I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for
may for once spring clear
without my contriving.
I love the dark hours of my being.
My mind deepens into them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood.
Then the knowing comes: I can open
to another life that’s wide and timeless.
It is to be learned—
This cleaving and this burning,
But only by the one who
Spends out himself again.
Everything that man esteem
Endures a moment or a day.
Love’s pleasure drives his love away,
The painter’s brush consumes his dreams;
The herald’s cry, the soldier’s tread
Exhaust his glory and his might:
Whatever flames upon the night
Man’s own resinous heart has fed.
Make Music With Your Life
Make music with your life
cuts every deepday madness
Into jewels that you wear
Carry 16 bars of old blues
everywhere you go
walk thru azure sadness
Like a guitar player
seeker of truth
follow no path
all paths lead where
truth is here
Architecture is in essence, the poetry of space.
For me, the creation of a photograph is experienced as a heightened emotional response, most akin to poetry and music, each image the culmination of a compelling impulse I cannot deny…I am deeply aware of my spiritual connection with it. In my life, as in my work, I am motivated by a great yearning for balance and harmony beyond the realm of human experience, reaching for the essence of oneness with the Universe.
I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this one
but I give myself to it.
For what sometimes
Overwhelms us always
Clings to it, too—
A kind of memory that tells us
That what we’re now
Striving for was once
Nearer and truer and
Attached to us
With infinite tenderness.
Here all is distance,
There it was breath.
If only we too could find
Some defined narrow,
Purely human place,
Our own small strip of fertile soil
Between stream and stone.
For even now our heart
Just as with those others.
And no longer
Can we gaze after it
Into pictures that soothe, or
Into godlike bodies
Where it finds
A grander restraint.
They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom they were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into silence. Only by form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The night is so still that I forget to breathe…
The air is so still that it seems to stop my heart.
I remember you in a black and white photograph
Taken this time of some year. You were leaning against
A half-shed tree, standing in the leaves the tree had lost.
When I finally exhale it takes forever to be over.