Posts tagged ‘poem’
A Poem by Antonio Machado
As I read this poem, I am reminded of St. John of the Cross’s poem, “The Dark Night of the Soul.” Lorenna McKennitt does an especially lovely version of it on her album The Mask and the Mirror. Both of these poems read beautifully in the original Spanish. But I think that Robert Bly has transmitted the sense of them.
Last Night, as I Was Sleeping.
Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt — marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt — marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt — marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night, as I slept,
I dreamt — marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
There isn’t much to be said; the poem says it all. The imagery of buzzing bees and a fiery sun inside my heart is stirring. The aliveness, beauty, sweetness, warmth, light,, and water of life, which is God, dwells within us at the very center of our being. Oh “marvelous error” indeed.
It might bother some, the translation of “bendita ilusion” (blessed illusion, dream, or vision) with “marvelous error.” Yet I am reminded of the words from our Easter vigil liturgy: “O happy fault, O necessary sin of Adam, which gained for us so great a Redeemer! Our Redeemer has, indeed, made sweet honey from all of our failures!
A Poem I Would Like to Make My Own
Rumi. How could you find a poet that could better express the movement of the soul . . . the stirrings of the heart . . . ?
Hospitality is one of those virtues that religious communities hope that they reflect. And sometimes we’re good at it, and sometimes . . . . . . Well, we fall into that place called human.
I found this poem today. And I would like to make it my own:
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.
From:The Essential Rumi, p. 109, Translations by Comeman Barks, Harper: San Francisco, 1995.
