Do not try to serve

the whole world

or do anything grandiose. Instead, create

a clearing

in the dense forest

of your life

and wait there

patiently,

until the song

that is yours alone to sing

falls into your open cupped hands and you recognize and greet it. Only then will you know

how to give yourself

to the world

so worthy of rescue.

Out Beyond Ideas

by Rumi

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’
doesn’t make any sense.

Music: All in a Garden Green (String Trio Version) by Axletree

This poem is an excerpt from the book Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life by Marshall B. Rosenberg.

I never feel more given to
than when you take from me –
when you understand the joy I feel
giving to you.

And you know my giving isn’t done
to put you in my debt,
but because I want to live the love
I feel for you.

To receive with grace
may be the greatest giving.
There’s no way I can separate
the two.

When you give to me,
I give you my receiving.
When you take from me, I feel so
given to.

thức dậy vào ngày đầu tháng một /

Thức dậy vào ngày đầu tháng một
Thì có gì khác với tháng mười hai?
Có giống như Chủ nhật được nghỉ
Và mình đi học vào thứ Hai?

Thức dậy vào ngày đầu tháng một
Thì năm cũ mới là hôm qua
Và hôm qua của hôm qua nữa
Sao không đếm tiếp tháng mười ba?

Thức dậy vào ngày đầu tháng một
Tờ lịch bảo là năm mới rồi
Tất cả mọi người đều đồng ý
Mười ba đành đổi thành một thôi

Vậy đếm lại bắt đầu từ một
Giống như chơi ván mới đó mà
Giờ tớ chơi giỏi hơn rồi nhá
Vì tớ lớn thêm một tuổi mà.

CONVERSATION

This conversation is like a long walk
together in the autumn woods.

Mossy silence of shadow, eloquent longing
of birds, thunder softened by distance.

A stag crosses the trail up ahead,
wildness we had thought extinct.

Leaves, the shades of earth, fall at our feet,
gifts from the wind we have to accept.

And now, just at goodbye, where the trail
divides,
sudden pathos of sweet rain.

When you are

a scientist,

ask what

and when

and how

and where 

and why, why, why.

When you are

a scientist

read,

and watch,

and think,

and write,

and try, try, try.   

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

My daughter
wouldn’t hurt a spider
That had nested
Between her bicycle handles
For two weeks
She waited
Until it left of its own accord

If you tear down the web I said
It will simply know
This isn’t a place to call home
And you’d get to go biking

She said that’s how others
Become refugees isn’t it?

Lord, who am I to teach the way
To little children day by day,
So prone myself to go astray?

I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know
How faint they flicker and how low
The candles of my knowledge glow.

I teach them POWER to will and do,
But only now to learn anew
My own great weakness through and through.

I teach them LOVE for all mankind
And all God’s creatures, but I find
My love comes lagging far behind.

Lord, if their guide I still must be,
Oh let the little children see
The teacher leaning hard on Thee.

---
Happy Teacher Day!
B.

Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,

Where your thoughts never think to wander,

This beginning has been quietly forming,

Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time it has watched your desire,

Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,

Noticing how you willed yourself on,

Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety

And the gray promises that sameness whispered,

Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,

Wondered would you always live like this.

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,

And out you stepped onto new ground,

Your eyes young again with energy and dream,

A path of plenitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not yet clear

You can trust the promise of this opening;

Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning

That is at one with your life’s desire.

Awaken your spirit to adventure;

Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;

Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,

For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

Cuộc sống có nghĩa gì
Khi bầy cá dạy nhau cách sống chan hoà
trong vũng nước đọng

Cuộc sống có ý nghĩa gì
Nếu thời gian phân ra làm dành cho người ta - của riêng mình

Cuộc sống có ý nghĩa gì
Khi nói mình không có thời gian
Mình đã bao giờ có

Giống như người chèo thuyền
Chưa từng có dòng sông
Giống như người bộ hành
Chưa từng có mặt đất.
Một người đang sống
Không có thời gian

Chỉ nồng ấm đi và mát mẻ chèo

Thế đấy

Nếu cuộc sống có nghĩa, là có gì trên đoạn thời gian của một đời người
Hẳn nó có nghĩa là hoa trên đường đi với người bộ hành
Là bầy cá dưới dòng nước với người chèo thuyền
Là tất cả những gì xảy đến
Được nhìn với ánh mắt đẹp tươi
Là tất cả những gì xảy ra
Khi ta không chèo thuyền xoay vòng và đi quanh gốc cây.

Rồi cũng mất đi
bởi Nguyễn Phong Việt

Rồi cũng mất đi
những năm tháng từng nghĩ chẳng cần gì

Một con người để mình vui hay không buồn dù có lắm hoài nghi
về yêu thương như thế nào là bền chặt
có đêm nằm im nghe ngoài kia những hội hè thức trắng
pha cho mình một tách café đắng
rồi lại ngủ quên

Những năm tháng vẫn hay nói với mọi người rằng đang rất chênh vênh
nhưng thật ra cuộc đời chỉ toàn là ảo tưởng
không cố gắng ước mơ điều mà trái tim mong muốn
chỉ cố gắng làm điều mọi người thích
để tìm sự sẻ chia

Hết bình minh và hết những ngày gió lùa
vẫn cứ thấy mình nằm yên trong chăn gối
ngại thứ gì đó có thể đánh đổi
như ngại một tiếng nói
- mình có đang sống hay không?

Những năm tháng mơ mộng được thấy chỉ mùa đông
được khăn áo giống con người sâu sắc
đến cuối cùng nhìn mình trong một bức hình đơn giản
với một nụ cười trong đáy mắt
lại bình yên

Rồi cũng mất đi
những năm tháng mình nhìn đâu cũng thấy ưu phiền.

không cần biết mình là ai, để sống

viết bởi Nhược Lạc

không cần biết mình là ai, để sống
tôi đã được thương từ trước khi chào đời
tôi nối dài lòng mẹ tới muôn khơi
dưới trời sáng, tôi vươn mình lớn bổng

chân tôi dán vết mộc trên đường mới
tay hái rau, tắm chó và ôm mèo
hàng cây luôn ở đó đợi tôi leo
không cần thiết xuất trình lời triết lý

Chúa cho phép tôi sống đời vô vị
và mọi người ai cũng được phép cho
khi trời rét tôi nằm lại co ro
tôi được phép buồn dù không hiểu rõ

và em được phép ra câu hỏi khó
mãi mãi sau này tôi có giải được đâu
tôi chậm rãi đi trên những cây cầu
chưa hiểu hết,
những phố dài đã mất

chỉ còn lá trên đoạn ngày trước mắt
tất bật xanh, đâu biết mình là ai.

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”

Poem Without an End

by Yehuda Amichai

translated by Chana Bloch

Inside the brand-new museum

there’s an old synagogue.

Inside the synagogue

is me.

Inside me

my heart.

Inside my heart

a museum.

Inside the museum

a synagogue,

inside it

me,

inside me

my heart,

inside my heart

a museum

Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment
when,   nothing
happens
no what-have-I-to-do-today-list

maybe   half a moment  
the rush of traffic stops.  
The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be
slows to silence,
the white cotton curtains hanging still.

Flour on the floor makes my sandals
slip and I tumble into your arms.

Too hot to bake this morning but
blueberries begged me to fold them

into moist muffins. Sticks of rhubarb
plotted a whole pie. The windows

are blown open and a thickfruit tang
sneaks through the wire screen

and into the home of the scowly lady
who lives next door. Yesterday, a man

in the city was rescued from his apartment
which was filled with a thousand rats.

Something about being angry because
his pet python refused to eat. He let the bloom

of fur rise, rise over the little gnarly blue rug,
over the coffee table, the kitchen countertops

and pip through each cabinet, snip
at the stumpy bags of sugar,

the cylinders of salt. Our kitchen is a riot
of pots, wooden spoons, melted butter.

So be it. Maybe all this baking will quiet
the angry voices next door, if only

for a brief whiff. I want our summers

to always be like this—a kitchen wrecked
with love, a table overflowing with baked goods
warming the already warm air. After all the pots

are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters
wiped clean—let us never be rescued from this mess.

Anxiety: A Ghost Story by Brenna Twohy

We have got to talk about the kids

 in all those Goosebumps books. 

 For example,

 if your family vacation 

 is to an amusement park 

 called HORRORLAND,

 and your station wagon explodes

 in the parking lot upon arrival,

 maybe

 shrugging it off,  

 buying an extra large popcorn,

 and heading straight for 

 The Deadly Doom Slide

 is not your best possible

 course of action.

 Or,

 if you steal a weird camera 

 from your creepy neighbor’s basement

 and every picture you take 

 shows bad things happening,

 like decapitation 

 and Tofurkey,

 and then all the bad things 

 from the pictures 

 start happening,

 Stop Taking Pictures.

 Or,

 if you move into your new house

 and there are a bunch of small children already living in your bedroom

 that your parents cannot see,

 maybe,

 don’t just grab a juice box

 and go play in the cemetery

 that

 is

 in

 your

 backyard.

 Or,

 when I tell you of the ghosts

 that live inside my body;

 When I tell you

 I have a cemetery in my backyard

 and in my front yard 

 and in my bedroom; 

 When I tell you 

 trauma is a steep slide 

 you cannot see the bottom of, 

 that my anxiety is a camera 

 that shows everyone I love as bones,

 when I tell you 

 panic is a stubborn phantom,

 she will grab hold of me

 and not let go for months–

 this is the part of the story 

 when everyone is telling you to run.

 To love me

 is to love a haunted house–

 it’s fun to visit once a year, 

 but no one wants to live there,

 and when you say,

 “Tell me about the bad days,”

 it sounds like all the neighborhood kids daring each other to ring the doorbell, 

 you love me

 like the family walking through Horrorland holding hands–

 You are not stupid,

 or careless, 

 or even brave,

 you’ve just never seen 

 the close-up of a haunting.

 Darling,

 this love will not cure me. 

 And this love will not scrape 

 the blood from the baseboards,

 but it will turn all the lights on,

 it will bring basil

 back from the farmer’s market

 and it will plant it in every windowsill,

 it is the kind of love 

 that gives me goosebumps,

 when you say to the ghosts,

 “If you’re staying, 

 then you better make room,”

 and we kiss against the walls 

 that tonight are not shaking,

 so we turn the music up

 and we dance to Miles Davis,

 and you say, 

 “My god,

 this house.

 The way that it stands

 even on the months 

 that no one goes into

 or comes out of it.”

 How reckless, the way that I love

 like the first chapter of a ghost story.

 Like the gentlest hand

 reaching out of a grave.

You work with what you are given,
the red clay of grief,
the black clay of stubbornness going on after.
Clay that tastes of care or carelessness,
clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.

Each thought is a life you have lived or failed to live,
each word is a dish you have eaten or left on the table.
There are honeys so bitter
no one would willingly choose to take them.
The clay takes them: honey of weariness, honey of vanity,
honey of cruelty, fear.

This rebus—slip and stubbornness,
bottom of river, my own consumed life—
when will I learn to read it
plainly, slowly, uncolored by hope or desire?
Not to understand it, only to see.

As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
Each yes, each no continues,
this one a ladder, that one an anvil or cup.

The ladder leans into its darkness.
The anvil leans into its silence.
The cup sits empty.
How can I enter this question the clay has asked?

---
Go gently.
B.

butterfly

life is like
when you're
a little kid
and you
discover that
there is more
than twenty-four
crayons in the box

that there is
the possibility
of forty-eight colors
of sixty-four
of one-hundred and twenty

that there are
so many shades
of love and anger
and peace and despair
and absolute bliss

and the ability
to express them all
are now
in the palm
of your hand

life is
colorful
beautiful
thought-provoking
lovely
soulful
heartbreaking
inspiring
and absolutely wonderful

every day is
a new sunrise
a new chance
to transform into
the butterfly you
want to be

go out there
and change the world, kid

Thank You
by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

It’s not as if the door can decide:
Open. Closed. Locked. Unhinged.
The door is ever at the mercy
of the hand on the knob,
the shoulder that smashes it,
the wind that abruptly slams it shut,
the smile that swings it wide as noon.
Long ago, I learned every moment
has a door, and that those doors
never open themselves. That is why,
standing here, I am astonished
to see, through no effort of my own,
a door swings open. And how sweet
the surprise when I see
on the other side of the knob,
your hand.

First forget what time it is
for an hour
do it regularly every day

then forget what day of the week it is
do this regularly for a week
then forget what country you are in
and practice doing it in company
for a week
then do them together
for a week
with as few breaks as possible

follow these by forgetting how to add
or to subtract
it makes no difference
you can change them around
after a week
both will help you later
to forget how to count

forget how to count
starting with your own age
starting with how to count backward
starting with even numbers
starting with Roman numerals
starting with fractions of Roman numerals
starting with the old calendar
going on to the old alphabet
going on to the alphabet
until everything is continuous again

go on to forgetting elements
starting with water
proceeding to earth
rising in fire

forget fire

For What Binds Us
by Jane Hirshfield

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they've been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.

---
The artwork is inspired by the orbital sunrise drawing of cosmonaut Alexei Leonov. Interestingly, blue and orange create a dark line in between. With that and the poem in mind, my hope for us all is to be authentic in who we are, and to allow old scars from clashes with life bind us, rather than keep us apart.
B.

copyright ©Alice Oswald 2016

It is the story of the falling rain
to turn into a leaf and fall again

it is the secret of a summer shower
to steal the light and hide it in a flower

and every flower a tiny tributary
that from the ground flows green and momentary

is one of water’s wishes and this tale
hangs in a seed-head smaller than my thumbnail

if only I a passerby could pass
as clear as water through a plume of grass

to find the sunlight hidden at the tip
turning to seed a kind of lifting rain drip

then I might know like water how to balance
the weight of hope against the light of patience

water which is so raw so earthy-strong
and lurks in cast-iron tanks and leaks along

drawn under gravity towards my tongue
to cool and fill the pipe-work of this song

which is the story of the falling rain
that rises to the light and falls again

Famous
by Naomi Shihab Nye

The river is famous to the fish

The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.

--

May you be famous to the ones you hold dear.
B.

One Feature (Hands) by Carol Shlyakhova 

“My friend once told me
she liked this guy because of his hands
And I found it absurd that anyone
would develop feelings over one feature,
and not care about the rest

It wasn’t until you used your hands
to cup the back of my neck the first time we kissed
and I could feel your firm grasp pull me closer,
and my insides exploded
and my head buzzed with bliss.

And the first night you slept over,
you fell asleep with your hand
laid over my stomach
and your fingers felt like a fire
that I didn’t mind burning my skin.

The first time we got drunk,
was the first time you played with my hair,
and my god I was hooked,
I’d drink forever if it meant you’d never stop.

And in public you’d hold my hand,
and rub your thumb in little circles
that left me wanting you more,
no matter what you would never let me go,
I was glued to you,
and I honestly didn’t mind

When we talked about breaking up,
you saw my lips quiver with fear,
and you brushed over my lips with your fingers
before pulling me into your lap
and you kissed me like never before.
With your hands on my hips
pulling me so close to you,
leaving no space in between us.
It was then I realized I never wanted you to go

It's now that,
I finally understand why hands
were the only feature that mattered.”

If you've got an hour,
Now's the time to share it.
If you've got a flower,
Wear it.
This is just the day.

If you've got a plan,
Now's the time to try it.
If you've got an airplane,
Fly it.
This is just the day.

It's the day for seeing all there is to see.
It's the day for being just you, just me.

If you've got a smile,
Now's the time to show it.
If you've got a horn,
Then blow it.
It's the minute to begin it.
This is just the day.

---

This is Just the Day! If you don't feel like it, that's alright. Tomorrow then.
B.

It's You I Like by Mr. Rogers

It's you I like.
It's not the things you wear
It's the way you do your hair
But it's you I like.

The way you are right now
The way down deep inside you
Not the things that hide you
Not your toys
They are just beside you. 

But it's you I like.
Every part of you
Your skin, your eyes, your feelings
Whether old or new.

I hope that you'll remember
Even when you're feeling blue
That it's you I like
It's you yourself
It's you -

It's you I like. 

H: Mừng ngày Esther's Day 3/8, ngày Non-Romantic Loves.

Singularity 

by Marie Howe - Điểm kì dị

Do you sometimes want to wake up to the singularity
we once were?

so compact nobody
needed a bed, or food or money —

nobody hiding in the school bathroom
or home alone

pulling open the drawer
where the pills are kept.

For every atom belonging to me as good
Belongs to you.   Remember?

There was no   Nature.    No
them.   No tests

to determine if the elephant
grieves her calf    or if

the coral reef feels pain.    Trashed
oceans don’t speak English or Farsi or French;

would that we could wake up   to what we were
— when we were ocean    and before that

to when earth was sky, and animal was energy, and rock was liquid and stars were space and space was not

at all — nothing

before we came to believe humans were so important
before this awful loneliness.

Can molecules recall it?
what once was?    before anything happened?

No I, no We, no one. No was
No verb      no noun yet
only a tiny tiny dot brimming with

is is is is is

All    everything    home

Trong giấc mơ em nằm nghiêng
Cùng đàn sẻ tóc nâu
Và em nghiêng chút nữa
Bầu trời đi lộn đầu.

Trong giấc mơ em thích buồn
Vừa buồn lệ vừa dài
Nỗi buồn em sẽ chảy
Hai dòng dài rất dài.

Trong giấc mơ em làm anh
Một ông anh tay to
Nắm một đàn em nhỏ
Vừa nắm vừa than thở
Ôi đàn em dại khờ
Khuôn mặt đầy giấc mơ
(Ngu si mà thấy ghét...)

Bây giờ em vẫn nằm
Vừa nằm em vừa mơ
Em muốn nghiêng xuống nữa...
Em thích mình đau khổ
Đau khổ và nằm nghiêng
Khi nằm nghiêng em thấy
Đau khổ nhiều quá chừng..

Hôm qua em thức dậy
Đau khổ đã hết rồi
Buồn sao lại thế nhỉ
Không kéo dài hết đêm.

Trong mơ em thích cười
Nụ cười dài hai giây
Và một nụ đau khổ
Kéo dài hơn ban ngày.

Mẹ gọi em hai lần
Em trốn vào giấc mơ
Em đi đường cửa sổ
Em đi đường chim bay
Một con chim thật lớn
Lạc đường trong ban ngày.

Poem of the One World

BY MARY OLIVER

This morning
the beautiful white heron
was floating along above the water

and then into the sky of this
the one world
we all belong to

where everything
sooner or later
is part of everything else

which thought made me feel
for a little while
quite beautiful myself.

ở Saigon 24, bởi Mai Hà

https://maihabiham.wordpress.com/2017/03/24/o-saigon-24/

bài thơ này từng mang mình qua rất nhiều đoạn khó.

H

I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
     me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
     thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though
     I was trying to fool with them
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
     the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with
     their women and children and a keg of beer and an
     accordion.