Poetry
Other poems by Fr. Paul:
Zoe without clothes
When as in velvet Zoe goes,
Then, then I think how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of no clothes!
Next, when I cast my eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free--
O how that slithering taketh me!
23 Feb 2020
Wm. P. McKane
For Robert Herrick (d 1674)
When as in velvet Zoe goes,
Then, then I think how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of no clothes!
Next, when I cast my eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free--
O how that slithering taketh me!
23 Feb 2020
Wm. P. McKane
For Robert Herrick (d 1674)
Out the window
What was glimpsed out my window, I barely know,
Or do not know at all. A moment’s image, nothing more.
Did it knock on my door? It did not enter,
For the door remained unopened, firmly closed.
I’ve wondered what it was I saw without seeing,
But I cannot recover the memory. It’s gone.
Why look for what cannot be seen or known?
Whatever it was or was not, it fascinated me.
Fascinated perhaps. It was checked too quickly
Even to know how it might make me respond.
Far more will remain unknown in life, than what is known.
Even that strange grimace perplexes me.
—Wm. P. McKane
13 Feb 2020
What was glimpsed out my window, I barely know,
Or do not know at all. A moment’s image, nothing more.
Did it knock on my door? It did not enter,
For the door remained unopened, firmly closed.
I’ve wondered what it was I saw without seeing,
But I cannot recover the memory. It’s gone.
Why look for what cannot be seen or known?
Whatever it was or was not, it fascinated me.
Fascinated perhaps. It was checked too quickly
Even to know how it might make me respond.
Far more will remain unknown in life, than what is known.
Even that strange grimace perplexes me.
—Wm. P. McKane
13 Feb 2020
Song of an old man unknowingly
I am homeless unknowingness in the ocean-sky of everything
Never have I known a rock that is not floating somewhere
Why it flows in flows out and back again I do not know
Somewhere between the earth below and the starry skies above
Am I now at home in unknowing or merely passing through a town
Somewhere, a town without lights or streets or stores
I do not know do you? Perhaps no one knows only pretendingly
Knowing is a fool’s game after all, but is not unknowing too?
Time I do not know you time before and time after and now
No time I do not know you either no time at all
Space perplexes every fiber of my being non-being
Here or there or nowhere perhaps everywhere
No space no place to call my own for there is no own anymore
All that has come in goes out again sometimes returning
Sometimes never seen again what was that anyway?
Whatever it was it was only for a moment the briefest moment
Is life waiting to break forth from beneath the snows
Or is there no life there under the ground we do not know
I am pulled with the pulling here there and nowhere endlessly
And yet only for a few moments brief moments solitude nothing
Tired ever tired dimly awake and dimly asleep passing away
Whether awake or asleep or somewhere in between I do not know
Am I here now or was I here or even not here at all?
I am homeless unknowingness in the ocean sky of everything.
Wm. Paul McKane
13 Feb 2020
I am homeless unknowingness in the ocean-sky of everything
Never have I known a rock that is not floating somewhere
Why it flows in flows out and back again I do not know
Somewhere between the earth below and the starry skies above
Am I now at home in unknowing or merely passing through a town
Somewhere, a town without lights or streets or stores
I do not know do you? Perhaps no one knows only pretendingly
Knowing is a fool’s game after all, but is not unknowing too?
Time I do not know you time before and time after and now
No time I do not know you either no time at all
Space perplexes every fiber of my being non-being
Here or there or nowhere perhaps everywhere
No space no place to call my own for there is no own anymore
All that has come in goes out again sometimes returning
Sometimes never seen again what was that anyway?
Whatever it was it was only for a moment the briefest moment
Is life waiting to break forth from beneath the snows
Or is there no life there under the ground we do not know
I am pulled with the pulling here there and nowhere endlessly
And yet only for a few moments brief moments solitude nothing
Tired ever tired dimly awake and dimly asleep passing away
Whether awake or asleep or somewhere in between I do not know
Am I here now or was I here or even not here at all?
I am homeless unknowingness in the ocean sky of everything.
Wm. Paul McKane
13 Feb 2020
Tales from the North Pacific
Most unusually, the title came first, during a dream last night.
Years ago I experienced a powerful storm on the North Pacific,
Sailing with Marines on the U.S.S. Dubuque (called “the de puke”)
Heading from White Beach, Okinawa, to Yokosuka, Japan.
That storm left a vivid impression and recurring images in my mind:
Strong winds and huge waves that dwarfed our ship that pitched and rolled,
As did my stomach that could keep nothing down, not even water.
After a torturous night, bioluminescence appeared on the waves
As we approached Honshu, with Fujiyama displayed in glory
Tinged by rosy-fingered dawn before the rising sun brightened the world,
And dolphins played in the waves cut by the slow-moving ship:
Now sailing delightfully peacefully on the North Pacific.
I was awakened this morning at 0230 when my iPad’s alarm
Played for me Schubert’s setting of Goethe’s “Wanderers Nachtlied,”
And I could consciously feel the peace in the music, and in my soul:
A sense of having passed through a storm in our friendship.
I slept well during the night, feeling gratitude for reconciliation
Rather than a break, or necessitated and chosen time apart.
Ease was registered as I stood at full attention after the day’s tension.
In a dream she adjusted her bra strap, and proceeded to explain why.
When Schubert woke me, shadows on the bedroom ceiling and walls
Reminded me of a Fritz Lang Expressionist movie set.
Although I felt tired after several nights of poor and little sleep,
Peace and gratitude filled my soul: a good friendship preserved and deepened
For we had passed through an unexpected and disturbing storm
As we sailed together like two Marines on the North Pacific.
As sleep faded, I realized that the one I take as a model of a good man
Had said enough to calm our waters, returning harmony between and within.
Wm. Paul McKane
06 Feb 2020 St. Paul Miki and Companions
Most unusually, the title came first, during a dream last night.
Years ago I experienced a powerful storm on the North Pacific,
Sailing with Marines on the U.S.S. Dubuque (called “the de puke”)
Heading from White Beach, Okinawa, to Yokosuka, Japan.
That storm left a vivid impression and recurring images in my mind:
Strong winds and huge waves that dwarfed our ship that pitched and rolled,
As did my stomach that could keep nothing down, not even water.
After a torturous night, bioluminescence appeared on the waves
As we approached Honshu, with Fujiyama displayed in glory
Tinged by rosy-fingered dawn before the rising sun brightened the world,
And dolphins played in the waves cut by the slow-moving ship:
Now sailing delightfully peacefully on the North Pacific.
I was awakened this morning at 0230 when my iPad’s alarm
Played for me Schubert’s setting of Goethe’s “Wanderers Nachtlied,”
And I could consciously feel the peace in the music, and in my soul:
A sense of having passed through a storm in our friendship.
I slept well during the night, feeling gratitude for reconciliation
Rather than a break, or necessitated and chosen time apart.
Ease was registered as I stood at full attention after the day’s tension.
In a dream she adjusted her bra strap, and proceeded to explain why.
When Schubert woke me, shadows on the bedroom ceiling and walls
Reminded me of a Fritz Lang Expressionist movie set.
Although I felt tired after several nights of poor and little sleep,
Peace and gratitude filled my soul: a good friendship preserved and deepened
For we had passed through an unexpected and disturbing storm
As we sailed together like two Marines on the North Pacific.
As sleep faded, I realized that the one I take as a model of a good man
Had said enough to calm our waters, returning harmony between and within.
Wm. Paul McKane
06 Feb 2020 St. Paul Miki and Companions
Morning Thoughts
(03 Feb 2020)
Restore to your mind tranquility,
And savor what every moment brings.
You’ve feasted with the winged one enough for now,
Desires easily fed by what they feed on.
Be grateful that your heart’s alive,
The season for mountain climbing has arrived.
New adventures perhaps not yet imagined await.
Do not turn again to the waste and void within,
Nor bootlessly mourn your outcast state,
For you are not outcast, unwanted, nor really alone.
Just observe how images just rise up in memory!
The time will come when you will meet again,
And hear the voice, behold the form,
That helped to launch a thousand ships.
You do not know yet whom you shall encounter
Today or tomorrow along life’s winding, little way,
Or which friends of yesterday will step into today.
Seek now to become worthy of a good man’s love--
Be wholesome in thoughts, enrich your mind,
And nurture your spirit on the best that you can find.
Treasure these moments of solitude
With a lovely Haydn largo cantabile (Op. 76),
And the dogs resting quietly on their beds.
How precious these minutes given to you now,
Free from pressing cares, from duties to perform,
Free to sit quietly alone beneath a masked night sky,
Free to think, to remember, and to write.
What has sparked your recent outpouring in words?
Is it not solitude, and quiet, and retirement from public duties?
Is it not also awareness that your life here is ending--
Time to question the destiny of your mind, your soul?
Friendships renewed from years long past have awakened you;
And so too has the little wingèd god who loves to tease,
Even as images again rise into consciousness.
Gratitude comes easily and abides in your heart these days:
Thankful for all that has occurred in your life, good and ill;
Thankful for challenges that arise unexpectedly,
And thankful that someone tends the new wood stove,
And most thankful that even when alone you are not lonely,
For your blest state, “like to the lark at break of day arising,
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate.”
Wm. P. McKane
03 Feb 2020
(03 Feb 2020)
Restore to your mind tranquility,
And savor what every moment brings.
You’ve feasted with the winged one enough for now,
Desires easily fed by what they feed on.
Be grateful that your heart’s alive,
The season for mountain climbing has arrived.
New adventures perhaps not yet imagined await.
Do not turn again to the waste and void within,
Nor bootlessly mourn your outcast state,
For you are not outcast, unwanted, nor really alone.
Just observe how images just rise up in memory!
The time will come when you will meet again,
And hear the voice, behold the form,
That helped to launch a thousand ships.
You do not know yet whom you shall encounter
Today or tomorrow along life’s winding, little way,
Or which friends of yesterday will step into today.
Seek now to become worthy of a good man’s love--
Be wholesome in thoughts, enrich your mind,
And nurture your spirit on the best that you can find.
Treasure these moments of solitude
With a lovely Haydn largo cantabile (Op. 76),
And the dogs resting quietly on their beds.
How precious these minutes given to you now,
Free from pressing cares, from duties to perform,
Free to sit quietly alone beneath a masked night sky,
Free to think, to remember, and to write.
What has sparked your recent outpouring in words?
Is it not solitude, and quiet, and retirement from public duties?
Is it not also awareness that your life here is ending--
Time to question the destiny of your mind, your soul?
Friendships renewed from years long past have awakened you;
And so too has the little wingèd god who loves to tease,
Even as images again rise into consciousness.
Gratitude comes easily and abides in your heart these days:
Thankful for all that has occurred in your life, good and ill;
Thankful for challenges that arise unexpectedly,
And thankful that someone tends the new wood stove,
And most thankful that even when alone you are not lonely,
For your blest state, “like to the lark at break of day arising,
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate.”
Wm. P. McKane
03 Feb 2020
More than a Friend
The friend mentioned in some of my poems is not as real as I would wish.
It seems as though a composite form emerged within my mind,
And soon became enfleshed in black and white
As I would write a little poem upon an empty page.
The one behind the “friend” differs from anything I have written;
No words of mine can do justice to this nameless one.
And this much I also firmly believe: what dwells behind my words is more real--
You are more real, more intimate, and more worthy of respect--
Than anything I could possibly put into words.
“Who are you?” I asked you, out of wonder and ignorance.
I’ve known from our first meeting—as with any being, really--
That you transcend my limited understanding.
I’ve also intuited from our beginning that in seeing you,
I’m gazing into the darkly mysterious depths of God.
I’ve known that truth intuitively since that first moment
When I descended the stairs, and you were there,
Eyes meeting eyes and completing some strange spiritual circuit
As if God were responding to God in two human beings.
You remain a mystery to me, and perhaps so now more than at first.
On some levels, in some ways, you may be ordinary,
Or enough so that you can fairly well disappear into a crowd.
But not to my eyes that track you, for I have seen within you
What many others have probably never seen, perhaps could not.
The fundamental response of my soul to you may differ from love.
You are not comfortable, are you, with such words as “I love you,”
For which you have your reasons, your history, your charming ways.
In no way do I take offense at your reluctance to hear such words.
We both may inchoately sense that such words are imprecise.
What I really intend, but probably have never said, is stranger.
Perhaps the best that I can presently do in expressing
What I think and feel about you is this: I am in awe before you.
Possibly not unlike Moses at the burning bush on Mount Sinai,
Or Christ’s inner band of disciples on the Mount of Transfiguration.
I am awed and filled with wonder and joy by what I experience in you.
If I concentrate on this experience, my soul or body may begin to tremble,
Or tears inexplicably flow from these old eyes unused to crying.
Whether you know it or not, I cannot tell, but I’ll share this truth:
When I behold your face, or form, or hand, or hear your voice,
Then my heart or soul or something softens and melts within me--
My soul is stripped, laid bare; and I am defenseless before you.
Some may call it “infatuation,” or “being in love,” or “being emotional."
I think that it is more like reverence before the presence of God.
And then some might call my feeling for you “idolatrous.” Why label it so?
I have implored you to be with me as I draw near to death. Why?
Because you are the most intimate and tangible link I have to the living God.
Blest is my soul, not cursed, but supremely blest, to find in you
An ever-living sacrament of the world-transcending God.
Will this sense of awe and reverence for you fade with time?
I hope that it will wax, not wane; for this gift is life-changing, and delightful.
But with this gift I stand divinely warned: If in any way I violate the sacred bonds
In your life, and in mine, God’s special gift to me would vanish.
I must allow no thought, no wish, no hope, to mar what is truly holy.
You are not my spouse, nor lover, and something different than a friend.
You are one in Christ through whom God is transforming me.
—Wm. Paul McKane, OSB
31 January 2020
The friend mentioned in some of my poems is not as real as I would wish.
It seems as though a composite form emerged within my mind,
And soon became enfleshed in black and white
As I would write a little poem upon an empty page.
The one behind the “friend” differs from anything I have written;
No words of mine can do justice to this nameless one.
And this much I also firmly believe: what dwells behind my words is more real--
You are more real, more intimate, and more worthy of respect--
Than anything I could possibly put into words.
“Who are you?” I asked you, out of wonder and ignorance.
I’ve known from our first meeting—as with any being, really--
That you transcend my limited understanding.
I’ve also intuited from our beginning that in seeing you,
I’m gazing into the darkly mysterious depths of God.
I’ve known that truth intuitively since that first moment
When I descended the stairs, and you were there,
Eyes meeting eyes and completing some strange spiritual circuit
As if God were responding to God in two human beings.
You remain a mystery to me, and perhaps so now more than at first.
On some levels, in some ways, you may be ordinary,
Or enough so that you can fairly well disappear into a crowd.
But not to my eyes that track you, for I have seen within you
What many others have probably never seen, perhaps could not.
The fundamental response of my soul to you may differ from love.
You are not comfortable, are you, with such words as “I love you,”
For which you have your reasons, your history, your charming ways.
In no way do I take offense at your reluctance to hear such words.
We both may inchoately sense that such words are imprecise.
What I really intend, but probably have never said, is stranger.
Perhaps the best that I can presently do in expressing
What I think and feel about you is this: I am in awe before you.
Possibly not unlike Moses at the burning bush on Mount Sinai,
Or Christ’s inner band of disciples on the Mount of Transfiguration.
I am awed and filled with wonder and joy by what I experience in you.
If I concentrate on this experience, my soul or body may begin to tremble,
Or tears inexplicably flow from these old eyes unused to crying.
Whether you know it or not, I cannot tell, but I’ll share this truth:
When I behold your face, or form, or hand, or hear your voice,
Then my heart or soul or something softens and melts within me--
My soul is stripped, laid bare; and I am defenseless before you.
Some may call it “infatuation,” or “being in love,” or “being emotional."
I think that it is more like reverence before the presence of God.
And then some might call my feeling for you “idolatrous.” Why label it so?
I have implored you to be with me as I draw near to death. Why?
Because you are the most intimate and tangible link I have to the living God.
Blest is my soul, not cursed, but supremely blest, to find in you
An ever-living sacrament of the world-transcending God.
Will this sense of awe and reverence for you fade with time?
I hope that it will wax, not wane; for this gift is life-changing, and delightful.
But with this gift I stand divinely warned: If in any way I violate the sacred bonds
In your life, and in mine, God’s special gift to me would vanish.
I must allow no thought, no wish, no hope, to mar what is truly holy.
You are not my spouse, nor lover, and something different than a friend.
You are one in Christ through whom God is transforming me.
—Wm. Paul McKane, OSB
31 January 2020
11 January 2020 1800
On writing. To write is to die to oneself. It is not a single or complete dying, but a partial dying, piece by piece. To write, one dies to some things in oneself: some opinions, some desires, some beliefs, some loves. The writer gives to the reader something he deems good and true. In literary writing, he shares something dear to his own heart with the reader, whom he probably never met. He shares an experience to help the unknown reader in some unexpected, unanticipated ways.
On writing. To write is to die to oneself. It is not a single or complete dying, but a partial dying, piece by piece. To write, one dies to some things in oneself: some opinions, some desires, some beliefs, some loves. The writer gives to the reader something he deems good and true. In literary writing, he shares something dear to his own heart with the reader, whom he probably never met. He shares an experience to help the unknown reader in some unexpected, unanticipated ways.
Thoughts on Prayer
“I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god…”
T.S. Eliot, “The Dry Salvages”
1
I do not know much about prayer,
Nor about God, nor gods, nor about what truly is;
Nor do I know whether or not I truly pray,
Nor to whom or what I pray, if I pray at all.
Not in the deceptively bright light of certain truth
But in the dim and flickering light of uncertain truth
Do I live and move, have and not have, my being.
Wise words I’ve long remembered from Kipling’s Kim:
“Be gentle when `the heathen’ pray,
To Buddha at Kamakura.”
Among wise words I learned from Benedictines
Come these from an English monk, John Chapman:
“Pray as you can, and do not try to pray
As you can’t.”
Often times have I been to Kamakura,
And seen the statue of the meditating Buddha.
Only once in space-time have I been to Kamakura,
In February graced by blossoming plums.
Ume open wide
In seaside Kamakura
Welcoming pilgrims
Silently Inviting them
To meet one meditating.
In autumn misty rain and fallen leaves
I came with you in a dream by night
More awake and real than many waking hours.
Tears of autumn fell
On our bare heads and faces
As we stood watching
The Buddha posed in stillness
At the center of the world.
Do I pray to the Buddha here or at Kamakura,
Or does the Buddha most gently prey on me?
The silence and the stillness of Gotama’s statue
Remain for me a model of what humanity can be,
Of what it means to be a human being
Attuned not to dreams but to reality,
Whether here or there or at Kamakura:
Sitting in stillness alert in wakefulness,
All calm at the center of the turning world
That whirls in space and time amidst the fallen leaves,
And leaves nothing but a whisper in the world,
A quiet voice heard quietly
Saying nothing, but keeping mind and body still
Whether mind or body still exist or not.
2
“Pray as you can, do not try to pray as you can’t.”
Become what you are, not what you merely wish to be.
Where can a wanderer go, that leads into the heart of mystery--
Into that which has been known-unknown as “God,”
More truly unnamed because in truth unknown?
“The Tao that can be expressed is not the Tao,”
And the god you name may eclipse the God unknown.
The true light that enlightens everyone
Coming into the womb of consciousness
Into a mind of waiting mindfulness
Alert and void of fancied expectations
A virgin empty in a world of self-fulfilling certainties
Open to receive within what cannot be given
But ever pours itself out into the waiting void.
Virgin open soul
Penetrated lovingly
Light becoming light
Unseen lover taking flesh
In the womb of consciousness.
He was certain that his book was true,
Containing within itself the whole wisdom of his God.
“What of truth beyond the confines of the page”
I asked, and he said skeptically: “Such as what?”
“The Buddha,” I replied, and suddenly
His eyes opened wide and his mouth exclaimed
In shocked and loud dismay: “Buddha!”
Is your God too small
To embrace a wanderer
Seeking inner peace
One still sitting silently
Apart from the bubble world?
O you who tread the narrow way,
Narrowed to our own long-held beliefs,
Narrowed to admit only what one knows or feels,
Confined to fit our shrunken selves
Conformed to our communal conformity ,
Treading and dancing to the tunes we pipe or sing,
Deaf to the sounds of the unseen spring.
O emptiness, o lonesome-feeling void of nothingness,
Of nothing grasped or held by clutching hands or heart;
O silent stillness still awaiting every I
A wanderer who ventures forth into the unseen abyss,
Into the hidden cleft from which the Ganges takes its source,
The invisible spring from which all and each flow forth.
Still alone I come
To what draws me to itself
Vast and unexplored
Familiar unfamiliar
Here before the rising sun.
3
There is a time to share in words long written,
Or offer words fresh-brewed in the cauldron of one’s heart;
There is a time to sit still and listen to the silence,
And a time to sing with sorrow or with joy,
Pouring out one’s heart to God or saint or people.
And there’s a time to enter nakedly into unknowing,
Or respondingly to seek what is moving one to seek.
There is a time to cook a meal that others will sit and eat;
A time to mow the hay, and feed one’s little flock,
And a time to repair or maintain machinery needed for work.
There’s a time to visit the dying, abandoned, and the sick;
To walk alone among those hidden in death’s dateless night;
A time to listen to a friend now buried in a shroud of grief;
And a time to share enlivening words to a soul in death.
Theresa found you
amidst Calcutta’s dying
You at one with them
Christ’s passion in her tending hands
Her God crushed in human form.
As a young man I visited a philosopher, and asked,
“What is the holy spirit?” And he responded to my wondering,
“What do you think is moving you to ask your questions?”
His question confirmed my way of seeking the unknown God,
Affirming the burden and the joy of heart-felt questioning.
During our lengthy conversation, he sat haloed in transfixing light,
In an experience that years of wandering have not effaced.
I do not know much about prayer,
But I wonder what prayer could possibly be
That does not include the simple act of seeing,
Of wondering what is there, of being open to receive,
Of loving the wisdom, goodness, and beauty
That are found in God and in all that’s in God.
Open your mind to see what is to be seen:
The magnolia
Blooming on a naked branch
Enticed me to gaze
And in a moment’s flash I saw
Its boundless sea of Beauty.
Without love, what could prayer be?
The lover prays in every moment’s breath,
And finds one’s beloved everywhere.
Awe-struck and held bound
Since first I beheld your eyes
Drawing this stranger
Through your open hidden heart
Into the one we both love.
Twice I’ve seen you clothed
And felt the sting of beauty
Gazing on your form.
If clothes disclose perfection,
Sheer ecstasy when unveiled!
When two speak, three are present:
Lover and Beloved and Love itself,
Mind is joined to mind, and heart to heart.
We spoke about love,
Your erotic soul alive,
Shining on your face.
“I’m in love with Socrates,”
And you mid-wifed my soul.
And what is prayer but an act of love?
Prayer is communion
Within a growing union
Lover and Beloved
One in two and two in one
Becoming one forever.
—Wm. P. McKane
14 December 2019
“I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god…”
T.S. Eliot, “The Dry Salvages”
1
I do not know much about prayer,
Nor about God, nor gods, nor about what truly is;
Nor do I know whether or not I truly pray,
Nor to whom or what I pray, if I pray at all.
Not in the deceptively bright light of certain truth
But in the dim and flickering light of uncertain truth
Do I live and move, have and not have, my being.
Wise words I’ve long remembered from Kipling’s Kim:
“Be gentle when `the heathen’ pray,
To Buddha at Kamakura.”
Among wise words I learned from Benedictines
Come these from an English monk, John Chapman:
“Pray as you can, and do not try to pray
As you can’t.”
Often times have I been to Kamakura,
And seen the statue of the meditating Buddha.
Only once in space-time have I been to Kamakura,
In February graced by blossoming plums.
Ume open wide
In seaside Kamakura
Welcoming pilgrims
Silently Inviting them
To meet one meditating.
In autumn misty rain and fallen leaves
I came with you in a dream by night
More awake and real than many waking hours.
Tears of autumn fell
On our bare heads and faces
As we stood watching
The Buddha posed in stillness
At the center of the world.
Do I pray to the Buddha here or at Kamakura,
Or does the Buddha most gently prey on me?
The silence and the stillness of Gotama’s statue
Remain for me a model of what humanity can be,
Of what it means to be a human being
Attuned not to dreams but to reality,
Whether here or there or at Kamakura:
Sitting in stillness alert in wakefulness,
All calm at the center of the turning world
That whirls in space and time amidst the fallen leaves,
And leaves nothing but a whisper in the world,
A quiet voice heard quietly
Saying nothing, but keeping mind and body still
Whether mind or body still exist or not.
2
“Pray as you can, do not try to pray as you can’t.”
Become what you are, not what you merely wish to be.
Where can a wanderer go, that leads into the heart of mystery--
Into that which has been known-unknown as “God,”
More truly unnamed because in truth unknown?
“The Tao that can be expressed is not the Tao,”
And the god you name may eclipse the God unknown.
The true light that enlightens everyone
Coming into the womb of consciousness
Into a mind of waiting mindfulness
Alert and void of fancied expectations
A virgin empty in a world of self-fulfilling certainties
Open to receive within what cannot be given
But ever pours itself out into the waiting void.
Virgin open soul
Penetrated lovingly
Light becoming light
Unseen lover taking flesh
In the womb of consciousness.
He was certain that his book was true,
Containing within itself the whole wisdom of his God.
“What of truth beyond the confines of the page”
I asked, and he said skeptically: “Such as what?”
“The Buddha,” I replied, and suddenly
His eyes opened wide and his mouth exclaimed
In shocked and loud dismay: “Buddha!”
Is your God too small
To embrace a wanderer
Seeking inner peace
One still sitting silently
Apart from the bubble world?
O you who tread the narrow way,
Narrowed to our own long-held beliefs,
Narrowed to admit only what one knows or feels,
Confined to fit our shrunken selves
Conformed to our communal conformity ,
Treading and dancing to the tunes we pipe or sing,
Deaf to the sounds of the unseen spring.
O emptiness, o lonesome-feeling void of nothingness,
Of nothing grasped or held by clutching hands or heart;
O silent stillness still awaiting every I
A wanderer who ventures forth into the unseen abyss,
Into the hidden cleft from which the Ganges takes its source,
The invisible spring from which all and each flow forth.
Still alone I come
To what draws me to itself
Vast and unexplored
Familiar unfamiliar
Here before the rising sun.
3
There is a time to share in words long written,
Or offer words fresh-brewed in the cauldron of one’s heart;
There is a time to sit still and listen to the silence,
And a time to sing with sorrow or with joy,
Pouring out one’s heart to God or saint or people.
And there’s a time to enter nakedly into unknowing,
Or respondingly to seek what is moving one to seek.
There is a time to cook a meal that others will sit and eat;
A time to mow the hay, and feed one’s little flock,
And a time to repair or maintain machinery needed for work.
There’s a time to visit the dying, abandoned, and the sick;
To walk alone among those hidden in death’s dateless night;
A time to listen to a friend now buried in a shroud of grief;
And a time to share enlivening words to a soul in death.
Theresa found you
amidst Calcutta’s dying
You at one with them
Christ’s passion in her tending hands
Her God crushed in human form.
As a young man I visited a philosopher, and asked,
“What is the holy spirit?” And he responded to my wondering,
“What do you think is moving you to ask your questions?”
His question confirmed my way of seeking the unknown God,
Affirming the burden and the joy of heart-felt questioning.
During our lengthy conversation, he sat haloed in transfixing light,
In an experience that years of wandering have not effaced.
I do not know much about prayer,
But I wonder what prayer could possibly be
That does not include the simple act of seeing,
Of wondering what is there, of being open to receive,
Of loving the wisdom, goodness, and beauty
That are found in God and in all that’s in God.
Open your mind to see what is to be seen:
The magnolia
Blooming on a naked branch
Enticed me to gaze
And in a moment’s flash I saw
Its boundless sea of Beauty.
Without love, what could prayer be?
The lover prays in every moment’s breath,
And finds one’s beloved everywhere.
Awe-struck and held bound
Since first I beheld your eyes
Drawing this stranger
Through your open hidden heart
Into the one we both love.
Twice I’ve seen you clothed
And felt the sting of beauty
Gazing on your form.
If clothes disclose perfection,
Sheer ecstasy when unveiled!
When two speak, three are present:
Lover and Beloved and Love itself,
Mind is joined to mind, and heart to heart.
We spoke about love,
Your erotic soul alive,
Shining on your face.
“I’m in love with Socrates,”
And you mid-wifed my soul.
And what is prayer but an act of love?
Prayer is communion
Within a growing union
Lover and Beloved
One in two and two in one
Becoming one forever.
—Wm. P. McKane
14 December 2019
12 Dec 2019 Our Lady of Guadalupe
The silent call
Not all questions are good or fitting,
Not all to be asked as they arise.
Am I right to question the silent stirring
I often feel in my heart or consciousness,
Sometime between my rising and the dawn,
Often lasting for a few hours, or until
I turn the gaze of my mind towards “God?”
What is it I feel or sense as from within me?
I have called it a drawing, a pull, a sense
That I need to direct my mind within or without
(I do not know the most apt word for nowhere)
Towards or within the unknown mystery
That by convention has long been called “God.”
A nudging is felt within my mind or soul--
Gently pulled or drawn or called to turn toward
What I do not know, but long to know,
And do not love as I sense I should.
So is it “guilt” that moves me so?
Questioning the movement to turn toward,
To let go of all that is now at hand
To enter into a silent unseeing quest
Seems to dull or still the silent call.
Is it too late now for me to turn?
Have my questions drowned the silent call?
Why do I now hear or feel no draw within?
The oak clock ticks, and that is all
I hear or know.
I cease and wait in silence.
Wm. P. McKane
12 December 2019
The silent call
Not all questions are good or fitting,
Not all to be asked as they arise.
Am I right to question the silent stirring
I often feel in my heart or consciousness,
Sometime between my rising and the dawn,
Often lasting for a few hours, or until
I turn the gaze of my mind towards “God?”
What is it I feel or sense as from within me?
I have called it a drawing, a pull, a sense
That I need to direct my mind within or without
(I do not know the most apt word for nowhere)
Towards or within the unknown mystery
That by convention has long been called “God.”
A nudging is felt within my mind or soul--
Gently pulled or drawn or called to turn toward
What I do not know, but long to know,
And do not love as I sense I should.
So is it “guilt” that moves me so?
Questioning the movement to turn toward,
To let go of all that is now at hand
To enter into a silent unseeing quest
Seems to dull or still the silent call.
Is it too late now for me to turn?
Have my questions drowned the silent call?
Why do I now hear or feel no draw within?
The oak clock ticks, and that is all
I hear or know.
I cease and wait in silence.
Wm. P. McKane
12 December 2019
In Thanksgiving
For time and health and loving friends,
A place to live and nourish,
Moments of Beauty’s breaking in,
Memories of good things shared,
A heart at peace and spirits lifted,
Gratitude for what’s received and given,
Hope for what still lies ahead,
Sudden insights, unanswered questions,
Desires ordered by nature’s bounds,
And you to share life’s mysteries.
Wm. Paul McKane
10 Dec 2019
For time and health and loving friends,
A place to live and nourish,
Moments of Beauty’s breaking in,
Memories of good things shared,
A heart at peace and spirits lifted,
Gratitude for what’s received and given,
Hope for what still lies ahead,
Sudden insights, unanswered questions,
Desires ordered by nature’s bounds,
And you to share life’s mysteries.
Wm. Paul McKane
10 Dec 2019
A morning adventure
Time past and present, possibly time to come,
A moment given to a seeming-being:
A moment rich in possibilities,
And richer than a mind can comprehend.
Conscious now before the breaking of the day,
Conscious of air that flows within-without,
And of the clock still ticking steadily,
Of sounds that come and go from consciousness.
And what is now is only now?
Or only as it comes to consciousness?
And consciousness itself no given thing,
But a moving flux of uncertainty?
The I that sees is itself unseen,
The mind that knows knows it does not know.
Better a half-truth shared or a truth withheld?
Ever is there more to see than has been seen.
Is it air that flows within, without,
Or the mind that flows now here now there?
And what is mind or I or consciousness,
But a moving flow in a flowing world?
Certainties are where a timid mind abides
Unwilling or unable to venture forth
Into the sea of unknowingness,
Where the I dissolves into unboundness.
The I is most at home in homelessness,
Alone all one in lonefulness,
Away from all that can be grasped or kept,
Away from all securities.
The voyage of life is on a sea of uncertainty,
The ship sails-assailed out on the boundless deep
In time always-all you have will sink below
And you — your fate’s unknown.
Wm. Paul McKane
10 Dec 2019
Time past and present, possibly time to come,
A moment given to a seeming-being:
A moment rich in possibilities,
And richer than a mind can comprehend.
Conscious now before the breaking of the day,
Conscious of air that flows within-without,
And of the clock still ticking steadily,
Of sounds that come and go from consciousness.
And what is now is only now?
Or only as it comes to consciousness?
And consciousness itself no given thing,
But a moving flux of uncertainty?
The I that sees is itself unseen,
The mind that knows knows it does not know.
Better a half-truth shared or a truth withheld?
Ever is there more to see than has been seen.
Is it air that flows within, without,
Or the mind that flows now here now there?
And what is mind or I or consciousness,
But a moving flow in a flowing world?
Certainties are where a timid mind abides
Unwilling or unable to venture forth
Into the sea of unknowingness,
Where the I dissolves into unboundness.
The I is most at home in homelessness,
Alone all one in lonefulness,
Away from all that can be grasped or kept,
Away from all securities.
The voyage of life is on a sea of uncertainty,
The ship sails-assailed out on the boundless deep
In time always-all you have will sink below
And you — your fate’s unknown.
Wm. Paul McKane
10 Dec 2019
The hour is now later
“The hour is now later than when…”
Yes, “time marches on,” “waits for no one.”
The candle is burning out; the day is ending,
Night descends; and then daylight returns.
This moment now is being given to you now.
The next moment is not yet given, nor guaranteed.
What are you doing with this astounding gift?
Now you live, perhaps all day, while tomorrow,
Or shortly thereafter, no more todays for you.
In this moment I am as I am, you are as you are.
In this moment you may be awake or asleep,
And if awake, or between wakefulness and sleep,
Between consciousness and unconsciousness,
In this moment you may choose what to do,
How to spend this gift of now, and what not to do.
That which we call “God” is present now, and only now,
For all we know; and now is all that matters
For a human being moving between nothingness and eternity.
Now goodness and truth and beauty beyond our grasp,
Beyond anything you have ever known or felt,
Is present here for you—now, perhaps only now.
Are you open and available to receive what God is giving now?
You are breaking into the confines of my confined mind.
Do I see? Am I aware? Do I acknowledge your presence?
What must I have, what must I do, that is more urgent
Than receiving You into the womb of my mind right now?
Although there are moments when each must perform duties,
How many moments could we choose to attend to You
But prefer to watch images on the television,
Dancing images of light and dark and fading colors?
You are no image flitting across the screen of the mind.
You give me this moment, this breath, this word
To share or to let pass away into nothingness,
Back into the darkness from which it has arisen.
“Who are you, LORD?” What are You?
Are you nothing? Surely you are no-thing,
Nothing within and limited by space-time,
Nothing that can be bound by thought or imagination,
Nothing limited within the confines of a word or book.
You are as you are, unlimited, unbounded, non-temporal,
Unconditioned, uncaused, unchangeable;
Whatever you are is far too vast for the limits of my understanding.
No positive affirmation about You is unqualifiedly true,
For You are ever beyond our temporizing words.
Even if you batter my heart, my LORD, I grow drowsy.
Even with the in-breaking of dawn, I embrace the dark,
Longing for sleep, pressed down by fatigue.
Long is the night, long hours of solitude,
Yearning for your companionship in my heart
Or your friendship in and through a mutual friend
Who understands or simply seeks to accept
What he may not understand of this strange fellow,
A wanderer beclouded in a night of solitude,
A man with no abiding place in this passing world,
A traveller from a strange land, stranger to myself,
Perhaps, than to the other, or than to You.
Beethoven’s Cavatina in his B-flat Quartet, Opus 130,
(or the other slow movements from his Late Quartets)
says more to me than the drivels of my mouth and drifting mind,
Drifting into a world closed and disclosed in sleep
While others are awake, others within and without.
You have not faded, but faded from my consciousness,
Who could not, did not, sustain attention,
Not even for a single moment.
And still you are here or there, still waiting,
For where else could you be but here?
—Wm. P. McKane
6 Dec 2019
“The hour is now later than when…”
Yes, “time marches on,” “waits for no one.”
The candle is burning out; the day is ending,
Night descends; and then daylight returns.
This moment now is being given to you now.
The next moment is not yet given, nor guaranteed.
What are you doing with this astounding gift?
Now you live, perhaps all day, while tomorrow,
Or shortly thereafter, no more todays for you.
In this moment I am as I am, you are as you are.
In this moment you may be awake or asleep,
And if awake, or between wakefulness and sleep,
Between consciousness and unconsciousness,
In this moment you may choose what to do,
How to spend this gift of now, and what not to do.
That which we call “God” is present now, and only now,
For all we know; and now is all that matters
For a human being moving between nothingness and eternity.
Now goodness and truth and beauty beyond our grasp,
Beyond anything you have ever known or felt,
Is present here for you—now, perhaps only now.
Are you open and available to receive what God is giving now?
You are breaking into the confines of my confined mind.
Do I see? Am I aware? Do I acknowledge your presence?
What must I have, what must I do, that is more urgent
Than receiving You into the womb of my mind right now?
Although there are moments when each must perform duties,
How many moments could we choose to attend to You
But prefer to watch images on the television,
Dancing images of light and dark and fading colors?
You are no image flitting across the screen of the mind.
You give me this moment, this breath, this word
To share or to let pass away into nothingness,
Back into the darkness from which it has arisen.
“Who are you, LORD?” What are You?
Are you nothing? Surely you are no-thing,
Nothing within and limited by space-time,
Nothing that can be bound by thought or imagination,
Nothing limited within the confines of a word or book.
You are as you are, unlimited, unbounded, non-temporal,
Unconditioned, uncaused, unchangeable;
Whatever you are is far too vast for the limits of my understanding.
No positive affirmation about You is unqualifiedly true,
For You are ever beyond our temporizing words.
Even if you batter my heart, my LORD, I grow drowsy.
Even with the in-breaking of dawn, I embrace the dark,
Longing for sleep, pressed down by fatigue.
Long is the night, long hours of solitude,
Yearning for your companionship in my heart
Or your friendship in and through a mutual friend
Who understands or simply seeks to accept
What he may not understand of this strange fellow,
A wanderer beclouded in a night of solitude,
A man with no abiding place in this passing world,
A traveller from a strange land, stranger to myself,
Perhaps, than to the other, or than to You.
Beethoven’s Cavatina in his B-flat Quartet, Opus 130,
(or the other slow movements from his Late Quartets)
says more to me than the drivels of my mouth and drifting mind,
Drifting into a world closed and disclosed in sleep
While others are awake, others within and without.
You have not faded, but faded from my consciousness,
Who could not, did not, sustain attention,
Not even for a single moment.
And still you are here or there, still waiting,
For where else could you be but here?
—Wm. P. McKane
6 Dec 2019
The hour is late
The hour is late, or late at least to me
Who ever have gone early to my bed
Unless nocturnal duties held me fast.
The hour is late and night descends
Casting no dark shadows but enveloping
Each and all within its unpierced shroud.
Soon I shall close my eyes and I
Let my mind drift where it will
Smoothly passing into unwakefulness.
The day was good, nothing irreparable done,
Much was missed but something understood
A moment lived, a heart of gratitude.
As I walk to take my place beneath the sheets
I see the candle flame still dancing quietly
And for this one and only latest time
Gently expire the flame to sleep and I
Turn to ascend the stairs up to my room
Each step touched now not yet again
Muscles working all together lifting me
Undress and stretch myself out into the bed
And pull the sheets towards my heavy head
Closing my eyes to see for once again
Gentle darkness wipe away all light
And draw me out from all I knew or was.
Wm. Paul McKane
04 Dec 2019
The hour is late, or late at least to me
Who ever have gone early to my bed
Unless nocturnal duties held me fast.
The hour is late and night descends
Casting no dark shadows but enveloping
Each and all within its unpierced shroud.
Soon I shall close my eyes and I
Let my mind drift where it will
Smoothly passing into unwakefulness.
The day was good, nothing irreparable done,
Much was missed but something understood
A moment lived, a heart of gratitude.
As I walk to take my place beneath the sheets
I see the candle flame still dancing quietly
And for this one and only latest time
Gently expire the flame to sleep and I
Turn to ascend the stairs up to my room
Each step touched now not yet again
Muscles working all together lifting me
Undress and stretch myself out into the bed
And pull the sheets towards my heavy head
Closing my eyes to see for once again
Gentle darkness wipe away all light
And draw me out from all I knew or was.
Wm. Paul McKane
04 Dec 2019
Disordered Beauty
Disordered beauty—is that not a contradiction?
Not arranged, not contrived, accidental in nature’s way;
Steady yet suddenly drawing the mind’s attention--
Not by its proportioned arrangement
But by multiple angular irregularities all at once,
Harmonious in its jarring dissonance
Like Bartok’s Third String Quartet
Or life unfolding in ever unexpected ways.
But unlike music heard flowingly through time,
Formed matter displayed all at once in this single fleeting moment.
Unfamiliar or formless forms, ramshackle shapes --
Not circles, triangles, or parallelograms,
Not even trapezoids or pentagons, and no straight lines,
But seemingly formless forms informing consciousness
Surprisingly because unexpectedly beautiful,
Peaceful and stilling in its simple thereness,
And unused railroad tracks from nowhere known into nowhere
Rails and ties hidden beneath grass and mounds of snow
Forming an uncertain path into formlessness,
Disfigured way into transfixing transformation.
Wm. P. McKane
3 Dec 2019
Note: The idea for “Disordered Beauty,” and most of the material, came immediately to mind as we began to walk along old railroad tracks just west of Sheridan’s “park” (which is more of a wild area than a “park” in the usual sense, as befits Montana). I am aware of a tangential relationship to Gerard Manley Hopkins’ famous “Pied Beauty.” In the present case, however, the initial intuition was not primarily of different complementary colors, but of utterly diverse shapes, as in the poem. The awareness of beauty momentarily preceded the awareness of its oddly ordered disorder. The mind intuits beauty, and then wonders, “Why? What do I see that initiates the intuition of Beauty? I think that the poem says what I experienced, and so I’ll let “Disordered Beauty” stand. But I shall also return to view it afresh after the sun rises this morning.
Disordered beauty—is that not a contradiction?
Not arranged, not contrived, accidental in nature’s way;
Steady yet suddenly drawing the mind’s attention--
Not by its proportioned arrangement
But by multiple angular irregularities all at once,
Harmonious in its jarring dissonance
Like Bartok’s Third String Quartet
Or life unfolding in ever unexpected ways.
But unlike music heard flowingly through time,
Formed matter displayed all at once in this single fleeting moment.
Unfamiliar or formless forms, ramshackle shapes --
Not circles, triangles, or parallelograms,
Not even trapezoids or pentagons, and no straight lines,
But seemingly formless forms informing consciousness
Surprisingly because unexpectedly beautiful,
Peaceful and stilling in its simple thereness,
And unused railroad tracks from nowhere known into nowhere
Rails and ties hidden beneath grass and mounds of snow
Forming an uncertain path into formlessness,
Disfigured way into transfixing transformation.
Wm. P. McKane
3 Dec 2019
Note: The idea for “Disordered Beauty,” and most of the material, came immediately to mind as we began to walk along old railroad tracks just west of Sheridan’s “park” (which is more of a wild area than a “park” in the usual sense, as befits Montana). I am aware of a tangential relationship to Gerard Manley Hopkins’ famous “Pied Beauty.” In the present case, however, the initial intuition was not primarily of different complementary colors, but of utterly diverse shapes, as in the poem. The awareness of beauty momentarily preceded the awareness of its oddly ordered disorder. The mind intuits beauty, and then wonders, “Why? What do I see that initiates the intuition of Beauty? I think that the poem says what I experienced, and so I’ll let “Disordered Beauty” stand. But I shall also return to view it afresh after the sun rises this morning.
The Silence of Death
God is silent just like the dead.
We are noisy and full of idle speech
Just like barkers in a circus or politicians
Or believers who clutch the Word or the Church.
God is silent just like the stars
But our noise and words drown out still silence
As our little lights obscure the silent-shining stars.
Our words and our lights reveal and obscure.
What they reveal is our foolishness and ignorance
And what they hide is the full beauty of emptiness.
How can one find what he will not seek?
How can one seek what he thinks he has found?
How does one undergo a journey when he has arrived?
How can one die when he dances the death of life?
God is silent because he does not exist,
Is not in any way imagined or known or felt.
God is silent just like the dead
Whose silence discloses our human ignorance.
Wm. Paul McKane
1 Dec 2019
God is silent just like the dead.
We are noisy and full of idle speech
Just like barkers in a circus or politicians
Or believers who clutch the Word or the Church.
God is silent just like the stars
But our noise and words drown out still silence
As our little lights obscure the silent-shining stars.
Our words and our lights reveal and obscure.
What they reveal is our foolishness and ignorance
And what they hide is the full beauty of emptiness.
How can one find what he will not seek?
How can one seek what he thinks he has found?
How does one undergo a journey when he has arrived?
How can one die when he dances the death of life?
God is silent because he does not exist,
Is not in any way imagined or known or felt.
God is silent just like the dead
Whose silence discloses our human ignorance.
Wm. Paul McKane
1 Dec 2019
Out to Sea
It sings beyond our mortal imaginings
Beyond our powers to comprehend.
Unliving living mass of changeless change
Too vast for eyes or minds of finite men.
You haunt my soul with your death-filled cries
Your voices draw me out to sea
To drown beneath your heaving waves
To cease to be within your filling flood.
Wm. P. McKane
30 Nov 2019
It sings beyond our mortal imaginings
Beyond our powers to comprehend.
Unliving living mass of changeless change
Too vast for eyes or minds of finite men.
You haunt my soul with your death-filled cries
Your voices draw me out to sea
To drown beneath your heaving waves
To cease to be within your filling flood.
Wm. P. McKane
30 Nov 2019
Reception of Brother Dominic’s body
Upon your chest
I lay my head upon your chest,
my weary heart upon your breast,
no grasping hands, no gasping breath,
all quiet, stillness, rest.
Desire ceases as in death
within a sea of tenderness
no fear, no lust, no threat,
for all is peace upon your chest.
Wm. P. McKane
9 March 1997
Upon your chest
I lay my head upon your chest,
my weary heart upon your breast,
no grasping hands, no gasping breath,
all quiet, stillness, rest.
Desire ceases as in death
within a sea of tenderness
no fear, no lust, no threat,
for all is peace upon your chest.
Wm. P. McKane
9 March 1997
|
Beneath the Stars
|
My race idly but quickly run--
Twenty years largely wasted,
Years of l’entre deux guerres--
Rushing amidst tears,
Rushing about, from where to where?
How long before my eyes do not open?
How long before I cease to breathe?
After all cessation, then what?
It goes on without me, the music,
The dancing, cries and laughter,
Being born, aging, and dying.
And there they are, or are not,
Moving through space but still
Still moving, still seen and unseen
All is moving, changing, and there.
Those lights we call stars are there
Or are they? Where? What are they?
Most of what I learned, I do not know,
Forgotten somewhere, it just fell away
Where the days and years have gone
I do not know, they just fell away.
You were here, weren’t you, but now
You too are gone, and far away,
Or near—I no longer know,
If I ever really knew at all.
When will that moment come when--
When all that I have been and known
Will cease to be in any way I know?
Today, tomorrow, or was it yesterday?
At the still point of the turning world
At the turning point of the stilling world
Where I am I do not know
And perhaps no longer care.
Infinitely nothing, vastly everything
The handle of the Big Dipper reaching to earth
And silence
Living or dead?
Wm. P. McKane
23 November 2019
Twenty years largely wasted,
Years of l’entre deux guerres--
Rushing amidst tears,
Rushing about, from where to where?
How long before my eyes do not open?
How long before I cease to breathe?
After all cessation, then what?
It goes on without me, the music,
The dancing, cries and laughter,
Being born, aging, and dying.
And there they are, or are not,
Moving through space but still
Still moving, still seen and unseen
All is moving, changing, and there.
Those lights we call stars are there
Or are they? Where? What are they?
Most of what I learned, I do not know,
Forgotten somewhere, it just fell away
Where the days and years have gone
I do not know, they just fell away.
You were here, weren’t you, but now
You too are gone, and far away,
Or near—I no longer know,
If I ever really knew at all.
When will that moment come when--
When all that I have been and known
Will cease to be in any way I know?
Today, tomorrow, or was it yesterday?
At the still point of the turning world
At the turning point of the stilling world
Where I am I do not know
And perhaps no longer care.
Infinitely nothing, vastly everything
The handle of the Big Dipper reaching to earth
And silence
Living or dead?
Wm. P. McKane
23 November 2019
|
First Visit to Taylor Cemetery
|
Leaving Alder Montana, east towards Virginia City,
After driving a couple of distracting miles,
Turn right and head south on Anderson Lane.
In a mile or so, you come to Taylor Cemetery,
Which you may not recognize, for all you see is a small sign
Lifted high, with white fences paralleling up a hill.
Drive or walk up the rocky way leading into the graveyard.
Here lies peace, and stillness that is timeless in the afternoon,
A steeply sloping fenced-in piece of land, boundless in time,
Stretching out over a vast field of native Montana grasses,
Dry and crunchy after summer has slipped into fall,
Blond as a child who ran freely over these hills.
And here lie little girls and boys, and their elders,
Who lived and died in this naked, awe-inspiring land.
So tranquil and dignified is Taylor Cemetery
That even young Elijah shows respect, not running erratically,
But walking as a more senior dog strolls meditatively.
I, too, walk solemnly, hearing no sound but a hushed crunch--
No traffic or voices, all quiet and still as death.
Slowly do I breathe as I read the headstones
Of men and women born two centuries ago.
Daniel Moore 1818-1907 at rest.
Luvicay Jones June 17 1824 July 28 1896.
Thomas Sowers died May 20, 1908 Aged 92 yrs.
William Gallagher, Edward McCann, Geo W White--
And “Erected to the memory of our mother,”
Nancy Hinch Born July 1819 Died December 19, 1907--
A star, a crown, and olive branches etched in stone.
Slowly Moses and I walk between Russian olives and lilacs
Long past their bloom—the lilacs, Moses, and I--
Downhill towards the cemetery’s western perimeter,
Down towards ranches in the upper Ruby Valley.
Here we have found a place to frequent,
About twelve miles from our home in Sheridan,
A place to slip silently into the presenting past.
Wm. Paul McKane
08 November 2019
After driving a couple of distracting miles,
Turn right and head south on Anderson Lane.
In a mile or so, you come to Taylor Cemetery,
Which you may not recognize, for all you see is a small sign
Lifted high, with white fences paralleling up a hill.
Drive or walk up the rocky way leading into the graveyard.
Here lies peace, and stillness that is timeless in the afternoon,
A steeply sloping fenced-in piece of land, boundless in time,
Stretching out over a vast field of native Montana grasses,
Dry and crunchy after summer has slipped into fall,
Blond as a child who ran freely over these hills.
And here lie little girls and boys, and their elders,
Who lived and died in this naked, awe-inspiring land.
So tranquil and dignified is Taylor Cemetery
That even young Elijah shows respect, not running erratically,
But walking as a more senior dog strolls meditatively.
I, too, walk solemnly, hearing no sound but a hushed crunch--
No traffic or voices, all quiet and still as death.
Slowly do I breathe as I read the headstones
Of men and women born two centuries ago.
Daniel Moore 1818-1907 at rest.
Luvicay Jones June 17 1824 July 28 1896.
Thomas Sowers died May 20, 1908 Aged 92 yrs.
William Gallagher, Edward McCann, Geo W White--
And “Erected to the memory of our mother,”
Nancy Hinch Born July 1819 Died December 19, 1907--
A star, a crown, and olive branches etched in stone.
Slowly Moses and I walk between Russian olives and lilacs
Long past their bloom—the lilacs, Moses, and I--
Downhill towards the cemetery’s western perimeter,
Down towards ranches in the upper Ruby Valley.
Here we have found a place to frequent,
About twelve miles from our home in Sheridan,
A place to slip silently into the presenting past.
Wm. Paul McKane
08 November 2019
November Cemetery Walk
They speak in words not heard but felt,
Or heard echoing in the emptiness of the heart.
They sound silently together, a chorus,
Bearing witness to who they were and are.
“What you are now,” they say, “I once was;
And what I am now you too shall be.”
A name inscribed in stone, perhaps a birthdate given,
And more likely, the year and day of death.
And nothing more. Nothing but cold silence.
Wm. Paul McKane
4 November 2019
Or heard echoing in the emptiness of the heart.
They sound silently together, a chorus,
Bearing witness to who they were and are.
“What you are now,” they say, “I once was;
And what I am now you too shall be.”
A name inscribed in stone, perhaps a birthdate given,
And more likely, the year and day of death.
And nothing more. Nothing but cold silence.
Wm. Paul McKane
4 November 2019
|
Irises (1)
|
In the irises the Rainbow descends
Bending down to kiss the earth.
She comes and spreads her colors
Everywhere, and especially here,
In her children irises
Growing beneath the spreading ash.
They do not need an interpreter
Nor song to sing their beauty.
A bloom bursts forth, usually
At night, when the world is sleeping.
For a few days, a week, they shine
Illuminate the world with rainbow beauty.
Slowly they whither before the sun.
Did you behold their withering beauty?
Wm. P. McKane
08 June 2019
Bending down to kiss the earth.
She comes and spreads her colors
Everywhere, and especially here,
In her children irises
Growing beneath the spreading ash.
They do not need an interpreter
Nor song to sing their beauty.
A bloom bursts forth, usually
At night, when the world is sleeping.
For a few days, a week, they shine
Illuminate the world with rainbow beauty.
Slowly they whither before the sun.
Did you behold their withering beauty?
Wm. P. McKane
08 June 2019
|
I. The Sudden Sound
|
The sudden sound, as if out of nowhere--
The anguish of a wolf, a panicked cougar,
The shriek of a hawk—I do not know.
That sound penetrates your consciousness,
Disturbs whatever peace you had until it broke in
Until then and now destabilized and swirling.
All else recedes into the shadows, disappears,
As you are left uneasily waiting for more,
Seeking to understand what caused the sound--
Whether deep distress, or fear, or something else.
Whatever the source and cause of sound,
It moves you into aporia, wide open to the unknown.
How mysterious and fleeting is consciousness,
Exposed in a moment to it own groundlessness,
Unable to discern what and why has broken in
Shattering or at least disturbing the surface calm
Until the moment that utterly absorbs attention,
Dragging you down beneath the surface of the sea.
Groundless but not hopeless to regain some peace
Amidst a world of sudden sounds and scenes
Empowered to sink a mind quickly in quicksand,
Or drown it beneath the waves, the crashing waves
In time from out of time or place or nowhere
Unknown unknowable uncontrolled uncontrollable.
Why is one so vulnerable to a sudden sound or shock
To something seen but not understood, yet felt
With a power that overcomes all thought,
Erasing for here and now memory even of itself.
Why so shakeable this world of consciousness—
Rocks that break loose beneath one’s grasping hands.
The shock of the sudden sound begins to fade
Back into the shadows of an abyss unseen
And one is left alone wondering what happened
And whether and when it will return from nowhere,
Sobered by a fresh reminder of nothing substantial
In a consciousness blowing in tempestuous winds.
Wm. P. McKane
31 May 2019
The anguish of a wolf, a panicked cougar,
The shriek of a hawk—I do not know.
That sound penetrates your consciousness,
Disturbs whatever peace you had until it broke in
Until then and now destabilized and swirling.
All else recedes into the shadows, disappears,
As you are left uneasily waiting for more,
Seeking to understand what caused the sound--
Whether deep distress, or fear, or something else.
Whatever the source and cause of sound,
It moves you into aporia, wide open to the unknown.
How mysterious and fleeting is consciousness,
Exposed in a moment to it own groundlessness,
Unable to discern what and why has broken in
Shattering or at least disturbing the surface calm
Until the moment that utterly absorbs attention,
Dragging you down beneath the surface of the sea.
Groundless but not hopeless to regain some peace
Amidst a world of sudden sounds and scenes
Empowered to sink a mind quickly in quicksand,
Or drown it beneath the waves, the crashing waves
In time from out of time or place or nowhere
Unknown unknowable uncontrolled uncontrollable.
Why is one so vulnerable to a sudden sound or shock
To something seen but not understood, yet felt
With a power that overcomes all thought,
Erasing for here and now memory even of itself.
Why so shakeable this world of consciousness—
Rocks that break loose beneath one’s grasping hands.
The shock of the sudden sound begins to fade
Back into the shadows of an abyss unseen
And one is left alone wondering what happened
And whether and when it will return from nowhere,
Sobered by a fresh reminder of nothing substantial
In a consciousness blowing in tempestuous winds.
Wm. P. McKane
31 May 2019
|
II. The Venus-Gift
|
The power of the sudden sound heard unknown
Reminds me of the spell you once cast over me
So many years ago, when first I beheld a glimpse
Of beauty itself bare and naked before my eyes.
Did you know then what magical power held me bound
And spellbound-speechless in your presence?
When you displayed a glimpse of Zion’s glory
Did you know how you stung and immobilized your prey?
The enraptured soul that beholds a fragmentary beauty--
Entering in the eyes or ears and invading one’s whole world,
Taking every part captive to the conquering captivator
Who remains free of its own intoxicating spell.
Beauty itself heard or seen flaming forth suddenly
With its pyroclastic Vesuvian-Venusian force
Enchanting stunning intoxicating immobilizing
Leaving the smitten one dumbstruck by her binding power.
A magnolia blossom radiating on an April morning
Remains what she is in the unexpected moment
When her beauty is seen and felt so deeply that she
Is but the window to beauty’s unfathomable sea.
Cherish but do not cling to the momentary vision
Of beauty freely displayed before your eyes.
Do not demand to behold again what was proffered,
But recall with wonder and gratitude the Venus-gift.
So Venus or Aphrodite or whoever you may be,
I shall love and honor you for each momentary bliss
That fills a soul with fresh-stunning surging joys
And leaves the lover laboring in exquisite agony.
Wm. P. McKane
31 May 2019
Reminds me of the spell you once cast over me
So many years ago, when first I beheld a glimpse
Of beauty itself bare and naked before my eyes.
Did you know then what magical power held me bound
And spellbound-speechless in your presence?
When you displayed a glimpse of Zion’s glory
Did you know how you stung and immobilized your prey?
The enraptured soul that beholds a fragmentary beauty--
Entering in the eyes or ears and invading one’s whole world,
Taking every part captive to the conquering captivator
Who remains free of its own intoxicating spell.
Beauty itself heard or seen flaming forth suddenly
With its pyroclastic Vesuvian-Venusian force
Enchanting stunning intoxicating immobilizing
Leaving the smitten one dumbstruck by her binding power.
A magnolia blossom radiating on an April morning
Remains what she is in the unexpected moment
When her beauty is seen and felt so deeply that she
Is but the window to beauty’s unfathomable sea.
Cherish but do not cling to the momentary vision
Of beauty freely displayed before your eyes.
Do not demand to behold again what was proffered,
But recall with wonder and gratitude the Venus-gift.
So Venus or Aphrodite or whoever you may be,
I shall love and honor you for each momentary bliss
That fills a soul with fresh-stunning surging joys
And leaves the lover laboring in exquisite agony.
Wm. P. McKane
31 May 2019
|
Thoughts out of time
|
Have I been so long with you,
And yet you do not know me?
If not now, when?
If not here, where?
Have you been so long with me,
And yet I have not known you?
Did you hear me knocking?
Have you heard me calling?
If not I, then what was it you heard?
Was it the wind that knocked on my door,
Or gently rocked my heart?
Was it the call of a lonesome bird I heard,
Or the whisper of a soundless voice?
If it is you yourself, then tell me to come.
If it is not you but another, please do not bother,
Do not disturb the dust, or brush off the rust.
If you are not here, then where?
If you are not here now, then when?
Dawn is breaking, night is fading.
What else is breaking, what is fading?
When no one spoke, it just happened.
When nothing happened, it was.
You are as you are,
And still the eye of my I.
—Wm. P. McKane
26 May 2019
And yet you do not know me?
If not now, when?
If not here, where?
Have you been so long with me,
And yet I have not known you?
Did you hear me knocking?
Have you heard me calling?
If not I, then what was it you heard?
Was it the wind that knocked on my door,
Or gently rocked my heart?
Was it the call of a lonesome bird I heard,
Or the whisper of a soundless voice?
If it is you yourself, then tell me to come.
If it is not you but another, please do not bother,
Do not disturb the dust, or brush off the rust.
If you are not here, then where?
If you are not here now, then when?
Dawn is breaking, night is fading.
What else is breaking, what is fading?
When no one spoke, it just happened.
When nothing happened, it was.
You are as you are,
And still the eye of my I.
—Wm. P. McKane
26 May 2019
|
You yourself
|
You yourself must find the way.
No one can do it for you,
No one can describe it to you,
No one can show it to you.
You yourself must find the way.
You yourself must hear the word.
No one can hear it to you,
No one can tell it to you,
No one can explain it to you.
You yourself must hear the word.
You have a task that you must find,
You have tasks which you must do.
You have your own proper work,
Which no one else can do for you,
Or find for you, but you yourself.
You have a burden that you must carry,
No one else can carry it for you,
No one else can relieve you of your burden.
You yourself must bear your burden,
You are your own burden: carry it.
You must be true to your truest self,
Not to the whims and wishes of passing self.
You must be true to yourself at your best--
The good that you have been, and better,
The better that you shall be, and best.
Do not place your trust in passing human beings,
Do not place your trust in institutions.
Do not place your trust in laws, or in books.
Place in your trust in that which alone endures,
As each and all else is passing away.
You have now to become what you truly are,
To let go of what you might have been,
To let go of dreams of what you may be.
You have now to become who you truly are,
Beneath the transitory pulls and dreams.
Now is the time to be awake,
Now is the time to be alive.
Those who dwell in the past,
And those who dwell in the future,
Are all passing away.
The one who loves is true to the beloved,
The one who loves is one with the beloved.
Truly to love costs oneself everything,
Truly to love transforms you into You,
And all else passes away.
—Wm. P McKane
26 May 2019
No one can do it for you,
No one can describe it to you,
No one can show it to you.
You yourself must find the way.
You yourself must hear the word.
No one can hear it to you,
No one can tell it to you,
No one can explain it to you.
You yourself must hear the word.
You have a task that you must find,
You have tasks which you must do.
You have your own proper work,
Which no one else can do for you,
Or find for you, but you yourself.
You have a burden that you must carry,
No one else can carry it for you,
No one else can relieve you of your burden.
You yourself must bear your burden,
You are your own burden: carry it.
You must be true to your truest self,
Not to the whims and wishes of passing self.
You must be true to yourself at your best--
The good that you have been, and better,
The better that you shall be, and best.
Do not place your trust in passing human beings,
Do not place your trust in institutions.
Do not place your trust in laws, or in books.
Place in your trust in that which alone endures,
As each and all else is passing away.
You have now to become what you truly are,
To let go of what you might have been,
To let go of dreams of what you may be.
You have now to become who you truly are,
Beneath the transitory pulls and dreams.
Now is the time to be awake,
Now is the time to be alive.
Those who dwell in the past,
And those who dwell in the future,
Are all passing away.
The one who loves is true to the beloved,
The one who loves is one with the beloved.
Truly to love costs oneself everything,
Truly to love transforms you into You,
And all else passes away.
—Wm. P McKane
26 May 2019
|
"What are you doing?"
|
A young Spanish musician in Paris, a guitarist,
Took a walk one beautiful spring evening
When he was still in the spring of his life,
Not yet twenty-four years old.
He stopped on a bridge over the Seine,
And leaned against a solid parapet.
Narciso did not look for his image in the water,
But watched the river flow away beneath him.
From nowhere a voice broke into consciousness:
“What are you doing?”
And that question changed his life.
Narciso Yepes heard that voice on 18 May 1951.
Wm. P. McKane
18 May 2019.
Took a walk one beautiful spring evening
When he was still in the spring of his life,
Not yet twenty-four years old.
He stopped on a bridge over the Seine,
And leaned against a solid parapet.
Narciso did not look for his image in the water,
But watched the river flow away beneath him.
From nowhere a voice broke into consciousness:
“What are you doing?”
And that question changed his life.
Narciso Yepes heard that voice on 18 May 1951.
Wm. P. McKane
18 May 2019.
|
Burn, burn, burn
|
Burn, burn, burn my heart,
Burn my body and my brain.
Inflamed and not consumed,
Burning, burning, endlessly.
I breathe and long for you, my love,
Insatiably longing on a dark night.
The fire flames, I am not consumed,
Except with the fire of your love--
Your love, your unquenchable love,
Burning in the fires of my heart,
Realized and unrealizable,
Real and beyond reality.
Scarcely can I breathe
When you suffocate me
Intoxicate me, liberate me,
And even annihilate me.
You stirred the embers,
And they burst into flames.
You ignited my heart,
Leaving nothing but your love.
Wm. P McKane
16 May 2019
Burn my body and my brain.
Inflamed and not consumed,
Burning, burning, endlessly.
I breathe and long for you, my love,
Insatiably longing on a dark night.
The fire flames, I am not consumed,
Except with the fire of your love--
Your love, your unquenchable love,
Burning in the fires of my heart,
Realized and unrealizable,
Real and beyond reality.
Scarcely can I breathe
When you suffocate me
Intoxicate me, liberate me,
And even annihilate me.
You stirred the embers,
And they burst into flames.
You ignited my heart,
Leaving nothing but your love.
Wm. P McKane
16 May 2019
|
Words of a Wayfarer, longing
|
Where is the lover of my soul’s ascent?
Where have you gone, most lovely Lady,
Who enters in when the world is silent,
And the mind’s at rest in peacefulness?
You guide me on life’s unfolding adventure,
In ways that nothing and no one else could do.
Your presence is joy and sweet consolation,
Your absence leaves me languishing.
I do not know your name, and name you variously,
Depending on when and how you come to me.
It is You for whom my heart is longing,
However you clothe or disguise yourself.
Perfect partner of the solitary soul,
Night to day and day into night,
Two and one in love together,
Yet ever-never losing your virginity.
I want to speak to you, with you, in you,
But words fail, and unknown sounds emerge,
A mere babble as you hold me spellbound
Even as I long for your chaste embrace.
You are the earth and moon and sun to me
The stars above and ocean before my eyes;
You are all and each and still far more
Beyond whatever my mind conceives.
You have drawn near and nearer to me than I,
And now not felt or seen I yearn for you
And burn for you with unquenchable desire--
You are master-mistress of my soul’s rebirth.
Shine in, blaze in, or come in total darkness,
In a total eclipse of consciousness,
When nothing knows anything in any way,
But you are all in all.
I need you, Love, far more than I can say,
But when you withdraw to lure me on
I nearly become frantic for your intimacy
Enjoyed and now (it seems) withheld.
Life apart from You is not worth living;
Life with You is lived with fresh intensity.
If I must wait before You return--
You are present in your felt absence
You are here.
—Wm. P. McKane
16 May 2019
Where have you gone, most lovely Lady,
Who enters in when the world is silent,
And the mind’s at rest in peacefulness?
You guide me on life’s unfolding adventure,
In ways that nothing and no one else could do.
Your presence is joy and sweet consolation,
Your absence leaves me languishing.
I do not know your name, and name you variously,
Depending on when and how you come to me.
It is You for whom my heart is longing,
However you clothe or disguise yourself.
Perfect partner of the solitary soul,
Night to day and day into night,
Two and one in love together,
Yet ever-never losing your virginity.
I want to speak to you, with you, in you,
But words fail, and unknown sounds emerge,
A mere babble as you hold me spellbound
Even as I long for your chaste embrace.
You are the earth and moon and sun to me
The stars above and ocean before my eyes;
You are all and each and still far more
Beyond whatever my mind conceives.
You have drawn near and nearer to me than I,
And now not felt or seen I yearn for you
And burn for you with unquenchable desire--
You are master-mistress of my soul’s rebirth.
Shine in, blaze in, or come in total darkness,
In a total eclipse of consciousness,
When nothing knows anything in any way,
But you are all in all.
I need you, Love, far more than I can say,
But when you withdraw to lure me on
I nearly become frantic for your intimacy
Enjoyed and now (it seems) withheld.
Life apart from You is not worth living;
Life with You is lived with fresh intensity.
If I must wait before You return--
You are present in your felt absence
You are here.
—Wm. P. McKane
16 May 2019
|
The Man Next Door
|
He is odd, I think, and surely a different sort.
He lives alone and seems to have no friends,
Except for a scroungy, mangy old dog--
And he yells at him as if he were a naughty kid.
The man seems to be cranky, irritable,
Often mumbling to himself or at that dog.
I think that he is a very lonely old man.
From what I can tell, he was never married,
Or he dumped his better half early on.
That would have been years ago.
Now he is well into his seventies, I would guess,
And often walks stooped, or hobbles about.
If he died, who would know the difference?
I would not miss seeing him, I suppose,
Although he has waved “hi” a few times
When he was not chewing out his dog,
Like shouting out “No street!” at six in the morning.
He is deaf to the volume of his shrill, pipy voice.
I wonder if I should try to get to know this man?
To what purpose? What good could come of it?
What would I say? “Hi, I’m your neighbor”?
What if he is as cantankerous as he looks?
Is it worth the effort to try to meet him?
What good could possibly come from it?
—Wm. P. McKane
09 May 2019
He lives alone and seems to have no friends,
Except for a scroungy, mangy old dog--
And he yells at him as if he were a naughty kid.
The man seems to be cranky, irritable,
Often mumbling to himself or at that dog.
I think that he is a very lonely old man.
From what I can tell, he was never married,
Or he dumped his better half early on.
That would have been years ago.
Now he is well into his seventies, I would guess,
And often walks stooped, or hobbles about.
If he died, who would know the difference?
I would not miss seeing him, I suppose,
Although he has waved “hi” a few times
When he was not chewing out his dog,
Like shouting out “No street!” at six in the morning.
He is deaf to the volume of his shrill, pipy voice.
I wonder if I should try to get to know this man?
To what purpose? What good could come of it?
What would I say? “Hi, I’m your neighbor”?
What if he is as cantankerous as he looks?
Is it worth the effort to try to meet him?
What good could possibly come from it?
—Wm. P. McKane
09 May 2019
|
To Seléne
|
You still unravished bride of quietness,
Who sings beyond the genius of the sea:
Seléne, mistress of lone-strengthened hearts
Who wander in the caverns of the night
Guided only by your soul-mysterious light,
And seeking solitude within your chaste embrace.
Too distant to be grasped by greedy arms,
Too cold to blaze a passion-driven heart,
Too old to satisfy a lusty youth,
Too changing for obsessed perfectionists.
You draw a soul that seeks an odyssey
Of faring forth sin otra luz y guía.
Unfallen beauty, mortal goddess, silent Seléne,
You are the bliss of endless wandering,
Not in an abyss of supposèd nothingness,
But in the amplitude of your pléroma.
You lead me forth in journeys of the night
Beyond the confines of the human mind.
—20 April 2019
Wm. Paul McKane
Who sings beyond the genius of the sea:
Seléne, mistress of lone-strengthened hearts
Who wander in the caverns of the night
Guided only by your soul-mysterious light,
And seeking solitude within your chaste embrace.
Too distant to be grasped by greedy arms,
Too cold to blaze a passion-driven heart,
Too old to satisfy a lusty youth,
Too changing for obsessed perfectionists.
You draw a soul that seeks an odyssey
Of faring forth sin otra luz y guía.
Unfallen beauty, mortal goddess, silent Seléne,
You are the bliss of endless wandering,
Not in an abyss of supposèd nothingness,
But in the amplitude of your pléroma.
You lead me forth in journeys of the night
Beyond the confines of the human mind.
—20 April 2019
Wm. Paul McKane
|
To my forgotten Muse
|
Sing to me, you Muses, sing
That I may hear your siren songs,
And words I form may take wing,
And fly between our sleeping earth
And moonlit-sunlit heaven.
Where have they gone, the voices
With powers beyond our human range,
Sweet sounding, life-refreshing voices
That sprinkle down on sullen mortal hearts
The dew of life-restoring gentle rain.
I behold your beauty, most silent Selene,
Full-blossomed after the vernal equinox,
Hiding half-veiled behind the drifting clouds,
Chaste and lovely in night’s fading hours,
Well before Apollo shames your beauty.
I long to hear your melodies,
Most sacred Muses heaven-held,
Your heart-refreshing, life-renewing sounds
That strike the steely strings of human hearts
Teaching them to fly by heaven-sent wings.
If I sadly ask, “Where have you gone
You blessed daughters of thunderous Zeus?”
I do not wish to accuse you fair ladies,
But express a lover’s heart for his beloved,
And wait with shallow breath for your return.
You were the whispering beauties of my youth,
Your charms enshrouding my new-formed eyes,
Displaying to me earth’s abundant treasures,
Lying bare and inviting each soul to behold
And adore as we hurl through stary space.
You are the glories of an age gone by
Only because we have dulled our minds
To the sounds of your melodious songs,
That we of all who have lived and loved
Now need to hear again to engender beauty.
So long have I forgotten you, neglected you
That I no longer know your names--
Not even you, my heaven-assigned Muse
Who kissed my youth so tenderly,
Before I turned my head away.
Return, my swift-sweet-sounding friend,
Delight of a wintry heart, spring of youthful joy,
Daughter of delight, maiden unblemished,
Unravished by those who while away
In a packaged world of man-made things.
Sing, my Muse, intoxicate my heart anew
And wound by love these hard and scarred strings,
Gently tuning them to resound again
A song, your song, dear daughter of divine delight,
Blessed woman of heaven-sent tenderness.
Wm. P. McKane
17 April 2019
That I may hear your siren songs,
And words I form may take wing,
And fly between our sleeping earth
And moonlit-sunlit heaven.
Where have they gone, the voices
With powers beyond our human range,
Sweet sounding, life-refreshing voices
That sprinkle down on sullen mortal hearts
The dew of life-restoring gentle rain.
I behold your beauty, most silent Selene,
Full-blossomed after the vernal equinox,
Hiding half-veiled behind the drifting clouds,
Chaste and lovely in night’s fading hours,
Well before Apollo shames your beauty.
I long to hear your melodies,
Most sacred Muses heaven-held,
Your heart-refreshing, life-renewing sounds
That strike the steely strings of human hearts
Teaching them to fly by heaven-sent wings.
If I sadly ask, “Where have you gone
You blessed daughters of thunderous Zeus?”
I do not wish to accuse you fair ladies,
But express a lover’s heart for his beloved,
And wait with shallow breath for your return.
You were the whispering beauties of my youth,
Your charms enshrouding my new-formed eyes,
Displaying to me earth’s abundant treasures,
Lying bare and inviting each soul to behold
And adore as we hurl through stary space.
You are the glories of an age gone by
Only because we have dulled our minds
To the sounds of your melodious songs,
That we of all who have lived and loved
Now need to hear again to engender beauty.
So long have I forgotten you, neglected you
That I no longer know your names--
Not even you, my heaven-assigned Muse
Who kissed my youth so tenderly,
Before I turned my head away.
Return, my swift-sweet-sounding friend,
Delight of a wintry heart, spring of youthful joy,
Daughter of delight, maiden unblemished,
Unravished by those who while away
In a packaged world of man-made things.
Sing, my Muse, intoxicate my heart anew
And wound by love these hard and scarred strings,
Gently tuning them to resound again
A song, your song, dear daughter of divine delight,
Blessed woman of heaven-sent tenderness.
Wm. P. McKane
17 April 2019
|
Ocean of the Mind
|
You draw me back to you, again and again,
You vast Pacific, vaster than the eyes can see.
You draw me back, ocean of unbounded beauty,
Sea of tranquility, unfolding harmony,
Ocean of memory and of forgetfulness.
You draw me to yourself, sea of unrestrictedness,
Soft lapping waves and pounding breakers,
Waters rushing in immersing the land,
And back out into the unseen depths.
You draw me out with your receding tides.
There you are, ocean of forgetfulness,
And here you are, ocean of mindfulness,
And where you are, every I is, too,
Drawn back into your silent depths,
Pulled away from mere fleetingness.
You are there, yet you are here as well,
Vast Pacific, trans-spatial emptiness.
You are there, and here, and everywhere
One enters into your pacific calm,
Your living-unliving full-emptiness.
You are here, within and without,
Ocean of mindfulness, sea of forgetfulness,
Mindful of all that is present both here and now,
Forgetful of all that is neither here nor now,
Breathingly flowing in and flowing out.
Ocean of the mind of mindful awareness,
Vast sea of uncluttered consciousness,
No limits known, no boundaries found,
Vaster than imaginations can explore,
Deeper than the soundings of all whys.
To name the unnameable names nothing
But distracts the mind from consciousness.
You are as you are, ocean of vast reality,
Before and after, beyond and within,
Never and always folding all within yourself.
Ocean greater by far than mind can know,
Present ever present, both here and away,
Never and always, both now and not,
Beginning and end and middle of all,
Presenting yourself in unlimited presence.
—Wm P McKane
16 April 2019
You vast Pacific, vaster than the eyes can see.
You draw me back, ocean of unbounded beauty,
Sea of tranquility, unfolding harmony,
Ocean of memory and of forgetfulness.
You draw me to yourself, sea of unrestrictedness,
Soft lapping waves and pounding breakers,
Waters rushing in immersing the land,
And back out into the unseen depths.
You draw me out with your receding tides.
There you are, ocean of forgetfulness,
And here you are, ocean of mindfulness,
And where you are, every I is, too,
Drawn back into your silent depths,
Pulled away from mere fleetingness.
You are there, yet you are here as well,
Vast Pacific, trans-spatial emptiness.
You are there, and here, and everywhere
One enters into your pacific calm,
Your living-unliving full-emptiness.
You are here, within and without,
Ocean of mindfulness, sea of forgetfulness,
Mindful of all that is present both here and now,
Forgetful of all that is neither here nor now,
Breathingly flowing in and flowing out.
Ocean of the mind of mindful awareness,
Vast sea of uncluttered consciousness,
No limits known, no boundaries found,
Vaster than imaginations can explore,
Deeper than the soundings of all whys.
To name the unnameable names nothing
But distracts the mind from consciousness.
You are as you are, ocean of vast reality,
Before and after, beyond and within,
Never and always folding all within yourself.
Ocean greater by far than mind can know,
Present ever present, both here and away,
Never and always, both now and not,
Beginning and end and middle of all,
Presenting yourself in unlimited presence.
—Wm P McKane
16 April 2019
|
Souvenir of Calvary
|
Dormant grasses, stones and dirt, wind-formed evergreens,
Dense leafless lilacs laboring slowly to bloom forth
To scent the fresh, high-plains air with fragrant life;
Roads encircling and bisecting the steeply sloping land,
Amidst the varied gravestones marking a plot of earth
Surrounded by deep ravines and distant mountains,
All quiet beneath the unhurried Montana sky.
Again I return alone to tended and untended graves,
And to monuments for three who fell, two soldiers, one Marine--
Brothers John and Daniel Griffin, soldiers in the A.E.F.;
A hundred paces southeast, the solitary grave of John V. Flaherty--
All three having served in what they knew as “the Great War.”
They fought commanded by men, they fell commanded by Death:
No breath, no beating heart, a dead stillness at Calvary.
These three, like so many human beings, lived willing to die.
John Griffin, Army soldier stationed along the Rhine after the war--
After “the war to end all wars,”— shot dead by a German sniper.
Younger Daniel returned to Montana, married with children,
Worked as a fireman until a single slip on ice concussed his brain.
And John V Flaherty, born 1896, served in the 5th Marines,
Killed on 18 July 1918 in the Battle of Soissons, France.
All three gravestones front south, the brothers’ dark granites enfenced
Side by side, while Flaherty’s white stone stands boldly alone,
With two small flags respectfully enearthed beside the granite base.
You approach to read the inscription, a battle-scarred Old Glory
To your left, a faded red Marine Corps flag drooping on the right,
The light granite gravestone poised at attention on its foundation,
Glistening in the sunlight, silent yet solemnly whispering:
“Beneath your feet lie the earthly remains of John Vincent Flaherty,
5th Marines, who in ways unknown to him, gave his life for you
Standing and gazing at this memorial rock. John was killed
Retaking Soissons from invaders on the first day of battle.
Born and raised in Great Falls, Montana, John left no progeny--
Nothing of his own remains on earth but these few disjointed bones.
Humbly bow your head and be grateful for his life, and for yours.”
As I listen and reflect, words from John’s friend with whom he enlisted
Begin to echo out from the forgotten past: “You heard by now
That Jack was killed in battle. He was wounded badly in the scalp,
And died on the way to the dressing station.
I surely miss the poor boy, but I guess it’s all for the best.
You must tell his folks that he did not suffer,
And I know he must of died a happy death.”
Shot in the head by a bullet, or struck by shrapnel,
If John was still conscious, he no doubt suffered severely.
I see blood, gushing blood, and I imagine his cries
As pain screams that Death is butchering his life.
Who knows if John’s death or anyone’s death was “all for the best?”
We do know that through the agonizing deaths of many
The invading armies were forced to surrender—for a time.
What could his friend mean in claiming that John died `a happy death’?’
His willingness to die was noble and brave, generous in its effects.
Whatever happiness he knew did not reside in his ravaged body,
But was grounded in his fixed resolve to sacrifice his life for others--
Tested and confirmed as he felt his bodily life bleeding out.
John's happiness, Everyman’s happiness, lies beyond one’s mortal body
In the Life that carries one alone across the undying stream of Death.
The piping song of a meadowlark gently penetrates my reverie.
From John’s grave I gaze back towards the Griffin brothers,
And walk past the lonesome spruce singing between these heroes’ graves--
A time-wounded tree of life bending over this wind-swept Calvary.
The rustling spruce speaks for every one who ever lived and died:
“Whether in life or in death, to be in God is my happiness.”
May these words be inscribed on the gravestone of my heart.
—Wm. P. McKane
April 2019
Dense leafless lilacs laboring slowly to bloom forth
To scent the fresh, high-plains air with fragrant life;
Roads encircling and bisecting the steeply sloping land,
Amidst the varied gravestones marking a plot of earth
Surrounded by deep ravines and distant mountains,
All quiet beneath the unhurried Montana sky.
Again I return alone to tended and untended graves,
And to monuments for three who fell, two soldiers, one Marine--
Brothers John and Daniel Griffin, soldiers in the A.E.F.;
A hundred paces southeast, the solitary grave of John V. Flaherty--
All three having served in what they knew as “the Great War.”
They fought commanded by men, they fell commanded by Death:
No breath, no beating heart, a dead stillness at Calvary.
These three, like so many human beings, lived willing to die.
John Griffin, Army soldier stationed along the Rhine after the war--
After “the war to end all wars,”— shot dead by a German sniper.
Younger Daniel returned to Montana, married with children,
Worked as a fireman until a single slip on ice concussed his brain.
And John V Flaherty, born 1896, served in the 5th Marines,
Killed on 18 July 1918 in the Battle of Soissons, France.
All three gravestones front south, the brothers’ dark granites enfenced
Side by side, while Flaherty’s white stone stands boldly alone,
With two small flags respectfully enearthed beside the granite base.
You approach to read the inscription, a battle-scarred Old Glory
To your left, a faded red Marine Corps flag drooping on the right,
The light granite gravestone poised at attention on its foundation,
Glistening in the sunlight, silent yet solemnly whispering:
“Beneath your feet lie the earthly remains of John Vincent Flaherty,
5th Marines, who in ways unknown to him, gave his life for you
Standing and gazing at this memorial rock. John was killed
Retaking Soissons from invaders on the first day of battle.
Born and raised in Great Falls, Montana, John left no progeny--
Nothing of his own remains on earth but these few disjointed bones.
Humbly bow your head and be grateful for his life, and for yours.”
As I listen and reflect, words from John’s friend with whom he enlisted
Begin to echo out from the forgotten past: “You heard by now
That Jack was killed in battle. He was wounded badly in the scalp,
And died on the way to the dressing station.
I surely miss the poor boy, but I guess it’s all for the best.
You must tell his folks that he did not suffer,
And I know he must of died a happy death.”
Shot in the head by a bullet, or struck by shrapnel,
If John was still conscious, he no doubt suffered severely.
I see blood, gushing blood, and I imagine his cries
As pain screams that Death is butchering his life.
Who knows if John’s death or anyone’s death was “all for the best?”
We do know that through the agonizing deaths of many
The invading armies were forced to surrender—for a time.
What could his friend mean in claiming that John died `a happy death’?’
His willingness to die was noble and brave, generous in its effects.
Whatever happiness he knew did not reside in his ravaged body,
But was grounded in his fixed resolve to sacrifice his life for others--
Tested and confirmed as he felt his bodily life bleeding out.
John's happiness, Everyman’s happiness, lies beyond one’s mortal body
In the Life that carries one alone across the undying stream of Death.
The piping song of a meadowlark gently penetrates my reverie.
From John’s grave I gaze back towards the Griffin brothers,
And walk past the lonesome spruce singing between these heroes’ graves--
A time-wounded tree of life bending over this wind-swept Calvary.
The rustling spruce speaks for every one who ever lived and died:
“Whether in life or in death, to be in God is my happiness.”
May these words be inscribed on the gravestone of my heart.
—Wm. P. McKane
April 2019
|
Consubstantial
|
I am here and so you are, and so are they
Seen or unseen, felt or unfelt, it matters not.
I can name you, some of you, a part of you:
Daniel and Christopher, Thomas and James,
And Dominic who said, “You are here.”
Indeed you are, and so am I and every I and you
And It, always It is. Then and now and ever.
What is named can be named are parts of a vaster whole
A whole that wills and does not will to be named or known.
Your name names but a fragment of you, is incomplete,
Ever and always incomplete and more, much more
Than any word can express; and love abounds unbounded
Unbounded sea of nothingness and all—not void--
Nor devoid of reality, but containing all at once,
Together yet discreet, sacred and profane,
Desiring reaching out, and love including all
And each in its own wabi-sabi otherness.
“I heard but did not hear a voice but not a voice…”
And so I-you wrote down no few years ago,
“Within but not within, you spoke but did not speak,
My name but not my name…”
How gracious, how generous, how kind you are
Creating every moment new and fresh, and ever
Being that in which each has and finds its lasting home.
—WPM
31 March 2019
Seen or unseen, felt or unfelt, it matters not.
I can name you, some of you, a part of you:
Daniel and Christopher, Thomas and James,
And Dominic who said, “You are here.”
Indeed you are, and so am I and every I and you
And It, always It is. Then and now and ever.
What is named can be named are parts of a vaster whole
A whole that wills and does not will to be named or known.
Your name names but a fragment of you, is incomplete,
Ever and always incomplete and more, much more
Than any word can express; and love abounds unbounded
Unbounded sea of nothingness and all—not void--
Nor devoid of reality, but containing all at once,
Together yet discreet, sacred and profane,
Desiring reaching out, and love including all
And each in its own wabi-sabi otherness.
“I heard but did not hear a voice but not a voice…”
And so I-you wrote down no few years ago,
“Within but not within, you spoke but did not speak,
My name but not my name…”
How gracious, how generous, how kind you are
Creating every moment new and fresh, and ever
Being that in which each has and finds its lasting home.
—WPM
31 March 2019
|
Order-Disorder
|
Order seen, disorder felt within,
Disorder seen and felt within.
Whirling stars and skies of clouds above
And whirling worlds within.
Order an ever incomplete achievement
Like beauty, uneven unmistakable-mistakable.
Words that speak when nothing else is heard,
Words unheard when listening to you, my dear.
Impulse repulse pulsing through the pulse of life
And you, unsung because unknown,
Unknown because unhoped for, wonderfully silent.
Return again to the impulse original to the moment
Before the time of thoughts and words flowing
Before a feeling emerging from the sacred swamp
Of life—And what is life? And death? Do you know?
I know that I do not know, but do not know well at all.
They are there, silent and unseen, soon to be invisible again.
You are there, silent and unseen, soon to be seen again.
And all the time racing through space unseen, unfelt, yet moving
From where to where and how I do not know. Do you?
What is it that you call you when the lights are out?
Vaster than the limits of thoughts and words,
Vaster than the wild fields of feelings and dreams
Far larger than can be contained or confined
Beyond and far away and near and pressing in
And all too vast for temporal understanding.
Where in the whirl of spinning worlds is awe?
Where in the unceasing flow of time is hushed beauty?
Where in this flow are you when flowing away?
Each moment precious to the receiving mind
Waiting for the cessation of unawed experiences.
—WPM
31 March 2019
Disorder seen and felt within.
Whirling stars and skies of clouds above
And whirling worlds within.
Order an ever incomplete achievement
Like beauty, uneven unmistakable-mistakable.
Words that speak when nothing else is heard,
Words unheard when listening to you, my dear.
Impulse repulse pulsing through the pulse of life
And you, unsung because unknown,
Unknown because unhoped for, wonderfully silent.
Return again to the impulse original to the moment
Before the time of thoughts and words flowing
Before a feeling emerging from the sacred swamp
Of life—And what is life? And death? Do you know?
I know that I do not know, but do not know well at all.
They are there, silent and unseen, soon to be invisible again.
You are there, silent and unseen, soon to be seen again.
And all the time racing through space unseen, unfelt, yet moving
From where to where and how I do not know. Do you?
What is it that you call you when the lights are out?
Vaster than the limits of thoughts and words,
Vaster than the wild fields of feelings and dreams
Far larger than can be contained or confined
Beyond and far away and near and pressing in
And all too vast for temporal understanding.
Where in the whirl of spinning worlds is awe?
Where in the unceasing flow of time is hushed beauty?
Where in this flow are you when flowing away?
Each moment precious to the receiving mind
Waiting for the cessation of unawed experiences.
—WPM
31 March 2019
|
To truth unknown
|
To express truth in any form is most difficult.
One may think that he speaks the truth,
But thinking is one thing, being truthful another.
One may believe that she always speaks the truth
And deceives herself in her exaggerations.
“She sang beyond the genius of the sea.”
Truly? Is there not more or other “genius” in the sea
Than one can know or surpass in song?
The crashing or lapping of the waves may speak
More truly than our human utterances.
Difficult and demanding to know the truth of anything,
Difficult and demanding to express known truth in words.
“O Lord, my hope has always been in you.”
Or has it? You boldly assert your presumed truth
And probably falsify reality in the process.
Difficult it is to know the truth of anything,
Difficult to know when and how to express it.
“I sing the body electric.” What does that mean?
The words sound pleasant and amusing,
Perhaps suggestive, but profoundly true—or not?
“You have your truth and I have mine,” you say.
Your “truth” is the body of your opinions,
And opinions may or may not hold truth.
What we call “truth,” even “scientific truth,”
Often masks our ignorance from ourselves and others.
“I loved you once, I love you still—perhaps.”
WPM incomplete
29 March 2019
One may think that he speaks the truth,
But thinking is one thing, being truthful another.
One may believe that she always speaks the truth
And deceives herself in her exaggerations.
“She sang beyond the genius of the sea.”
Truly? Is there not more or other “genius” in the sea
Than one can know or surpass in song?
The crashing or lapping of the waves may speak
More truly than our human utterances.
Difficult and demanding to know the truth of anything,
Difficult and demanding to express known truth in words.
“O Lord, my hope has always been in you.”
Or has it? You boldly assert your presumed truth
And probably falsify reality in the process.
Difficult it is to know the truth of anything,
Difficult to know when and how to express it.
“I sing the body electric.” What does that mean?
The words sound pleasant and amusing,
Perhaps suggestive, but profoundly true—or not?
“You have your truth and I have mine,” you say.
Your “truth” is the body of your opinions,
And opinions may or may not hold truth.
What we call “truth,” even “scientific truth,”
Often masks our ignorance from ourselves and others.
“I loved you once, I love you still—perhaps.”
WPM incomplete
29 March 2019
|
The burden of prayer: A meditation
|
Every word addressed to God burdens the heart;
At ease are those oblivious to the pain.
For every utterance is both true and untrue,
Revealing and obscuring the heart at once.
The prayers of the pious display simple beauty,
Moving in simplicity, yet audacious;
For every word addressed to God is questionable;
How can someone speak these words in truth?
Can a man who prays not know the burden
Of speaking truth and deception at the same time?
Is he oblivious to his own self-deceptions
And futile attempts to deceive the Almighty?
The simpler the words of prayer, the better;
The fewer words uttered, the less untruth.
Blessed the one who bows his hidden heart and says
“I love you,” and ponders his lack of love.
The unbeliever’s way is easier, not burdensome now:
No God acknowledged, nothing spoken, no one addressed.
So distorting half-truths are not uttered;
Nor is the heart humbled by its ignorance.
The man without faith remains blind of heart,
Blind to reality at its and his decisive core;
Without faith, the divine escapes being known,
And so does one’s abysmal ignorance.
Not beautiful words these, nor poetically expressed,
But needing to be written down and weighed.
Turn the heart and mind to God, but know:
What you imagine God to be is not.
Wrestle with the agony of your insincere prayer,
Wrestle with the pain of self-deception.
Be aware, you who would pray to God,
That every word bespeaks and betrays you.
—Wm. P. McKane
28 March 2019
At ease are those oblivious to the pain.
For every utterance is both true and untrue,
Revealing and obscuring the heart at once.
The prayers of the pious display simple beauty,
Moving in simplicity, yet audacious;
For every word addressed to God is questionable;
How can someone speak these words in truth?
Can a man who prays not know the burden
Of speaking truth and deception at the same time?
Is he oblivious to his own self-deceptions
And futile attempts to deceive the Almighty?
The simpler the words of prayer, the better;
The fewer words uttered, the less untruth.
Blessed the one who bows his hidden heart and says
“I love you,” and ponders his lack of love.
The unbeliever’s way is easier, not burdensome now:
No God acknowledged, nothing spoken, no one addressed.
So distorting half-truths are not uttered;
Nor is the heart humbled by its ignorance.
The man without faith remains blind of heart,
Blind to reality at its and his decisive core;
Without faith, the divine escapes being known,
And so does one’s abysmal ignorance.
Not beautiful words these, nor poetically expressed,
But needing to be written down and weighed.
Turn the heart and mind to God, but know:
What you imagine God to be is not.
Wrestle with the agony of your insincere prayer,
Wrestle with the pain of self-deception.
Be aware, you who would pray to God,
That every word bespeaks and betrays you.
—Wm. P. McKane
28 March 2019
|
In Retirement
|
Words reluctantly knock on my door
Faintly do I hear their sound.
Quiet realm listening
Blower from the furnace
Clock ticking
Constant chirping in my ears.
Little or no emotion until relief
As the blower fades into silence.
Moses shifts and quiets himself.
Steady ticking
One beat stronger than the other.
Many seek excitement, noise, busyness.
I favor silence, savor silence
No commotion of emotion
Just sweet and restful peace.
I slightly adjust my posture in the chair
And wait, listening to near silence.
How good and pleasant it is
No demands, no commands
No disturbing thoughts
No worries or fears or nagging voices.
Breathing in and out
Perceptible in the rise and fall.
Such is the retirement I have longed for
Far removed from rushing through life
Poised on the edge of nothingness
Waiting at the border of eternity.
—WPM
27 March 2019
Faintly do I hear their sound.
Quiet realm listening
Blower from the furnace
Clock ticking
Constant chirping in my ears.
Little or no emotion until relief
As the blower fades into silence.
Moses shifts and quiets himself.
Steady ticking
One beat stronger than the other.
Many seek excitement, noise, busyness.
I favor silence, savor silence
No commotion of emotion
Just sweet and restful peace.
I slightly adjust my posture in the chair
And wait, listening to near silence.
How good and pleasant it is
No demands, no commands
No disturbing thoughts
No worries or fears or nagging voices.
Breathing in and out
Perceptible in the rise and fall.
Such is the retirement I have longed for
Far removed from rushing through life
Poised on the edge of nothingness
Waiting at the border of eternity.
—WPM
27 March 2019
|
“And you, o LORD, how long?”
|
Your absence is a welcomed gift
Your silence nourishes
The field of nothingness delights
More than trinkets or treasures
Or a present or an absent god.
Far removed from your face or words
No spirit stirring and nothing sensed.
How delightful the void of lonefulness
Alone even from the Alone
And silent the unspoken voice.
—WPM
27 March 2019
Your silence nourishes
The field of nothingness delights
More than trinkets or treasures
Or a present or an absent god.
Far removed from your face or words
No spirit stirring and nothing sensed.
How delightful the void of lonefulness
Alone even from the Alone
And silent the unspoken voice.
—WPM
27 March 2019
|
Begins and Ends
|
Each breath a new beginning
And an end.
With each breathing in, I begin;
With each exhale, I end.
The sea flows in
And the sea flows out.
A new day begins
And day passes into night.
Now I come to be
And now I end.
--WPM
26 March 2019
And an end.
With each breathing in, I begin;
With each exhale, I end.
The sea flows in
And the sea flows out.
A new day begins
And day passes into night.
Now I come to be
And now I end.
--WPM
26 March 2019
|
For You
|
Slowly you are disappearing
Fading into nothingness.
You feel the pull, the undertow
And fear arises in your throat.
You are, my friend, now on your way
Exiting the scene and all you’ve known.
And so you grab at anything
To anchor you here as you disappear
But all that’s here is leaving too
As you slowly slide away.
—Wm. P. McKane
25 March 2019
Fading into nothingness.
You feel the pull, the undertow
And fear arises in your throat.
You are, my friend, now on your way
Exiting the scene and all you’ve known.
And so you grab at anything
To anchor you here as you disappear
But all that’s here is leaving too
As you slowly slide away.
—Wm. P. McKane
25 March 2019
|
Hymn to Old Age
|
O “season of mists, and mellow fruitfulness,”
Of caressing rains and merciful days of sun;
O reason that rises from the mists of fruitlessness
Of years of wandering homeless on the earth
A stranger indeed in many a strange land
And finding no home to dwell in but God alone
The constant, steady companion enlightening the way
From darkness into light and dark beyond.
“The older I become, and the more I am alone,
The more that I love myth,” science’s founder wrote.
For all the world’s a myth, and mythically unknown
By man the little man wandering through the mists
Of half-sleep and forgetfulness, of dying and of birth
Of sunsets and sunrises, of moon glow on the snow,
Of tender shoots arising new-sprung from the earth
And leaves releasing from their trees to cast themselves
Lovingly into the motherly arms of bosomed earth.
Breath flows in and breath flows out the tides of life
The ocean flows ashore retreats again
The breathing of the earth and sea and sky
And creatures of a day born yet bound to die.
It is all one for one who is alone at home
At home alone in one the all that never dies or leaves
But flowing in and out, like constant sea and transitory breath
Tomorrow or today or yesterday I do not know
Nor does it matter, for spirit’s here and now.
O season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
When failures and successes cease to matter
When every creature’s death diminishes me
Who am involved in mankind and in history
When gods can be dogs, and dogs become like gods
(For are not dog and god mirror images of each other?)
When day is night and nighttime day,
And every day and night is yesterday today.
—Wm. P. McKane
19 March 2019
Of caressing rains and merciful days of sun;
O reason that rises from the mists of fruitlessness
Of years of wandering homeless on the earth
A stranger indeed in many a strange land
And finding no home to dwell in but God alone
The constant, steady companion enlightening the way
From darkness into light and dark beyond.
“The older I become, and the more I am alone,
The more that I love myth,” science’s founder wrote.
For all the world’s a myth, and mythically unknown
By man the little man wandering through the mists
Of half-sleep and forgetfulness, of dying and of birth
Of sunsets and sunrises, of moon glow on the snow,
Of tender shoots arising new-sprung from the earth
And leaves releasing from their trees to cast themselves
Lovingly into the motherly arms of bosomed earth.
Breath flows in and breath flows out the tides of life
The ocean flows ashore retreats again
The breathing of the earth and sea and sky
And creatures of a day born yet bound to die.
It is all one for one who is alone at home
At home alone in one the all that never dies or leaves
But flowing in and out, like constant sea and transitory breath
Tomorrow or today or yesterday I do not know
Nor does it matter, for spirit’s here and now.
O season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
When failures and successes cease to matter
When every creature’s death diminishes me
Who am involved in mankind and in history
When gods can be dogs, and dogs become like gods
(For are not dog and god mirror images of each other?)
When day is night and nighttime day,
And every day and night is yesterday today.
—Wm. P. McKane
19 March 2019
To the Sea
“I searched into myself.” Heracleitos
Why is a man attracted to the sea?
What draws one to behold the ocean’s face?
What pulls so many of our kith or kind
To walk along the shore or dance in waves?
What draws a man to voyage out to sea?
What tempts a few to launch out to the deep
While others remain tenting on the shore
Or lie about sunbathing on a beach?
There’s more at work in one than can be known
When pilgrimaging from familiar shores:
An inner longing and a call from out
Beneath the surface of the surging seas.
Enthusiasms fill one’s soul anew
Old memories become alive once more:
“I must go down to the seas again,
To the lonely sea and the sky.”
What darkling forces lie beneath the waves?
The ocean gods are not the Bereshit--
More human-like, and filled with wit and whim
Who will to kill or compel an odyssey.
One feels these ocean forces uncontrolled
Yet ventures into their chthonic realm
Feet touching sand or rock, soul sensing void
That lies beyond the limits of one’s ken.
These forces form as fish, sea snakes, or sharks,
Or jelly fish that sting, or shells that scrape.
One cannot see what hiddenly draws near
From well beneath the surface of the sea.
The ocean gods are moody gods—now still
And resting quietly within the sea
Then suddenly their demon mood has changed--
Their rage and storm destroying as they will
***
Unknown a soul is filled with gods within
Or gods without and hiding in the sea
Who sing to minds that plumb forgotten depths--
“The sea within without is god made flesh.”
A little child swims near Waikiki
And sees a fin come gliding through green waves;
You quickly reach a platform anchored there
And climb a ladder from the circling shark.
A burning house in winter blazing up
Towards the distant stars far dark and cold
Its flaming walls fall downward to the waves
That crash against the rocks of southern Maine
Where once you rode your little wagon down
A narrow patch of sandy-muddy beach
A sneaker wave rushed in and took you out--
Your brother pulled you from the deadly surf.
While visiting the California coast
A young man swam where no one chanced to go
And found himself swept farther out from land
Returning all exhausted, flopped on sand.
The sea that draws is ocean playing rough
Whose frightening undertaking killing powers
Still whisper wisdom in the old man’s ear:
“The day that we shall choose you will die here.”
So why am I attracted to the sea?
True beauty draws a lover to herself.
The ocean’s being knows no earthly bounds--
The seeming-endless realm transcending sight
Unchanging-ever-changing beauty-filled
Beyond within displaying sights and sounds
Both breathing out and breathing into mind
And drawing you beneath seducing waves.
—Wm. Paul McKane
12-17 March 2019
What draws one to behold the ocean’s face?
What pulls so many of our kith or kind
To walk along the shore or dance in waves?
What draws a man to voyage out to sea?
What tempts a few to launch out to the deep
While others remain tenting on the shore
Or lie about sunbathing on a beach?
There’s more at work in one than can be known
When pilgrimaging from familiar shores:
An inner longing and a call from out
Beneath the surface of the surging seas.
Enthusiasms fill one’s soul anew
Old memories become alive once more:
“I must go down to the seas again,
To the lonely sea and the sky.”
What darkling forces lie beneath the waves?
The ocean gods are not the Bereshit--
More human-like, and filled with wit and whim
Who will to kill or compel an odyssey.
One feels these ocean forces uncontrolled
Yet ventures into their chthonic realm
Feet touching sand or rock, soul sensing void
That lies beyond the limits of one’s ken.
These forces form as fish, sea snakes, or sharks,
Or jelly fish that sting, or shells that scrape.
One cannot see what hiddenly draws near
From well beneath the surface of the sea.
The ocean gods are moody gods—now still
And resting quietly within the sea
Then suddenly their demon mood has changed--
Their rage and storm destroying as they will
***
Unknown a soul is filled with gods within
Or gods without and hiding in the sea
Who sing to minds that plumb forgotten depths--
“The sea within without is god made flesh.”
A little child swims near Waikiki
And sees a fin come gliding through green waves;
You quickly reach a platform anchored there
And climb a ladder from the circling shark.
A burning house in winter blazing up
Towards the distant stars far dark and cold
Its flaming walls fall downward to the waves
That crash against the rocks of southern Maine
Where once you rode your little wagon down
A narrow patch of sandy-muddy beach
A sneaker wave rushed in and took you out--
Your brother pulled you from the deadly surf.
While visiting the California coast
A young man swam where no one chanced to go
And found himself swept farther out from land
Returning all exhausted, flopped on sand.
The sea that draws is ocean playing rough
Whose frightening undertaking killing powers
Still whisper wisdom in the old man’s ear:
“The day that we shall choose you will die here.”
So why am I attracted to the sea?
True beauty draws a lover to herself.
The ocean’s being knows no earthly bounds--
The seeming-endless realm transcending sight
Unchanging-ever-changing beauty-filled
Beyond within displaying sights and sounds
Both breathing out and breathing into mind
And drawing you beneath seducing waves.
—Wm. Paul McKane
12-17 March 2019
|
Possibilities
|
A clean page, an empty page,
And full of possibilities.
A heart and mind lie opened from within,
And full of possibilities.
A life well lived, self-emptied life,
And full of possibilities.
A breathing in, a breathing out,
Still full of possibilities.
The ocean is the soul of man writ large
Upon the canvass of the cosmic whole.
—Wm. P. McKane
17 March 2019
And full of possibilities.
A heart and mind lie opened from within,
And full of possibilities.
A life well lived, self-emptied life,
And full of possibilities.
A breathing in, a breathing out,
Still full of possibilities.
The ocean is the soul of man writ large
Upon the canvass of the cosmic whole.
—Wm. P. McKane
17 March 2019
|
What is This?
|
What is this?
Difficult to find, though always near,
Difficult to touch, though close at hand.
Somewhere at sea perhaps, in or clouds,
Not unlike a bird in flight,
Silently winging here and there.
Without it, what could one possibly know?
With it, what could knowledge be?
Water running down the drain--
And it is there, or here--
Down the drain
Or in the eyes and ears?
Often as fleeting as a single moment
Never remaining when the day is done
And eyes close in a gentle sleep.
Eyes may open, yet it is not here,
Or there, or anywhere
Known or unknown.
What is this?
Is it not? It is.
When present, as if never absent,
When absent, as if never present.
When absent, what could life be?
When present, you are you.
Wm. P. McKane, OSB
10 March 2019
Difficult to find, though always near,
Difficult to touch, though close at hand.
Somewhere at sea perhaps, in or clouds,
Not unlike a bird in flight,
Silently winging here and there.
Without it, what could one possibly know?
With it, what could knowledge be?
Water running down the drain--
And it is there, or here--
Down the drain
Or in the eyes and ears?
Often as fleeting as a single moment
Never remaining when the day is done
And eyes close in a gentle sleep.
Eyes may open, yet it is not here,
Or there, or anywhere
Known or unknown.
What is this?
Is it not? It is.
When present, as if never absent,
When absent, as if never present.
When absent, what could life be?
When present, you are you.
Wm. P. McKane, OSB
10 March 2019
|
Passing Days
|
How frail they are, these days of autumn,
glorious in their afternoon glow,
and passing, passing.
How weak and vulnerable they are,
these little ones of mine,
and passing, ever passing.
A single fatal illness--
one impulsive leap into the street--
and their lives are ended.
Blessed and happy these autumn days
when you sit in my lap
my little one, passing away.
WPM
01 March 2019
glorious in their afternoon glow,
and passing, passing.
How weak and vulnerable they are,
these little ones of mine,
and passing, ever passing.
A single fatal illness--
one impulsive leap into the street--
and their lives are ended.
Blessed and happy these autumn days
when you sit in my lap
my little one, passing away.
WPM
01 March 2019
|
Frozen heart of winter
|
It stopped.
Everything stopped
no movement seen
no sounding heard.
Everything ceased
nothing seen moving
a lifeless deep freeze.
World stilled and silent
more than 40 degrees
below freezing.
It stopped.
Nothing seen moving
not a flake falling,
snow enshrouding everything.
Frozen heart of winter
frigid night of winter.
Not a squirrel moving,
Nor a cat stalking.
Frigid freezing
frozen everything
Wm P McKane
05 Feb 2019
Everything stopped
no movement seen
no sounding heard.
Everything ceased
nothing seen moving
a lifeless deep freeze.
World stilled and silent
more than 40 degrees
below freezing.
It stopped.
Nothing seen moving
not a flake falling,
snow enshrouding everything.
Frozen heart of winter
frigid night of winter.
Not a squirrel moving,
Nor a cat stalking.
Frigid freezing
frozen everything
Wm P McKane
05 Feb 2019
|
Gravestones
|
Silent and still they lie
these gravestones
unmovable and unmoving
in the winter wind.
Cold and lifeless to touch
solid with the hardness
of frozen earth, of death
lejana y sola.
They lie but do not lie
these gravestones
unyielding reminders
of what we clean forgot.
Shadows of shrubs
stripped bare
etched upon gray stone
and only the shadows dance.
Silently still speaking they lie
the gravestones
engraven in solitude
where they cannot die.
WPM
14 January 2019
these gravestones
unmovable and unmoving
in the winter wind.
Cold and lifeless to touch
solid with the hardness
of frozen earth, of death
lejana y sola.
They lie but do not lie
these gravestones
unyielding reminders
of what we clean forgot.
Shadows of shrubs
stripped bare
etched upon gray stone
and only the shadows dance.
Silently still speaking they lie
the gravestones
engraven in solitude
where they cannot die.
WPM
14 January 2019
|
Seeking to be conscious of nothing
|
Although the music playing in my room delights me
“Widerstehe doch der Sünde,” opening aria of Bach’s cantata,
sung by the marvelous voice of Marta Höffgen--
for everything indeed there is a time and season,
and now silence must reign to hear the spirits sing.
How unsilent is this Sunday silence, bestirred by wood stove’s fan
and broken more rudely by cars and trucks racing by my window
reminding me how much I long for real silence, dead silence,
and the wind howling in the creek valley, blasting then singing
nearly forty miles an hour: frigid Montana winter winds--
Winds that wind around my little world may be threatening sounds
and are for those stranded standing naked deer cattle horses
but for me they are enchanting disturbing calming sounds
friendly winds of creative destructive spirits howling and dancing
through the twilight world of a late winter evening.
Still silence of slow breathing, heart beating slowly slower,
softly snoring old Moses (such a wonderful companion)
ceso todo y nada: noise of fire fan winds autos
and worrisome thoughts—where’s Elijah now? what is he doing?
feeling warm—thirsty—fire dry air in congested nasal passages.
Into another world, stiller world devoutly to be wished
here and now is the point of entrance into no time
seize the moment—no, let the moment be—cease everything
ceso todo—yet longing for the pause between two breaths
between two waves: refreshes restores reorders regrounds.
Renothing—for imaginings must cease as well as
words images feelings thoughts memories--
stripped naked like a cow on a barren coulee hillside
waiting to give birth in a blasting winter wind
when everything departs and no thing abides.
Deus nihil posted on a cell door taken down--
gods too must die—die Götterdämmerung--
descend lower—break the lantern and its shadows--
descend below the surface waves, seeking nothing--
Nichts und alles / ceso todo / deus nihil.
Somewhere between the hither and the farther shore
buoyant body returning to the surface—dive back down,
you cannot save the earth or land—let them be--
nor your country, but perhaps a solitary soul still sounding
the silent depths beneath the unseen sea.
The depths of the unseen unknown unhoped for ground
limitless bottomless unreachable unteachable abyss
of nothingness—and still one must do one’s duty,
and preserve the best that has been achieved,
letting everything go from one’s own gripping fingers.
Return to the beginning—to the silence out of which arises--
light be! and there is light, enlightening every consciousness—
o light invisible, light unseeable, light dark to wandering eyes--
that out of which the stream of being darkly arises or
stream of consciousness seeking to be conscious of nothing
—Wm P McKane
Feb 2018
“Widerstehe doch der Sünde,” opening aria of Bach’s cantata,
sung by the marvelous voice of Marta Höffgen--
for everything indeed there is a time and season,
and now silence must reign to hear the spirits sing.
How unsilent is this Sunday silence, bestirred by wood stove’s fan
and broken more rudely by cars and trucks racing by my window
reminding me how much I long for real silence, dead silence,
and the wind howling in the creek valley, blasting then singing
nearly forty miles an hour: frigid Montana winter winds--
Winds that wind around my little world may be threatening sounds
and are for those stranded standing naked deer cattle horses
but for me they are enchanting disturbing calming sounds
friendly winds of creative destructive spirits howling and dancing
through the twilight world of a late winter evening.
Still silence of slow breathing, heart beating slowly slower,
softly snoring old Moses (such a wonderful companion)
ceso todo y nada: noise of fire fan winds autos
and worrisome thoughts—where’s Elijah now? what is he doing?
feeling warm—thirsty—fire dry air in congested nasal passages.
Into another world, stiller world devoutly to be wished
here and now is the point of entrance into no time
seize the moment—no, let the moment be—cease everything
ceso todo—yet longing for the pause between two breaths
between two waves: refreshes restores reorders regrounds.
Renothing—for imaginings must cease as well as
words images feelings thoughts memories--
stripped naked like a cow on a barren coulee hillside
waiting to give birth in a blasting winter wind
when everything departs and no thing abides.
Deus nihil posted on a cell door taken down--
gods too must die—die Götterdämmerung--
descend lower—break the lantern and its shadows--
descend below the surface waves, seeking nothing--
Nichts und alles / ceso todo / deus nihil.
Somewhere between the hither and the farther shore
buoyant body returning to the surface—dive back down,
you cannot save the earth or land—let them be--
nor your country, but perhaps a solitary soul still sounding
the silent depths beneath the unseen sea.
The depths of the unseen unknown unhoped for ground
limitless bottomless unreachable unteachable abyss
of nothingness—and still one must do one’s duty,
and preserve the best that has been achieved,
letting everything go from one’s own gripping fingers.
Return to the beginning—to the silence out of which arises--
light be! and there is light, enlightening every consciousness—
o light invisible, light unseeable, light dark to wandering eyes--
that out of which the stream of being darkly arises or
stream of consciousness seeking to be conscious of nothing
—Wm P McKane
Feb 2018
|
Facing
|
Who is this man or beast who shadows me--
or not a beast but some sheer mystery
whose presence comes both faintly and in power--
When I must turn and gaze into the dark
and quickly turn away, forgetting what I’ve seen--
not seen at all but dimly darkly sensed.
And do I dare to turn toward your face?
That’s not a face and nothing one can know
or feel, and yet that shadows me today
and yesterday and every day that comes
unwelcome guest appearing from nowhere--
decaying leaves ooze mud beneath my feet.
At once you take a faceless skull that mocks--
a blackened mask before a lightless blank
that follows after after and before
and comes yet closer ever closer than before
enclosing me in your blank nothingness
and making me as lifeless as your formless face.
“You are not facing me your mind is wandering
some sad and sorrowful and fearful sickenings
not standing still to see what still stands still.”
“Who are you then, or what, that speaks to me?”
“Your shadow and your life and your impending doom,
and all you ever were and ever will become.”
I see my lifeless form, a body lying still,
and feel no breath no beats but nothingness
for I am gone not I— no I that sees
just you that gazes down on lifelessness;
for you have done your work, sheer emptying
Dissolving me into yourself, o death.
—William Paul McKane
Jan 2018
or not a beast but some sheer mystery
whose presence comes both faintly and in power--
When I must turn and gaze into the dark
and quickly turn away, forgetting what I’ve seen--
not seen at all but dimly darkly sensed.
And do I dare to turn toward your face?
That’s not a face and nothing one can know
or feel, and yet that shadows me today
and yesterday and every day that comes
unwelcome guest appearing from nowhere--
decaying leaves ooze mud beneath my feet.
At once you take a faceless skull that mocks--
a blackened mask before a lightless blank
that follows after after and before
and comes yet closer ever closer than before
enclosing me in your blank nothingness
and making me as lifeless as your formless face.
“You are not facing me your mind is wandering
some sad and sorrowful and fearful sickenings
not standing still to see what still stands still.”
“Who are you then, or what, that speaks to me?”
“Your shadow and your life and your impending doom,
and all you ever were and ever will become.”
I see my lifeless form, a body lying still,
and feel no breath no beats but nothingness
for I am gone not I— no I that sees
just you that gazes down on lifelessness;
for you have done your work, sheer emptying
Dissolving me into yourself, o death.
—William Paul McKane
Jan 2018
|
Three Poems
|
An introduction to three poems, which immediately follow:
K____, I do not recall if I sent you one or more of these poems. They followed each other closely in time, and I consider them a unit. Strangely, all three men were alive between 1875-1900: Rilke, Saint-Saëns, Nietzsche. I do not even know why I wrote them, except I wanted to. The poem to Rilke is a reflection on a short poem of his, “Archaic Torso of Apollo,” and particularly the last words, which really provoked wonder in me. The poem to Saint-Saëns reflects on a 10-minute section of the 1st movement of his 3rd symphony, a passage which has spoken strongly to me since I discovered it by chance during my undergraduate years. To Nietzsche: You know my fascination with him. It is not just one thought, or one work, that I reflect on, but his life, his spirituality, if you will--his descent. I can never read Nietzsche without being mindful of what happened to him. Unlike his well-known atheistic biographer, Walter Kaufman, I do not think that Nietzsche’s mental breakdown was really caused primarily by physical illness. One can see it coming fairly early in his writing career. He came to live what he expressed. That is how I see him. Also, you may know that I love Nietzsche as a brother human being, and even as a friend. I feel close to him—when I read Nietzsche, he is speaking directly to me. So I do not try to write from a hostile position.
That is more introduction to these poems than I have ventured on perhaps any poems I have written. And I will add: no rhyme used. Free verse, as one finds in my favorite 20th-century poem: Eliot’s “Four Quartets.” (Or in Shakespeare’s plays; or in the rhymeless, rhythmical poems by Whitman). The subjects did not lend themselves to rhyme, in my view. They lend themselves to thought briefly expressed, which poetry engenders and demands.
Early this month, I wrote the 5 “Biblical Poems” and then these 3, which belong together, and perhaps with the biblical poems that were written immediately before them. Who knows—I do not--another one may be waiting to be written.
******
To Rilke
“You must change your life.”
Yes, my friend, your words leap from the page
of your glorious, sensuous poem--
but I do not understand why that question arises
from gazing at the archaic-luminous torso,
or why you wrote those words as you did--
as if erupting from Apollo’s powerful chest.
Urgently and naggingly, I must wonder:
Can anyone really change one’s life?
If so, to what possible extent? And how?
Can these blind eyes even see themselves?
“I was empowered in a world of strife,
before I had the power to change my life.”
Those words ring true to our tortoise-condition.
And yet, dear friend, your words still burn--
a red-hot sword thrust into my inner soul,
with so much force did you thrust forth
from Apollo’s bust to your unsuspecting reader.
Your words have assumed your god’s authority,
ripping off all pretense, cutting off all escape,
as you painfully penetrate your reader’s heart.
“You must change your life.”
In the light of such translucent beauty
and because of this tremendous lover
I, even I, must change my life--
a life perhaps more formless than Apollo’s remains,
still alive for eyes and mind bewitched by beauty.
And the change of life must begin in the same stillness
and concentrated spirit in which you so lovingly gazed.
******
To Camille Saint-Saëns
Buried within your “organ symphony,”
beginning half way through the first movement,
you unfold and develop an exquisite melody
far more than a sweet-nostalgic song--
a transformation of the somber Dies Irae,
drawing your attentive listener into bliss.
Not damnation’s threat, nor fear of Judgment Day,
but the most gentle Diotima leading one upward,
past the storms of life and of passion’s unrest
to the edge of eternal happiness reached
only through the narrow gate called death--
from here to there, in sheer self-transcendence.
Death not of everything known and loved, but of striving,
wishing, desiring—a complete letting go
and surrender into the night of eternal love--
music drawing the attentive listener to embrace death.
You entice a soul to make a joyful surrender
allowing a transient being to depart now in peace.
Your music does not force but invites self-surrender
by filling the heart with what it most desires,
liberating from loss, promising sustained bliss.
Beauty draws the lover to forget himself and enter in-
to a world not whirled but stilled and stilling,
entranced in beauty’s eternal passing.
******
To Nietzsche
Who are you, Nietzsche, behind your masks?
Do you know? Or have you played your masking games
so long that you no longer know yourself?
Did not Freud declare that you know yourself
more truly than anyone who ever lived? I wonder.
You are indeed incisive, brilliant, most complex.
You have unmasked the darker side of humankind
by analysis and by embodying the darkness
more cunningly than anyone I know,
reducing our drives to the will to power,
the love of truth to the will to deceive,
all that is good to a human contrivance.
And still, you daemonic man, you word-magician,
your inner agony evokes from me
a wish to befriend you in your loneliness,
consoling you in your self-enclosèd-self--
but you would discern mere sentimental love;
and how could you receive another’s gift?
Profoundly you envoice the demons of this age,
articulating our unspeakable darknesses
lurking beneath mere bourgeois consciousness
more bitingly than anyone else had dared--
an all-consuming fire for one who draws near,
you scorch and torch your epigones.
The demons you unleashed unleashed on you
fleet-footed flaming Furies pursuing you to death
after burning every mask from off your face
incinerating your reasoning beyond all reason
leaving you entombed without thought or speech
a warning voice to all who dare: gnothi seauton.
--William Paul McKane
Jan 2017
K____, I do not recall if I sent you one or more of these poems. They followed each other closely in time, and I consider them a unit. Strangely, all three men were alive between 1875-1900: Rilke, Saint-Saëns, Nietzsche. I do not even know why I wrote them, except I wanted to. The poem to Rilke is a reflection on a short poem of his, “Archaic Torso of Apollo,” and particularly the last words, which really provoked wonder in me. The poem to Saint-Saëns reflects on a 10-minute section of the 1st movement of his 3rd symphony, a passage which has spoken strongly to me since I discovered it by chance during my undergraduate years. To Nietzsche: You know my fascination with him. It is not just one thought, or one work, that I reflect on, but his life, his spirituality, if you will--his descent. I can never read Nietzsche without being mindful of what happened to him. Unlike his well-known atheistic biographer, Walter Kaufman, I do not think that Nietzsche’s mental breakdown was really caused primarily by physical illness. One can see it coming fairly early in his writing career. He came to live what he expressed. That is how I see him. Also, you may know that I love Nietzsche as a brother human being, and even as a friend. I feel close to him—when I read Nietzsche, he is speaking directly to me. So I do not try to write from a hostile position.
That is more introduction to these poems than I have ventured on perhaps any poems I have written. And I will add: no rhyme used. Free verse, as one finds in my favorite 20th-century poem: Eliot’s “Four Quartets.” (Or in Shakespeare’s plays; or in the rhymeless, rhythmical poems by Whitman). The subjects did not lend themselves to rhyme, in my view. They lend themselves to thought briefly expressed, which poetry engenders and demands.
Early this month, I wrote the 5 “Biblical Poems” and then these 3, which belong together, and perhaps with the biblical poems that were written immediately before them. Who knows—I do not--another one may be waiting to be written.
******
To Rilke
“You must change your life.”
Yes, my friend, your words leap from the page
of your glorious, sensuous poem--
but I do not understand why that question arises
from gazing at the archaic-luminous torso,
or why you wrote those words as you did--
as if erupting from Apollo’s powerful chest.
Urgently and naggingly, I must wonder:
Can anyone really change one’s life?
If so, to what possible extent? And how?
Can these blind eyes even see themselves?
“I was empowered in a world of strife,
before I had the power to change my life.”
Those words ring true to our tortoise-condition.
And yet, dear friend, your words still burn--
a red-hot sword thrust into my inner soul,
with so much force did you thrust forth
from Apollo’s bust to your unsuspecting reader.
Your words have assumed your god’s authority,
ripping off all pretense, cutting off all escape,
as you painfully penetrate your reader’s heart.
“You must change your life.”
In the light of such translucent beauty
and because of this tremendous lover
I, even I, must change my life--
a life perhaps more formless than Apollo’s remains,
still alive for eyes and mind bewitched by beauty.
And the change of life must begin in the same stillness
and concentrated spirit in which you so lovingly gazed.
******
To Camille Saint-Saëns
Buried within your “organ symphony,”
beginning half way through the first movement,
you unfold and develop an exquisite melody
far more than a sweet-nostalgic song--
a transformation of the somber Dies Irae,
drawing your attentive listener into bliss.
Not damnation’s threat, nor fear of Judgment Day,
but the most gentle Diotima leading one upward,
past the storms of life and of passion’s unrest
to the edge of eternal happiness reached
only through the narrow gate called death--
from here to there, in sheer self-transcendence.
Death not of everything known and loved, but of striving,
wishing, desiring—a complete letting go
and surrender into the night of eternal love--
music drawing the attentive listener to embrace death.
You entice a soul to make a joyful surrender
allowing a transient being to depart now in peace.
Your music does not force but invites self-surrender
by filling the heart with what it most desires,
liberating from loss, promising sustained bliss.
Beauty draws the lover to forget himself and enter in-
to a world not whirled but stilled and stilling,
entranced in beauty’s eternal passing.
******
To Nietzsche
Who are you, Nietzsche, behind your masks?
Do you know? Or have you played your masking games
so long that you no longer know yourself?
Did not Freud declare that you know yourself
more truly than anyone who ever lived? I wonder.
You are indeed incisive, brilliant, most complex.
You have unmasked the darker side of humankind
by analysis and by embodying the darkness
more cunningly than anyone I know,
reducing our drives to the will to power,
the love of truth to the will to deceive,
all that is good to a human contrivance.
And still, you daemonic man, you word-magician,
your inner agony evokes from me
a wish to befriend you in your loneliness,
consoling you in your self-enclosèd-self--
but you would discern mere sentimental love;
and how could you receive another’s gift?
Profoundly you envoice the demons of this age,
articulating our unspeakable darknesses
lurking beneath mere bourgeois consciousness
more bitingly than anyone else had dared--
an all-consuming fire for one who draws near,
you scorch and torch your epigones.
The demons you unleashed unleashed on you
fleet-footed flaming Furies pursuing you to death
after burning every mask from off your face
incinerating your reasoning beyond all reason
leaving you entombed without thought or speech
a warning voice to all who dare: gnothi seauton.
--William Paul McKane
Jan 2017