Kijken met een kinderoog luisteren
met een kinderoor samen dromen
en samen drijven  in de ziel van
levend samenkomen, zo kan je in
huizen wonen zonder muren waar
alle zonnen alle hoop verlichten tot
een vreugdevuur waarin wij allen
dan opnieuw geboren worden en
ontwaken als een eeuwig bloeiend
duizendblad, niet berekend, niet
geteld, niet bevuild door alle slijk
der aarde, van alle pijn geheeld in
een nieuw en schitterend ochtend
gloren van geven en ontvangen,
zoals een kinderoog, het kijkt niet
om, of ook dit kinderoor dat enkel
opent voor gelijkgestemde zielen,
en dan, hier, in dit gezegend huis
van wolken, gras en sneeuw, van
water en van vuur, van wind en
vleugels, wandelen wij, met beide
voeten, geaard, gedragen door
de Moeder die ons leven, ons altijd,
altijd al Haar Liefde schenkt.


Yes, I must confess again: I like to float in,
float on water, a surface somewhere in
between a mountain high and river deep,
this floating then becoming ship at the horizon,
I drink deep, the more the getting there
the less I see, the more consumed the more
your Light is piercing, one single Moon beam
in the darkest night, a golden touch to warm up
icy water, O Yes, I must confess again I like to float
in, float on  water somewhere in between,
a yesterday embracing time, a you, a me, and I

It is there

    FAR below flowed the Jumna, swift and clear, above frowned the  jutting bank. Hills dark with the wood and scarred with the torrents were gathered around. Govinda,  the great  Sikh  teacher, sat on the rock reading scriptures, when Ragunath, his disciple, proud of his wealth, came and bowed to him and said: “I have brought my poor present unworthy of your acceptance.”

    Thus  saying  he displayed before the teacher a pair of gold bangles wrought with costly stones. The master  took  up one  of  them, twirling it round his finger, and the diamonds darted shafts of light. Suddenly  it slipped from his hand and rolled down the bank into the water.
“Alas,” screamed Raghunath, and jumped into the stream.
The  teacher  set his eyes upon his book, and the water held and hid what it stole and went its way.

   The  daylight faded  when Raghunath came back to  the  teacher  tired and dripping. He  panted  and  said:  “I  can still get it back if you show me where it fell.”
The teacher took up the remaining bangle and throwing it into the water said:
“It is there.”

Rabindranath Tagore, Fruit-Gathering XII

Jorma Kaukonen – Genesis

Time has come for us to pause
And think of living as it was
Into the future we must cross, must cross
I’d like to go with you
And I’d like to go with you
You say I’m harder than a wall
A marble shaft about to fall
I love you dearer than them all, them all
So let me stay with you
So let me stay with you
And as we walked into the day
Skies of blue had turned to grey
I might have not been clear to say, to say
I never looked away
I never looked away
And though I’m feeling you inside
My life is rolling with the tide
I’d like to see it be an open ride
Along with you
Going along with you
The time we borrowed from ourselves
Can’t stay within a vaulted well
And living turns into a lender’s will
So let me come with you
And let me come with you
And when we came out into view
And there I found myself with you
When breathing felt like something new, new
Along with you
Going along with you

(Jorma performing around 1990 at D.O.C. Music Club Studio on Italian TV)

On Turning Twenty (a guest poem)

+ It’s always a pleasure to read young and inspiring poets. Through Twitter I discovered Rebecca, 20y (@MistakenMagic). She has a way of looking at and describing reality as an outsider, while at the same time being part of it. This tension often creates a beautiful imagery, sustained with striking metaphors. Today she published the following poem, and for me, it was if it “opened a window to the ceilings of my youth”. At one point we all “turn twenty”, and in my eyes, we always keep on turning twenty 🙂

On Turning Twenty

“I feel old. But not very wise.” – Jenny Mellor

Facebook, the graveyard of past best friends.
I find that, at twenty, one has a twelve-week scan
as their profile picture. Tiny fists like little bunches
of static. The ballooning white arc of the head
chalked onto the crackling black.

A lad who once dated the baby’s mother
got married last month, has a kid of his own,
and is off to serve in Afghanistan.
My mother was married at twenty.

At thirteen, twenty was a scary age.
It was “proper grown-up an’ that”.
Now I’m not so sure what it means
to be grown-up. Or if I’m there yet.

So, I can cook risotto and know
what a garlic crusher looks like.
I have postage stamps and paracetemol
in my purse. I pay rent.
I bear the scars and scraped knees
from the first time I fell in love.

I wonder what my third decade holds;
maybe I’ll get a tattoo in Chinese or Sanskrit,
on my ankle or the bottom of my back.

Maybe I’ll indulge a few more clichés
and take a French lover who will teach me
that ‘oui’ can hold far more breath than ‘yes’.
We will smoke Gauloises cigarettes
in bed after we have made love,
a crystal ashtray lying in the valley
of white sheets between our knees…

I still haven’t seen America or Japan.
In daydreams I see the soft white and orange
water-colours of a Koi pond in Hiroshima,
and the black lines of buildings in Brooklyn.

I don’t know what the future holds,
but I’m sure I’ll spend my years
as most twenty-something women do,
trying not to turn into my mother,
and by doing so…become her.

You can find more of Rebecca’s poetry (Mistaken Magic) here.

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