Archives for posts with tag: philosophy

Sitting in a room of women whose pens are on fire. As ink dribbles out of mine like a clogged faucet. I warm my hands by their light, will the words to start flowing. No, not will . . . request. Listen for the gurgling, the beginning of precipitation. Wind and ice. How they speak in the presence of others. Trees. Grasses. Sunshine. It’s all about relationship, isn’t it?



What you carry
in pockets, in bags, in the
trunk of your car,
on your hips, on your schedule
in the back of your mind—
the tiny burdens and the accumulated baggage
long forgotten or simply accommodated
equals the effort it takes to
get through a day
times pi, a constant,
the ratio of your intentions
orbiting around the sun
divided by the number of burdens
you would rather put down.

Like the speed of light,
the weight is the same
no matter how far away
you stand from the scales.


If Energy (big E) equals
the mass of an object (little m)
times the speed of light (little c)
what does it mean that
we create our own reality?
Would that be big reality
or little reality?

Energy can
neither be created
nor destroyed
That’s what they say.
Mass is energy
and energy mass—
they say that, too.
What does all this
have to say to me
about destiny (the
whole being more
than the sum of
each day) or karma,
that crusty square root
of fate times free will?
You know, free will—
creating and destroying
your own reality in
the speed of light.
Square that.

Surely there is an equation
how we are
all in this together.
Co-creating a reality
that destroys itself
each night before bed
and awakens every morning, all
hope and hunger and stiff,
joints. Your
reality rubbing up
against his and
his against mine
times the mass of us
unequally divided
amidst the speeding lights.

We stand, we sit,
we kneel to pray.
Our energy equals
this mass times
something too simple
to fathom. Squared.

                         KL Robyn  2009

Reach through the soup
and find a synapse that knows nothing
That sees no things but light on shapes
lights off shapes like a dragonfly

Always there like that
Go for broke and go broke
Pilgrim with a bowl
No bowl

Ten-pin Trungpa
Tenzin Bowl
And now I speak in tongues
The true nature
the unknown language
the words I don’t know
That’s the where of it

Crunch crunch crunch
Boots chewing on snow & ice
little pretzels of salt & sand
each thought a word too many
Too many layers
to find the quiet one

Drink tea and listen
to the nothing underneath
Shh . . .
Just the crunching after all

Reach through the soup
and find a synapse that’s only now
awakening  The light pouring in
through a new window

What would you see if you could
look again for the first time?

The soup bubbles back
A scent of fresh fear blowing
through the gap
Giggling to breathe

What would you hear if you could
listen again for the first time?

Reach through the soup
of the mind the brain the
chemistry of being
only your fingers awake

What would you feel if you could
touch again for the first time?

Would nothing be enough?

—KL Robyn
20 February 2011

Say what you want,
you’re safe here. You know
the saying, “What happens in Vegas …”?
Same here. The very worst that can happen
is that the Wise Ones might laugh,
encircle you in their singular embrace,
but they will never shut you up.

Say what you want. How
else are you to get it?
A birthday list, a restaurant menu …
the prana of the dual-natured cosmos.
The listening blinks on and off like the synapses
of nerve cells … alternating current, binary code.
So say it at least three times to make sure
word of your desire gets through …

Say what you want now, or
forget it. Patience runs thin
as you hem and haw. So many
choices beyond … chocolate
and vanilla … and everyone
in such a hurry. You’re about
to lose your turn …
What is calling you? The flavor?
Or the cold sweet cream?

Say what you want, but it’s not
as easy as all that … to Just Do It,
to make your own luck,
even to save for a rainy day.
We all howl under the same moon,
trudge along in the same line
carrying our jars to fill
with milk and honey … while
working out ways to hold on
to our goodness.

—KL Robyn
16 March 2012

…Opening like a fissure in a porcelain sink: something too heavy dropped there by a child who had no business trying to balance all that weight. It will have to be replaced.

“Once” is broken. The lips start lying about it right at the O, meaning to say “What—” maybe or “When—” or “Wow, will you look at that?”

Put your hand there—over the fault. With your eyes closed, you can feel the tiny wind blowing through. Not static at all. Not still or fixed. Or fitted. The crack widens; the seams come apart and the whole house starts to fall through. Molecule by molecule. Memory by memory. Taking the future with it.

That future. The one that would have followed the cracking past. Drained through that gape in the sink. But here I am, still standing. Not too dissipated as far as I can tell. No more hair in the brush than usual. Which way should I look now?

In the beginning … This beginning—the Big Bang going off somewhere right now. Here maybe. A new world forming as we speak. The Kingdom gone with the house, say the Word and stars spill out—a free country of heaven. The Mother and Father no longer at odds. In love again even. The Daughter restored, equal to the Son.

Oh, that word. The one that booms and blooms and opens out, breezes past the crumbling houses, the sinks discarded by the side of the road, the cracks in the walls of history. Is now and ever shall be, world without end.

—KL Robyn 2010

* The title is taken from a line in “Tcheliabtraktrostroi Waltz,” a poem written in the aftermath of WWI, by Louis Aragon and translated by Nancy Cunard.