Author: Christina's Words

“The darkness around us is deep.” ~ William Stafford

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies… (Bradbury)

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“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.

It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”

~ Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

“Gone to the Unseen” by Rumi

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At last you have departed and gone to the Unseen.
What marvelous route did you take from this world?

Beating your wings and feathers,
you broke free from this cage.
Rising up to the sky
you attained the world of the soul.
You were a prized falcon trapped by an Old Woman.
Then you heard the drummer’s call
and flew beyond space and time.

As a lovesick nightingale, you flew among the owls.
Then came the scent of the rose garden
and you flew off to meet the Rose.

The wine of this fleeting world
caused your head to ache.
Finally you joined the tavern of Eternity.
Like an arrow, you sped from the bow
and went straight for the bull’s eye of bliss.

This phantom world gave you false signs
But you turned from the illusion
and journeyed to the land of truth.

You are now the Sun–
what need have you for a crown?
You have vanished from this world–
what need have you to tie your robe?

I’ve heard that you can barely see your soul.
But why look at all?–
yours is now the Soul of Souls!

O heart, what a wonderful bird you are.
Seeking divine heights,
Flapping your wings,
you smashed the pointed spears of your enemy.

The flowers flee from Autumn, but not you–
You are the fearless rose
that grows amidst the freezing wind.

Pouring down like the rain of heaven
you fell upon the rooftop of this world.
Then you ran in every direction
and escaped through the drain spout…

Now the words are over
and the pain they bring is gone.
Now you have gone to rest
in the arms of the Beloved.

 

The Essential Rumi, by Jalal al-Din Rumi (Author), Coleman Barks (Translator), John Moyne (Translator)

 

“On Your Birthday” by Christy Anna Jones

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You wore a red cable knit sweater shortly before you died,
it was one of your favorites.
I have photograph after photograph of you wearing it,
each one a different memory I turn to for warmth.

The red of the sweater always brought out the strawberry highlights in your hair
lighter and brighter as the summer wore on.
Even when you stopped coloring your hair
your silver strands still reflected its red glow.

The day after you died, I took your sweater from where it had been casually tossed
and I inhaled deeply.
You smelled clean — of Dove soap and soft musk.
And in one single moment a thousand memories of you brought me to my knees.

I folded up your sweater
with care and reverence
and I sealed it in a gallon-sized Ziplock bag
so I would always have it to remind me.

On your birthday I took it down from the top shelf in my closet.
I unzipped the bag–carefully and only by an inch–
lowering my nose into the bag as my body lowered to the floor,
those memories again bringing me to my knees.

Quickly, I sealed the bag shut, feeling guilty and regretful,
afraid I had lost your scent forever.
As if that were even possible.
As if I could ever forget your smell.

Like home.
Like love.
Like safety.
Like Dove soap and soft musk.

 

* “On Your Birthday” by Christy Anna Jones via The Shine Journal: The Light Left Behind.

“Yesterday” by W.S. Merwin

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My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand

he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know

even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes

he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father

he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me

oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my father’s hand the last time

he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me

oh yes I say

but if you are busy he said
I don’t want you to feel that you
have to
just because I’m here

I say nothing
he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I don’t want to keep you

I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know

though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do

“Yesterday” by W.S. Merwin, from Migration. © Copper Canyon Press, 2005.

“The Magic Mountain” by William Stafford

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A book opens. People come out, bend
this way and talk, ponder, love, wander around
while pages turn. Where did the plot go?
Why did someone sing just as the train
went by? Here come chapters with landscape all over
whatever happens when people meet. Now
a quiet part: a hospital glows in the dark.
I don’t think that woman with the sad gray eyes
will ever come back. And what does it mean when
the Italian has so many ideas? Maybe
a war is coming. The book is ending. Everyone
has a little tremolo in them; all
are going to die and it’s cold and the snow, and the
clear air. They took someone away. It’s ending,
the book is ending. But I thought – never mind. It
closes.

– William Stafford, The Way It Is