Friday, October 01, 2010

In the Garden



I shall go to the garden and meditate.
I shall go into the garden, and sit beneath
the short maples and tall cedars,
koi at my feet, and rain kissing my brow.
I shall not notice the rain
as I meditate, its kiss or its promise.
I shall let the rain come, let it snow,
let it snow, let it come unto me that
the garden is never empty of rain.



I shall sit in the garden and clear my mind.
I shall go into the garden and empty self to
become true self, emptied, whole, full of
the clear white light.



I shall go into the garden, and return.
I shall come out again from the garden,
kissed by wolf and eagle, alive to the dew.



I shall return from the garden not alone
but surrounded by invisible garlands of snowflowers.
I shall stand beneath the palms in the garden
and dwell amongst their shadows as though made lion.



I shall make a flute of my bones, and play.
I shall return to the garden as though never leaving,
never remaining, in constant motion yet
eternally still.



And there shall I rest, in time, in slow time,
eternal rest shall be mine, in time, eternal,
to rest inside time and out, never ending,
and rest in the hand and heart of each darker pool.



(images from the Japanese Garden and Glass Palace, Como Park Conservatory,
St. Paul, MN, September 2010)

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2 Comments:

Blogger Elisabeth said...

Gorgeous images, Art. Your poem has a gentle meditative rhythm, but I'm sensitive about the idea of making a flute of your bones, at the moment at least.

The word 'bone' has such resonance for me. It will pass.

5:47 AM  
Blogger Art Durkee said...

LOL Okay, we'll stick to bamboo flutes for awhile, then.

Although at same point, purely on the level of catharsis, you might want to make some art around bones. I've found in the past such direct and obvious catharsis to be genuinely effective.

For example, when the trailer broke loose from the truck and went over the cliff in New Mexico, it really traumatized me. Eventually I made the Flying Trailer Productions logo out of that—and the PTSD thereafter went away.

I was reading Emily Dickinson last night, and maybe that's where the poem's tone comes from. You can't imitate Emily, she's too individual. But she can inspire.

The photos I like because they're B&W. The color photos from the same locale, though, are also ones I like. So I can't really choose which I like more.

11:26 AM  

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