain, ocean with rock, 

stuttering of fire to coal—then something tethered

in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch

of gnawed grass and thistles, 

breaks free.

No one discovers

just where we’ve been, 

when we’re caught up again

into our own sphere (where we must

return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)

—but we have changed, a little.