Stages

As every flower fades and as all youth
Departs, so life at every stage,
So every virtue, so our grasp of truth,
Blooms in its day and may not last forever.
Since life may summon us at every age
Be ready, heart, for parting, new endeavor,
Be ready bravely and without remorse
To find new light that old ties cannot give.
In all beginnings dwells a magic force
For guarding us and helping us to live.

On Reading an Old Philosopher

These noble thoughts beguiled us yesterday;
We savored them like choicest vintage wines.
But now they sour, meanings seep away,
Much like a page of music from whose vines

The clefs and sharps are carelessly erased:
Take from a house the center of gravity,
It sways and falls apart, all sense debased,
Cacophony what had been harmony.

But secretly we thirst…

Graceful as dancer’s arabesque and bow,

Our lives appear serene and without stress,

A gentle dance around pure nothingness

To which we sacrifice the here and now.

Our dreams are lovely and our game is bright,

So finely tuned, with many artful turns,

But deep beneath the tranquil surface burns

Longing for blood, barbarity, and night.

Transitions

Every transition from major to minor in a sonata, every transformation of a myth or a religious cult, every classical or artistic formulation was, I realized in that flashing moment, if seen with a truly meditative mind, nothing but a direct route into the interior of the cosmic mystery, where in the alternation between inhaling and exhaling, between heaven and earth, between Yin and Yang, holiness is forever being created.

Hermann Hesse, The Glass Bead Game


(Picture: Blue sky painting, Acrylic on canvas, Sam Francis)

Bei Nacht

Nachts, wenn das Meer mich wiegt

Und bleicher Sternenglanz

Auf seinen weiten Wellen liegt,

Dann löse ich mich ganz

Von allem Tun und aller Liebe los

Und stehe still und atme bloß

Allein, allein vom Meer gewiegt,

Das still und kalt mit tausend Lichtern liegt.

Dann muß ich meiner Freunde denken

Und meinen Blick in ihre Blicke senken,

Und frage jeden still allein:

"Bist du noch mein?

Ist dir mein Leid ein Leid, mein Tod ein Tod?

Fühlst du von meiner Liebe, meiner Not

Nur einen Hauch, nur einen Widerhall?"

Without You

My Pillow gazes upon me at night

Empty as a gravestone;
I never thought it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Not to lie down asleep in your hair.

I lie alone in a silent house,
The hanging lamp darkened,
And gently stretch out my hands
To gather in yours,
And softly press my warm mouth