author’s note:
I hope I’m remembering this quote accurately:
When told that a certain woman was very humble, Dorothy Parker replied, “She has a lot to be humble about.”
AFTER I FELL IN THE FOREST
I never felt the trees
until I fell in the forest
and as I lay face down, trying
to find the strength to stand again
I began to feel
the watchful quiet all around:
aliens communicating without sound.
I’ve listened intently
many times since
and though I still can’t
decipher their silent speech
I sense the trees pity my weakness.
Perhaps I return because
I want their empathy
after being beaten in battle.
Humility is a virtue—is honesty.
But I will only prostrate myself
before beings wise enough
to feel compassion for a fallen fool.
author’s note:
I’d feel embarrassed by this confession if I thought I was the only one playing a violin.
WISDOM CREEK
All day long I’m a violin
dreaming a melodramatic melody.
But when I write poetry
I stop playing
and instead
whisper about how
I sat down in solitude
at the wisdom creek.
Truth is:
I often forget to visit
those healing waters,
caught up, as I am
in my bars of music.
But strings in the head
eventually trip the feet
then I land down hard
on my back--back
at the wisdom creek.
But as I sit on its bank
in stunned silence
I may hear a deeper me
while watching my inflated violin
float away on the gentle waters.
But I’m cured only for the moment--
that overwrought music returns too soon:
apparently
the hungry boy in me
desires a grander life—
wants to feel heroic.
Maybe someday I’ll convince him
we can accomplish more
by feeling and following
our quiet strength.
author’s note:
When you don’t have a boulder (see last post), a rock will do.
STONE ALIVE
One day, feeling frustrated
with all the dust of our noise
I sat down on the ground
and lifted a rock
and to amuse myself, said:
“Can you help me, dear stone?
Old as you are
you must know something
about life on this planet.
Has age made you a sage?
“But no, I suppose
only mountains and cliffs
can give us wisdom.”
That plain gray stone
seemed so insignificant, so dumb.
But then as I relaxed
in afternoon idleness
I no longer asked, but merely gazed
and as that stone warmed my palm
I slowly became enchanted:
I no longer perceived the thing as dead
but as an entity
tightly contained within its own self.
I actually sensed an essence--
an intensity radiating
from a power within: a force
so subtle as to seem unreal
and yet as incessant and insistent
as the drone of a Stonehenge megalith.
But my tolerance for amazement
has its limits:
I soon lay the stone back down
then bowed with respect
and ambled on.
Since then, I’ve occasionally paused
long enough to meditate upon a stone
and though I appreciate them as solid friends
that can calm me on uncertain days
I’ve never again felt the same intensity.
However, I don’t doubt their power. No--
the problem lies with my erratic concentration.
I know:
if such a plain gray stone
holds the energy of life
so do all the other rocks
cascading across this planet.
My goal is:
to eventually arrive at
the splendid open moment
when in a blaze of illumination I realize
the incredible force behind the disguise
of all these earthly things.
author’s note:
Many years ago, I heard we should “commune with nature”.
But some time passed before I learned the wisdom of that advice.
MASTER BOULDER
Though I'm intimidated
by its monolithic presence
I often return to that boulder
at the bottom of the hollow
and then
despite my resistance
obey
its command to listen
to what can not be spoken
only felt:
the profundity of its heavy silence.
In that way, I’m humbled
even as I begin to feel
that same power
echoing up from my dark depths.
I’ve finally discovered
the value of ritual.
I now know how to pray.
Michael Patton
