Archives for posts with tag: spirituality

the wingèd ones. Their songs,
the uplifting disturbance of the quiet dawn,
the insomniac’s cohort in the long night.
That exhilaration of larks reminding us
that speaking to life is everyone’s job.

Farther out,
the choir of angels.
Also two-legged, but taller
and robed in fabric
not feathers. Still, they sing,
don’t they?

Unhappily, the rest of us only fly
in steel rooms, two-wheeled, two-winged,
but cold, mercantile rather than ecstatic.
Separation from everything, exaggerated
by the pressure in the cabin. The fumes
of the long-extinct permeating the senses.

Oh, but sleeping—
ever so rarely,
that draft of silence
swooping over the land
will lift you up.
Your feet take leave
of gravity’s pull
and you hover there with them,
falling up and out
instead of down and in,
and the urge to sing bursts
from your once-grounded throat.

And then
there are those times
when singing itself …
when the angel and the lark …
when pure song …

—The title comes from a line in “Utterance” by W.S. Merwin (from The Rain in the Trees, 1988).

© 2015 KL Robyn

Remembering the Underground

Not just below the radar,
they went beneath the surface.
Dug into the main streams,
hiding out in caves
like outlaws,
spelunking for truth
like sadhus.

The underground press—
The underground movements—
pushing, steady, disturbing
slowly, press … poke …
Bored yet?

Oh but water seeps in all directions:
filters into tributaries making
new caves, finding new openings—
as well as to the surface
to join with the runoff.

Let us be our own underground!
Creep in plain sight,
pressing firmly but gently
until the envelopes we push
start to stick

 Let us move blind
like grubs and moles
raising earth
in the night,
feeding from the root,
drinking at the river
of consciousness,
not letting anyone know
that we mean to survive
despite our lack of time
in the sun.

KL Robyn ©2013

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?

She was not being mean
just letting me know
where my shadow resides.

The dark throws down a shaft
on the other side of light—
whatever lies within it
will be hidden, leaving me
to wonder: how dangerous am I?

An obstruction at the heart
of things, always in the middle …
first one leg, then the other,
the hot side of Mercury
and the cold side toward us.
Colors and black, blue snow and black,
the long arm of memory
ensleeved in misunderstanding.

My double walks out of the room,
pulls me like the moon,
and I rehearse the act of tides.
Focusing the light upstage,
I turn my ears like a bowl
toward the pit, knowing full well
that just beyond the burning
is the rhapsody.

 

© KL Robyn 7 Sept 2012

      Weight:

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.

            Mass:

If Energy (big E) equals
the mass of an object (little m)
times the speed of light (little c)
squared—E=mc2—then
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
for
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,
sore
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

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.