“Alas those verses one writes in youth aren’t much. One should wait to gather sweetness and light all his life, a long one if possible, and then maybe at the end he might write ten good lines. For poetry isn’t, as people imagine, merely feelings (these come soon enough) it is experience. To write one line, a man ought to see many cities, people, and things; he must learn to know animals and the way of birds in the air, and how little flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back the way to unknown places…and to paintings long forseen, to days of childhood…and to parents…to days on the sea…to nights of travel…and one must have the memories of many nights of love, not two alike…and the screams of women in childbirth…one must have sat by the dying, one must have sat by the dead in a room with open windows…but it is not enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them and have vast patience until they come again…and when they become blood within us, and glances and gestures…then first it can happen that in a rare hour the first word of a verse may arise and come forth” Rilke quoted in the introduction to Rilke Selected Poems, intro by CF MacIntyre p4, Malte pp25-27 from,

This qoute reminded me of a drawing teacher I had who said I was allowed to complain about painting a bad portrait after I had painted 500. Another prof in college said he can't think of any great art that didn't take a long time to make.

Here is a sketchbook page I did while watching the kids making art. Below is a blog entry of Chris Heuertz the Word Made Flesh International director... he has a new book out called, Simple Spirituality: Learning to See God in a Broken World

Rabia of Basra

Last month Liz was carrying around this pretty red book. At some point, her and Phileena popped that thing open and the next thing I knew, I was the proud co-owner of a copy of Love Poems From God: Twelve Voices from the East and the West.

Since then Phileena had been savoring the pages and referencing the poems. On more than one occasion Phileena has shared verses from Rabia of Basra or Rabi’a al-Adawiyya al-Qaysiyy.

Rabia’s tale is one of the most heart-breaking and compelling stories I’ve heard in a long, long time.

Rabia lived during the 8^th century in ancient Iraq. She was the youngest of 4 daughters in a very poor, but respectable family. As a young girl her father died, and eventually Rabia was not only separated from her parents but her sisters as well.

She was left wandering and vulnerable.

Known to possess captivating beauty, some biographers tell that Rabia was captured and sold at a considerably high price as a slave to one of the most famous brothels of her day. There she was imprisoned until she was nearly 50 years old.

Reflecting on the torment of her sexual slavery she wrote,

“What a place for trials and transformation did my Lover put me, but never once did He look upon me as if I were impure. Dear sisters, all we do in this world, whatever happens, is bringing us closer to God.”

Her poems are simple, her prayers moving, her life recognized as a saint in the Sufi tradition. Rabia spent her life suffering as a contemplative mystic, faithful to her faith through the exploitation of her sexuality.In the introduction to her section of poems in the book, the translator Daniel Ladinsky concludes with this quote from her writings,

“Show me where it hurts, God said, and every cell in my body burst into tears before His tender eyes. He has repaid me though for all my suffering in a way I never wanted: The sun is now in homage to my face, because it knows I have seen God. But that was not His payment. The soul cannot describe His gift. I just spoke about the sun like that because I like beautiful words, and because it’s true: Creation is in homage to use.”

'three forest sprouts'

Beauty is Useless

Beauty is as useless as

flowers on the kitchen table

as kindness and weeding a garden

wine after dinner, hugs and dressing up for church

Beauty is as useless as

the intricately carved porches in the Romanian countryside

as making a home, giving a child a toy, and singing four part harmony

a sunset, silence, old people, and monks

Beauty is as useless as

wonder and standing in awe of spring

as mourning a miscarried child and thinking on history

and looking into the eyes of one sentenced to death

Beauty is as useless as

quiet country life, as being at home, or writing poetry

as flowers for the dead, hermits, and desert wanderers

gratitude, sharing, contentment, and making peace with your spouse

Beauty is as worthless as

a bird songs, crickets in the evening, and croaking frogs

as laughter, the wind off the ocean, or saying 'I love you'

and putting your bare feet in the creek

Beauty is as useless as

the washing of Jesus' feet with costly perfume

salt, sugar in your tea, as grieving or dancing

giving time to a street kid or cleaning a child's head of lice

Beauty is as useless as

wild flowers which wither immediately after picking them

as making your bed, visiting prisoners, time waiting for the bus

caring for the severely handicapped

Beauty is as useless as

giving gifts which cannot be reciprocated or remembering the dead

caring for an aging parent, as celebration

thanksgiving, birthday parties or your favorite old shirt

Beauty is as useless as

life at the bottom of the ocean and invisible molecular movement

as astronomy, theoretical mathematics, or dressing up for a date

as a fruit tree with forbidden fruit, contemplation, or fasting

Beauty is as useless as

a necklace handed down from grandmother to granddaughter

as purity of heart, humility, taking a shower, putting on deodorant

holding hands while walking or the moments before you fall asleep

Beauty is as worthless

as a life which is only a breath

"He has made everything beautiful in its time" Ecclesiastes 3:11

Beauty is as useless

as the beloved is overcome

with the opened gift in her hands

(This watercolor and the meditation below were done during our communities recent retreat in the mountains in Romania. )

(this photo was taken by by George D. who writes on Din si Despre Galati of a man living on the streets)

(the photo reminded me of this old poem I wrote after seeing a man like this rocking himself in the train station waiting for something)

He rocks and sways
Sucks and blows white milky smoke
Cradled in a crux of concrete
Comforted by a flame in his fingers

We rock and sway
At each blow we stretch by yellow fields
Cradled in steel grooves
And fight sleep with black potions

He closes his eyes
For his mother to arise
Or a friend or a phantom
To make good the promise

Open they wrinkle and curl
They worry and flood in the night
Broken eyes see golden fields under blue
But open to wipe away the promise

So he rocks and sways
Sucks and blows white milky smoke
Religiously making the sign of the promise
Of yellow, blue, of cradling and being cradled

This is another photo taken by Robin Fowler on their trip into Moldova. Below is a poem written by April Folkertsma on the ride.


I Can't Do Anything with this Dark

It's a quarter to 4 a.m.
And I can't do anything with this dark,
sleep, read, pray.
I can see only as far as the bus headlights illuminate,
along a bumpy Moldovan road,
On my way to Chisinau for clarification
or further vision.

My fellow travelers sleep
and I am asleep-awake in the twilight
world of jetlag.
This road leads past the lives of the living poor
whose barren vineyards are eery shadows-
appartitions who trail us, me, mile after mile
in this dark,
and I can't do anything

A fog settles in and not even headlights
are enought to cut through what I cannot see,
along a bumpy Moldovan road
on my way to Chisinau.
The fog breaks
The bumps increase,
We turn a corner
and I find I still can't do anything with this dark.

We pass a man walking in the night
and I wonder where he is going all alone,
so late, so early, without a light.
Perhaps he knows what to do with the dark,
and that is nothing more than go straight.
"Go straight," I hear him say as we speed by,
Our lights catching his eyes reflection,
illuminating. "Go straight," he whispers.
I catch a gleam of his life, and
breathe deeply the beauty of this,
a night when I could do nothing.

Straight line is a box

A period confining a tiger

In a pen too small

It is a dividing point

Like a fence in the ocean

Or a sword through a woman

In a magic show

The hard straight line

Is an attempt at power over life

To contain and quantify the sublime

The holy, the beautiful

The line may be drawn

But only tolerated in our

Sense of mystery is

Obliterated and we are content

With caricatures of life

The straight line is an idol

Blocking journey into God

I recently found this watercolor and poem in a stack on a shelf in my studio. It is made with slow blind contours of grape vines and blind water color splotches over it making the pen bleed all over. The bleeding pen irritated me but now it is a nice reminder of the experience of that day.

I was really inspired by Joel's workshop at the staff retreat and have been writing some haiku as he recommended. it's been a really fun way to relax and practice writing for the pure no-pressure enjoyment of it:

ouch
sprain iced with veggies
pebbly potatoes dig in
wish for peas instead

street cleaner
municipal brush
roves, picks up roadkill, rocks, butts;
stop following me

from where i sit
expired light strings
cobra-choke iron railing;
dead footrest cools skin

this morning, i wrote a pageful of any word that came to mind, then tried to use as many of the words as i could in a poem:

Ramshakle rickshaws sit,
Scarecrowed outside Anousha’s bistro
A table of tourists—patsies—bow their shorn, bulbed craniums,
ponder a succulent crumb underfoot
and count the seconds until it is pummeled by
her squatty, asterisk broom.

--and--

Blistered stitches of rug
attempt to dry in the storm
Shorn edges coagulate,
Bulbed with strems of rain

the rug poem made 'sense' to me because i am drying rugs on my balcony and it rained last night. i've found that because i usually journal/read/write on my fire escape, much writing content takes place in that setting. the first poem would have never come out without my from-within word prompts, providing a change of scenery that i wouldn't have imagined otherwise.

incidentally, quite a few of the words that came out on my brainstorm page were nonsensical or combinations of other words: bulbed, prantalot, strem, rixal, agrizement. could be fun to incorporate made up words into poetry, huh?

A Reading Of Ezekiel

I tried to leave my place but again I found myself
caught in the chill of the night behind my desk, reading,
taking a trip through the Lebanese trees—making my way
through the midnight fog and cooled sand of Ezekiel's poems,
through the forgotten language of laments and prophets,
shepherds and ancient cities. This somehow made my mind
burst into flame for hours until I had to shut off the lamp
and walk to bed. Yet even while I took off my clothes and slid in
under the sheets, I inhaled the thought of a life to come
that would not only be observed but smelled and heard,
becoming more than it ever has been,
bones becoming flesh.

recent poem by Josh Fowler now living in Romania

the sunflower has grown
old leaves warped
bloated, head cast down
cloves that held up wide

yellow masses now thorns
towards the ground
crowning the massive head
what pride what arrogance

high, bright, bigger than all
flowers plants wide veins
pumping water to the
shower head spraying yellow

your seeds are bird eaten
your petals ground under
with the grand show over
you bow deep with closed eyes

you turned the sun to seed
who shall find you guilty now
of ego pride and greed
you poured out all you could gather

your power not wasted in you
but carries life through winter
into the next year, the next life
another day for extending us into the sun”

-5 September 2006-