Crescendo Eyes

When I slow down enough to see, I find that others' "seeing" moves me. At least that is what I found when I spent two weeks in Tokaj, Hungary this summer, surrounded by remarkable musicians from nearly 40 countries for the Crescendo Summer Institute.

The eyes of some of the people I met inspired the following lines that I'm calling "poetic eye sketches" - brief impressions that provide tiny glimpses into who these people are as seen through who I am - as eyes meet eyes. I am changed by them and ever so grateful.

Just a few of the eyes that inspired these poetic "sketches"...

One

A steady welcome without pretense

     and humble certainty,

stirred together with freckled joy,

pulses from her eyes.

Two

Waves of peace emanate from the fresh crystalline twinkle,

arching over cheekbones like tendrils toward the object of delight.

Three

In an instant her eyes are alive and dancing,

responding to the warm hello that says,

     “I see you and think you’re worth knowing.”

Four

A tinge of mystery mingles with the thanksgiving she extends as our eyes meet.

Precious stories of other meetings,

     and the guarded treasures of her soul,

     I may never know,

but her brown irises whisper safety.

  

Five

There’s coffee in her eyes –

the sweet aroma and familiar warmth of a morning greeting

     welcoming me into the day.

Six

Tired eyes looking down didn’t know

they missed the blessing I sought to deliver

     not only with my voice.

Seven

Steady gaze of collaborative energy

     to try something new and succeed – together.

Eight

Blank proximity changed to a gift,

     eyes wrapping into mine

          in a quick ribbon curl

               of ubuntu.

Nine

The tops of his cheekbones wink,

     joining his kindly eyes in a gesture of hospitality.

Perhaps the God of whom he speaks loves with eyes like his?

Ten

Scintillating jewels dancing with fiery elation speak

     nearly as much as her arms sing

Eleven

Perceived pride or icy indifference melt away in a side-by-side encounter.

     Darkness reveals we are alike.

Those eyes contained laughter all along for those willing to look.

Twelve

Her eyes caught me in a warm embrace in the candle-glow.

A shared history – and words of life I had forgotten – its impetus.

Thirteen

Gentle vulnerability dons a cloak of radiance as eyes turn heavenward,

     deep trust giving strength to their fragility.

Fourteen

Eyes meet with a choice.

Partial permission to enter –

Testing trust anew.

Fifteen

The laughter in her deep brown eyes invites all those she meets to join the party,

     saying, “You are beautiful and wanted here.”

Sixteen

Eyes that share my fascination with eyes –

Digging below the surface with calm patience.

Fierce and playful, brimming with creative power,

Inviting you to adventures.

A new one and an old one

It has been a long time since I felt any inspiration to write. But spending two weeks surrounded by remarkable musicians/artists at Crescendo Summer Institute and slowing down the pace enough to notice and wonder sparked some new creativity in me. So here's a new poem and an old one, too.

August 7, 2015

They cut the wheat when I wasn’t looking.

Seasons change, as do I,

Dancing with alternating tentative and certain steps toward hopeful green –

Though much must die before it comes.

The golden barrenness is beautiful, too –

A waiting, exposed, having given all to nourish others.

He told us the desert is total openness to the sky, whose liturgy is one of waiting.

And so, like shorn wheat, we wait for the rains of renewal. 

* "He" refers to András Visky, speaking during the International Service at Crescendo Summer Institute, July 26, 2015

July 15, 2011 – Perelle Bay, Guernsey 5:15-6pm – Watching the tide come in

Advancing waves invite retreat

from my rocky perch

Later to command it

Knowing it is they not I

who have come before

and will persist

Creeping slowly onward

but a whisper and a glimmer

signal their coming

Among rocks immovable

the stealthy troops advance

Surrounding and submerging the

slumbering stone sentinels

A gush of excitement to fill a new

valley adds to the low din

Then moving stillness again

Waiting for reinforcements for

the next climb

A breeze of warning before their arrival

tells me I haven't heeded

Soon they will leave me no choice

In smug confidence onward marching

gathering new courage with each 

well-placed step

rejoicing in their imagined lordship

insatiable in their transfixing greed

I shall yield to their transient rule

knowing

- as does my rocky seat - 

that dawn shall peel back their icy cover,

morning sun reverse their victory

Poem for a Sunday afternoon

Green

Yesterday, drooping, you gave up hope,

Your silent screams becoming again a language I could read.

Interpreting my behavior as indifference,

            you buried your dreams, contenting yourself with survival

                        -- I don’t blame you.

Accustomed to our cyclical dance,

I apologetically did my part and,

when my back was turned,

you reassumed your habitually proud posture.

For some time I had known that this

lush green masquerade

was belying your true condition –

Stifled by walls of opposition, you could grow no further.

But in my selfish hurry, I chose the comfortable blindness of

Someday (Later).

Though I know not why, Someday came today,

            Replacing my denial with a wild love

                        that left you exposed –

            Roots pressed, redoubled back in wishful self-deceit

 -- or perhaps resilient hope

-- if you kept reaching, maybe, just maybe…

You were right to hold fast to that hidden glimmer

For now, safe in new soil, you’re free to dream again.
The color of hope becomes you.

 

 

I've never been much of a house plant person, but this plant I got about a year ago as a birthday present is teaching me more about life and love than I expected, especially today as I finally transplanted it. Observing the roots as I did so got me asking all sorts of questions like, "In what ways do I choose to keep growing roots in spaces that are too small instead of moving (metaphorically) to new soil (the greatly desired but also feared space of growth)?"  À méditer...

  

Shall we begin with poetry?

This morning, I was awakened at 6:45 by the beginning lines of an unwritten poem stirring in me. So I took the time to give it life. I offer it to you along with another one I wrote this summer, after a memorable conversation on a flight from Paris to Budapest. 

A Meeting

Recalcitrant piece of driftwood,

I know your nature to float and flee

     with the ebbing tide, worn smooth by the waves,

thinking you’re finished but really just

          numb.

I looked on you with love when a sapling,

     striving upward toward my light,

Long before the storm uprooted you and

     sent you reeling toward the sea.

Though well-masked by years of tossing,

     your innermost rings still carry my dreams.

Here. In the stillness of our encounter,

I see you as far more than a washed-up, shore-bound log,

     biding time until the next rising tide sweeps you

          into rolling forgetfulness.

If you’re willing, I will lean down and take you in my hands.

Fully known yet strangely unafraid,

     you’ll yield to my soul-sounding gaze,

          your memory stirred by a long-forgotten silent whisper.

Carved by our closeness, what’s dead in you will fall away

and the beauty of your contours emerge

          – a breath of hope to all who see.

At rest from your drifting, I’ll fill you with a new kind of water

          – life unending for the thirsty

                    pouring forth from the vessel of your being
                              as you journey homeward.

Meret's Boots

That leather could surely tell stories...
     of resting after a long walk
          as she sipped maté, mind keen to understand
     her new friends' world.
With heart untuned to the music of walled-in books,
     her feet took to the roads and rails and skies... of Beyond,
Sure, rubber-soled steps shrouding a foundation
     still under construction... her soul like the

     houses she would one day build.
Only One knows if the wonder of a Bogotá sunrise,
     a journey shared with a stranger,
          the hope of footprints left behind,
               and His splendor in the trees
     will give her roots like them
          long after her boots fall to pieces.

                                                         (July 24, 2013)