Morning Meditation

A poem I wrote some years ago:

morning meditation


beyond the gate, the dusty path
is gently swept by the wind
prayer flags that hung serenely
now flutter

and the smell of the shore
salt and seaweed

the morning sun divides the room
into darkness and light
we sit
discarding our selves
descending the mind

contentment floats on currents
of something forgotten
in a dying flame
awakened in the unveiled silence


whatever there is to love
should be loved
in a such a way that leaves
not a scent of indulgence

no scrape of armor
no semblances or
verve pipes

the bell rings
but quietude remains
now listen

the soughing of waves
along the wild shore


Rilke: Buddha in Glory

The man known as Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926) was a Bohemian-Austrian poet and novelist.  According to Wikipedia, Rilke’s work has been described Rilke’s work as “inherently ‘mystical’”.  Irish novelist and Booker Prize winner, John Banville says that “For Rilke, life and the world are all potential.”

I wonder what potential he saw when, in 1908, working as a secretary for the sculptor Auguste Rodin and living in Rodin’s house, each day he viewed the statue of Buddha in Rodin’s garden.

It certainly inspired him.  He wrote three poems on the Buddha.

Ulrich Baer, in The Rilke Alphabet, notes that in the following poem, inspired by the Buddha statue and composed in 1908, the poet makes no distinction between Buddha as a man or an icon and idea:  “We don’t know if he means Buddha himself or an image like the large statue in Rodin’s garden.”  Distinctions such as this, born of Western dualistic thought, is according to Baer, just what Rilke makes “unrecognizable.”  For Baer, and for myself, “Ultimately, ‘Buddha in Glory’ looks beyond itself.”

In a letter to his wife Clara in 1905, Rilke described the statue, “Then the huge blossoming starry night is before me, and below, in front of the window, the gravel path goes up a little hill on which, in fanatic silence, a statue of Buddha rests. . .


Centre of all centres, core of cores,
almond that encloses and sweetens itself –
everything, reaching to all the stars
is your fruit’s flesh: Hail.

Look, you feel how nothing clings to you;
now your shell surrounds the infinite
and there the strong sap dwells and rises.
And from without a radiance assists him

for high above your suns are turned,
whole and glowing, in their orbits.
Yet in you has already begun
what endures beyond the suns.

– – – – – – – – – –

English version by Stephen Mitchell



In the wake of the inauguration, George Orwell’s dystopian classic 1984 has become a best-seller, topping the Amazon, USA Today, and iBooks bestseller lists.  Since it was first published in 1949, the book has remained in print and has enjoy strong yearly sales.  Last year, 1984 sold around 221,000 print copies, according to BookScan, a group that tracks sales for physical and digital books.  Last week, Signet Classics reprinted 500,000 copies of 1984.  Seems they expect this surge of interest to continue.

In 1973, David Bowie wrote a song called “1984.”  Inspired by Orwell’s novel, Bowie originally planned for it to be a stage musical, but that idea fell through when Orwell’s wife refused to give permission.  The song ended up on the Diamond Dogs album.  Now, the hit London stage adaptation, a non-musical, will open on Broadway in the summer.

As much as I like Bowie’s 1984 and the Diamond Dogs album, I prefer Spirit’s 1984, written by Randy California in 1970. (Had to put in a plug for one of all-time favorite rock bands.)

Just last week in San Francisco, a “mystery benefactor” bought 50 copies of 1984 at Booksmith, a bookstore in the famous Haight-Ashbury district, and asked that they be given away free to anyone who wanted one.

Evidently, it is not only Trump’s presence in the White House but also Kellyanne Conway’s “alternative facts” comment that has sparked the spike in 1984 sales.  The parallels to our present political climate are obvious, and have been since before the rise of the monster, and the lessons the book provides are stark.  The specter of authoritarianism is always knocking on the door.  Alternate facts, doublethink, thoughtcrime, Newspeak, Thought Police, Big Brother, clickbait.  Where does 1984 end and reality begin?  What about all the Big Brothers out there…  listening…  watching…  recording…

Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing.

– George Orwell, 1984

A runaway bestseller in poetry might sell around 2000 copies.  Most poetry book sales are much lower than that.  But in recent years the works of a 13th-century Muslim poet have sold millions of copies.  Late last month, the Washington Post declared, “How wonderful it is that Rumi… has become the best-selling poet in the United States! He might enjoy knowing that Trump’s America is snapping up translations of his homoerotically tinged work even as the country toys with banning Muslims and rolling back gay rights.”

Mowlana Jalaloddin Balkhi, aka Rumi, was born in Persia in 1207.  He was a Sunni Muslim, Islamic scholar and  theologian, and Sufi mystic.

Why is Rumi suddenly so popular?  Lee Briccetti, executive director of the nation poetry library Poets House, suggests that it is because “Across time, place and culture, Rumi’s poems articulate what it feels like to be alive.”  And it’s not just the US, the BBC says, “Globally, [Rumi’s] fans are legion.”

Rumi’s poems are wise, spiritual, beautiful, and at times, puzzling.  Although he was a Sufi teacher, his work moved beyond the confines of blind faith and exclusivity.  In the Post article linked above (about a new Rumi biography from Brad Gooch, “Rumi’s Secret”)  there is a lovely quote from Rumi: “The religion of love is beyond all faiths.”

A US poet, Coleman Barks, has been one of the folks responsible for popularizing the Persian poet.  Yet, Barks has received criticism because he is not a translator (he paraphrases from existing translations) and because he has contributed to The Erasure of Islam from the Poetry of Rumi.

From what I have read, I understand the older translations are more literal.  Newer translations have been produced with an eye toward rendering Rumi’s verse in a way that is compatible with free-form modern poetry, and therefore, more accessible.  I usually lean toward translations that are closest to what the poet or author originally wrote.

Reynold Alleyne Nicholson (1868-1945) was one of the best Rumi scholars in the English language and his translations are considered authoritative and literal.  Yet, the archaic language he uses (“thou” “dost” etc.) does seem get in the way for this modern reader.  I gave up trying to learn who translated the following poem.  It seems very modern, so if it is true to Rumi or not, I don’t know…

A moment of happiness,
you and I sitting on the verandah,
apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.
We feel the flowing water of life here,
you and I, with the garden’s beauty
and the birds singing.
The stars will be watching us,
and we will show them
what it is to be a thin crescent moon.
You and I unselfed, will be together,
indifferent to idle speculation, you and I.
The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar
as we laugh together, you and I.
In one form upon this earth,
and in another form in a timeless sweet land.


– – – – – – – – – –

Miniature painting of Rumi by Hossein Behzad


Tagore’s Nobel and the Notes of Forever

This year’s recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature, Bob Dylan, is not the first lyricist to receive the award.  In 1913, it was given to Bengali poet and philosopher Rabindranath Tagore, who also became the first non-European awarded a Nobel.

Some of you may be aware that the title of this blog, The Endless Further, is borrowed from Tagore (see About).

rtagore3According to the Nobel website, Tagore received the prize “because of his profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful verse, by which, with consummate skill, he has made his poetic thought, expressed in his own English words, a part of the literature of the West”.

Wikipedia tells us that “the Swedish Academy appreciated the idealistic—and for Westerners—accessible nature of a small body of his translated material focused on the 1912 Gitanjali: Song Offerings.”

I’ve published a number of posts on Tagore so I won’t go into details on the man’s life.  For that, you can read the previous posts or visit the Wikipedia link above.

I will tell you that Tagore remains a towering figure in Indian literature, but today in the West he is largely forgotten and his poetry unknown.  Tagore’s poems are songs, chants.  In English, they become prose poems.  His work is lyrical, moving, graceful, and subtle in self-knowledge.  He composed hymns both sad and joyous, universal songs that touch on an experience ultimately personal.  With his meditative rhythm and evocative lyrics, Tagore gave the world something more than poetry or literature.  They touch our heart, inspirit our mind, cause us to cry or shudder or want to float up and dance among the stars.

The songs of Gitanjali (which literally means “an offering of songs”) are love songs; love for something divine, love between human beings, and love of life itself.  Like Whitman, Tagore did not shy away from the sensual.  He made the sensual beautiful.

In his introduction to the 1913 edition of Gitanjali, W.B. Yeats wrote that “Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity.”

Here, then, are two poems from Gitanjali:


I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless.

No more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten boat. The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves.

And now I am eager to die into the deathless.

Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life.

I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.


Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led me from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and touching my world.

It was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learnt; they showed me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of my heart.

They guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of pleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have the brought me in the evening at the end of my journey?


Five Years

A selfie of sorts.
A selfie of sorts.

April 13th marked the five year anniversary of  The Endless Further.  During this half-decade, I have posted a lot of poems but very few of my own.  Today, however,  the last day of National Poetry Month 2015, here is some poetry by yours truly.

silver lake

that summer morning when we sat
outside the café in silver lake
and talked over coffee
that turned cold too quickly

a soft gray haze lay over the hills
a breeze lifted her hair
then the sun, breaking through,
touched her hair to gold

I had already fallen under
the arch of her smile

she said
no one owes an artist anything
the world owes us all

a patron is someone
who supports your art
without fucking you

there was something discarnate
in how she subdued passion
with her intellect

she was all light and mystery
and like a brief song or warm coffee
it lasted only a short time
like a dream

whenever I think of her
I also think how dreams
parallel our reality

my dream is my nightmare
my nightmare is my dark journey

sometimes after such a journey
I awaken under some bodhi tree
in the light of the morning sun
with the world touched to gold


nuit de noel
(christmas eve)

you drove into three parked cars
one after another
because you were angry
that I was tired of your complaints
and bad behavior
and I wanted to leave

you don’t seem to understand
that you should have some regret
about what you did

rocking on your haunches by the fire

you should have stayed in paris
I should have stayed away

because one rose is as good as three
because a Saturn without rings is on your sign
not mine

and you think that pulling off the bark
Is caressing the tree

the girl as a future schizophrenia
straying on the pacific rim

pitching her dreams into the sea


san rio

nights in san rio
are like loose stars
swinging in dreams
the moon sings radiance
until the dawn

the music sambas
past midnight
and all your cares
fandango away
young girls tiptoe
through embraces
while old men
test their wives

well-lit boys
in search of adventure
gamble with their mananas
and everyone’s so at ease
dancing starlight
never counting the time

nights in san rio
are like loose stars
falling in slow motion
the moon sings celestial
until the dawn

© 2015 dmriley