Originally aired: Sunday 10 June through Sunday 12 August 2007

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    Study Of Loneliness

    A guardian of long-distance conduits in the desert?
    A one-man crew of a fortress in the sand?
    Whoever he was. At dawn he saw furrowed mountains
    The color of ashes, above the melting darkness,
    Saturated with violet, breaking into fluid rouge,
    Till they stood, immense, in the orange light.
    Day after day. And, before he noticed, year after year.
    For whom, he thought, that splendor? For me alone?
    Yet it will be here long after I perish.
    What is it in the eye of a lizard? Or when seen by a migrant bird?
    If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
    And he knew there was no use crying out, for none of them would save him.

    Czeslaw Milosz



    My Name

    Once when the lawn was a golden green
    and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials
    in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed
    with the chirr and murmur of insects, I lay in the grass,
    feeling the great distances open above me, and wondered
    what I would become and where I would find myself,
    and though I barely existed, I felt for an instant
    that the vast star-clustered sky was mine, and I heard
    my name as if for the first time, heard it the way
    one hears the wind or the rain, but faint and far off
    as though it belonged not to me but to the silence
    from which it had come and to which it would go.

    Mark Strand



    from The Dreams of Chang

    “For, were all these Buddhas of yours more foolish than
    you and I? And yet, just you listen to what they say
    about this love of the universe and all things corporeal,
    beginning with sunlight, with a wave, with the air, and
    winding up with woman, with an infant, with the scent
    of white acacia! Or else, — do you know what sort of a
    thing this Tao is, that has been thought up by nobody
    else but you Chinamen? I know it but poorly myself,
    brother, but then, everybody knows it poorly; but, as
    far as it is possible to understand it, just what is it, after
    all? The Abyss, our First Mother; She gives birth to all
    things that exist in this universe, and She devours them
    as well, and, devouring them, gives birth to them anew;
    or, to put it in other words, It is the Path of all that ex-
    ists, which nothing that exists may resist. But we resist
    It every minute; every minute we want to turn to our
    desire not only the soul of a beloved woman, let us say,
    but even the entire universe as well! It is an eerie thing
    to be living in this world, Chang,” said the captain; “it’s
    a most pleasant thing, but still an eerie one, and espe-
    cially for such as I! For I am too avid of happiness, and
    all too often do I lose the way: dark and evil is this
    Path, — or is it entirely, entirely otherwise?”
    And, after a silence, he added further:
    “For after all, what is the main thing? When you
    love somebody, there is no power on earth that can make
    you believe that the one you love can possibly not love
    you. And that is just where the devil comes in, Chang.
    But how magnificent life is; my God, how magnificent!”

    –Ivan Bunin
    translated by Bernard Guilbert Guerney



    “When the world is burning, I seize up and go inward. I don’t speak soon. I get quiet. I watch. I read the words of outrage and heart break and confusion and reflex. I wonder why assault rifles are a thing. I think of the gay clubs I’ve danced in, laughing in the safety of music and friends. I think of how safe I always feel. How easy it is to die. How easy it is to kill. I am not a protestor, a shouter. I am not a fighter. I would die quickly in a war. I would watch my killer with a steady gaze and ask him why. He wouldn’t answer me.
        I am glad the white-blood cells of humanity spring forth like grass after the first rain. The way human beings support each other after tragedy is a reminder of how dominant goodness is. How unusual cruelty. I’ve been in the mountains. I’ve watched the river. It’s high right now and has knocked down trees. Those trees are dead. Why? Because of a million tiny drops of rain that never knew the tree added up and tore down the bank. The dreams of the tree are gone. The unthinking water is rushing. The world is too big for me. The hurt of some people, the things that happen to hurt people’s minds that turn them cold and deadly. The accruing of darkness. The kindness we could’ve shown, earlier. The world is too big for me”.

    glassofwhiskey – @jedidiahjenkins


    Come Back to Tell Us

    Dusk in August—
    which means nearly
    nine o’clock here, deep
    in the heart of central
    Jersey—and the deer
    step out to graze
    the backyards. They tear
    each yellowy red
    tulip cup, munch up
    and azaleas. Fifty
    years of new houses
    have eaten into
    their woodland, leaving
    only this narrow strip
    of trees along the trickly
    stream that zigzags
    between Route 9
    and Lily’s mom’s
    backyard. The deer rise
    from the mist, hooves
    clicking on asphalt, a doe
    and a buck, his antlers
    like a chandelier.
    Sometimes a doe and two
    fawns. Or else we see
    just the white flags
    of their tails bobbing away
    into the dark. In theory
    the DNR should come
    catch them, let them go
    where it’s still
    forest, still possible to live
    as they were meant to.
    But these days
    there’s no money
    for that. And people keep
    leaving out old bread,
    rice, stale cookies, or else
    plant more delicious flowers.
    “Mei banfa,”
    my mother-in-law says:
    Nothing can be done.
    Seeing them in
    the distance—that distance
    we can’t close
    without them shying
    and turning and skittering
    down Dickinson Lane
    or bounding
    over a backyard fence—
    I try to imagine
    they’re messengers
    come back to tell us
    their stories, any news
    of the lost or what
    comes next, though
    if they could say
    anything, they would
    probably say, Go away.
    –Matthew Thorburn




    It waits. While I am walking through the pine trees
    along the river, it is waiting. It has waited a long time.
    In southern France, in Belgium, and even Alabama.
    Now it waits in New England while I say grace over
    almost everything: for a possum dead on someone’s lawn,
    the single light on a levee while Northampton sleeps,
    and because the lanes between houses in Greek hamlets
    are exactly the width of a donkey loaded on each side
    with barley. Loneliness is the mother’s milk of America.
    The heart is a foreign country whose language none
    of us is good at.Winter lingers on in the woods,
    but already it looks discarded as the birds return
    and sing carelessly; as though there never was the power
    or size of December. For nine years in me it has waited.
    My life is pleasant, as usual. My body is a blessing
    and my spirit clear. But the waiting does not let up.

    –Jack Gilbert


    Lily B

    Spiritual Guides

    © Terrie Brushette

    Published on January 2008

    Who are they, what do they do?
    Where do they come from, are they for me and you?
    What do they look like, how do they sound?
    Where do you keep them, where are they found?

    Can you hear them, see them, touch them
    How long do they stay?
    Maybe a year, a week or just even a day

    Questions you ask of them you see
    They are here to help us you and me
    To guide and love us through all our years
    Keeping away darkness and negative fears

    But to find one yourself there’s little to do
    Just relax and listen to the true you
    The little word or thought in your head
    Is it a guide or something you read

    My guess is with little effort and care
    Your going on a journey so be prepared
    To a wonderful place that’s hard to have foreseen
    Where your guides are and have always been

    Talk to them and listen with ease
    To what they say you will be pleased
    So now you know your questions fulfilled
    Because you took the time your mind you stilled

    It doesn’t take much, just a few minutes a day
    To meet your guides who have something to say
    Words of great wisdom given with love
    To spread round the world from up above




                        Let me look at those eyes.
                          I want to know how you are.
                —Rainer W. Fassbinder

    Look. May has come in.
    It’s strewn those blue eyes all over the harbor.
    Come, I haven’t had word of you in ages.
    You’re constantly terrified,
    Like the kittens we drowned when we were little.
    Come and we’ll talk over all of the old same things,
    The value of being pleasant,
    The need to adjust to the doubts,
    How to fill the holes we’ve got inside us.
    Come, feel the morning reaching your face,
    Whenever we’re saddened everything looks dark,
    When we’re heartened, again, the world crumbles.
    Every one of us keeps forever someone else’s hidden side,
    If it’s a secret, if a mistake, if a gesture.
    Come and we’ll flay the winners,
    Laughing at our self leapt off the bridgeway.
    We’ll watch the cranes at work in the port in silence,
    The gift for being together in silence being
    The principal proof of friendship.
    Come with me, I want to change nations,
    Change towns. Leave this body aside
    And go into a shell with you,
    With our smallness, like sea snails.
    Come, I’m waiting for you,
    We’ll continue the story that ended a year ago,
    As if inside the white birches next to the river
    Not a single additional ring had grown.

    –Kirmen Uribe
    translated by Elizabeth Macklin



    A Clear Midnight

    This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the


    Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the

            lesson done,

    Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering

            the themes thou loves best,

    Night, sleep, death and the stars.

    –Walt Whitman


    Lily B

    Once Upon a Summer’s Eve

    I had a dream one sultry summer’s eve
    A vision as the sun began to wane
    An angel weeping made my soul to grieve
    I clearly sensed his sadness and his pain

    With teary eyes I asked him what was wrong
    And was there anything that I could do
    His words to me were spoken in a song
    I came to understand his point of view

    He told me he’d been watching from on high
    So many people fighting down below
    Why couldn’t they make peace, he wondered why
    If only they would try, true love would flow

    I slept that night uneasy and in prayer
    Will anyone who reads this even care

    The Seeker

    Yes I care! I to wish the family of man would play nice in God’s garden. Keep the faith this world is a classroom in which we sometimes make mistakes. One day we all will get it right.
    Imagine what that would look like.

    Lily B

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