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 maya  angelou  died   today.  what an inspiration she was, and will  continue to be. She was 86 years   old.

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You may write me down in history 
With your bitter, twisted lies, 
You may tread me in the very dirt 
But still, like dust, I’ll rise. 

Does my sassiness upset you? 
Why are you beset with gloom? 
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells 
Pumping in my living room. 

Just like moons and like suns, 
With the certainty of tides, 
Just like hopes springing high, 
Still I’ll rise. 

Did you want to see me broken? 
Bowed head and lowered eyes? 
Shoulders falling down like teardrops. 
Weakened by my soulful cries. 

Does my haughtiness offend you? 
Don’t you take it awful hard 
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines 
Diggin’ in my own back yard. 

You may shoot me with your words, 
You may cut me with your eyes, 
You may kill me with your hatefulness, 
But still, like air, I’ll rise. 

Does my sexiness upset you? 
Does it come as a surprise 
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds 
At the meeting of my thighs? 

Out of the huts of history’s shame 
I rise 
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain 
I rise 
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, 
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. 
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear 
I rise 
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear 
I rise 
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, 
I am the dream and the hope of the slave. 
I rise 
I rise 
I rise.

Now is the time to know
That all that you do is sacred.

Now, why not consider
A lasting truce with yourself and God.

Now is the time to understand
That all your ideas of right and wrong
Were just a child’s training wheels
To be laid aside
When you finally live
With veracity
And love.

Hafiz is a divine envoy
Whom the Beloved
Has written a holy message upon.

My dear, please tell me,
Why do you still
Throw sticks at your heart
And God?

What is it in that sweet voice inside
That incites you to fear?

Now is the time for the world to know
That every thought and action is sacred.

This is the time
For you to compute the impossibility
That there is anything
But Grace.

Now is the season to know
That everything you do
Is sacred.

In my house lives the most beautiful wild animal.
Bus she is sad.
She has lost her forest.
She has lost her tribe.
Her very language is almost gone, dissolved
in sorrow and disuse.
What can you do to comfort such a creature?
She stares out of the windows and longs to go somewhere —-
but where?
The nothingness of the days exhausts her.
Have you ever seen an animal weep?
When I touch her she looks at me with that
lost world in her eyes —
hopeful, but trembling.

i adore the poet rumi.    much of his work i don’t understand, but the simpler  pieces such as this excerpt, give   me both  beauty and repose…..

 

The breeze at dawn

Has secrets to tell you

Don’t go back to sleep

You must ask

For what you really want

Don’t go back to sleep

People are going back and forth

Across the doorsill

Where the two worlds touch

The door is round and open

Don’t go back to sleep

~ by Rumi

” my definition of magic in the  human personality, in fiction, and in  poetry, is the ultimate  level of attentiveness…  when I say attentiveness i don’t mean  just to reality, but to  what is exponentially  possible in reality.”

  loving this  quote!!  :-)

 

and a  link to my first  take on  magick. :-)

http://www.blurb.com/b/770786-chasing-magick-book-1

 

“After Prague, I learned that you can try to stalk magic, but more often than not, it is going to stalk you, and only show up when you are ready, and open enough to receive it. This is why, these days, I am seeing magic in everything – a flower bud about to open is magic, as well as its seeds.  So are the eggs in a bird’s nest, a spider crossing my desk, a rainbow or a sunset, and yes, even the innards of an animal I cannot recognize…”

~ kmk

Let’s not get romantic or dismal about death.
Indeed it’s our most unique act along with birth.
We must think of it as cooking breakfast,
it’s that ordinary. Break two eggs into a bowl
or break a bowl into two eggs. Slip into a coffin
after the fluids have been drained, or better yet,
slide into the fire. Of course it’s a little hard
to accept your last kiss, your last drink,
your last meal about which the condemned
can be quite particular as if there could be
a cheeseburger sent by God. A few lovers
sweep by the inner eye, but it’s mostly a placid
lake at dawn, mist rising, a solitary loon
call, and staring into the still, opaque water.
We’ll know as children again all that we are
destined to know, that the water is cold
and deep, and the sun penetrates only so far.

 this  bit was written by  ( i think)  garrett  hongo.  i tore it out of a coppercanyonpress.org catalog.

“The Chinese have a word for  poet that means ” sorcerer”  or ” magician”  but it also  mans ” hermit”. The notion contains within it an idea of the  poet as an alchemist of the  human spirit,  poetry as a kind of spiritual pharmaceutical.

 

 But society still  remains and so does the world. What  can poems do for them?I’m fairly Confucian  about this  question and believe that if poems can order our thinking and inspire  noble emotions  within us,   then  in doing these things, they indirectly  help the world. Poems inspire  jen, a  kind of metaphysical  propriety and liberation  within us that we  need to keep going….”

 

….the spiritual pharmaceutical idea,   liking that….

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