Listen for the yes
It replicates in endless haloes

Their rhythm is always the same

Delightfully colorful seeds in my November garden; I think the secret to a content life is to always be germinating new ideas and thoughts and projects and talents and interests / New Jersey / Nov. 2009

“I sing praise to seeds, their rhythm is always the same,
they open and close and jealously transmit their secret.”

(from Lesser Psalm by Edvard Kocbek; full text of the poem after the jump)

. . . and I sing praise to the rambunctious rhythm of the family: Turkey Stomp

Lesser Psalm by Edvard Kocbek

“I sing praise to permanence, there is firmness beneath
   my feet and when I stop I can lean.

I sing praise to the invulnerable world spirit, it always
   forgets its fear, unbroken anew, unfathomable.

I sing praise to the depths of being, the more lonely the
   risk, the nobler the exhaustion.

I sing praise to seeds, their rhythm is always the same,
   they open and close and jealously transmit their secret.

I sing praise to the play of the spirit, it replicates
   in endless haloes, tears loose from tangles, then
   in soft tissue waits for a new manifestation.

I sing praise to gifts that visit us abruptly, one marvels
   at the other, each of them startlingly short-lived.

I sing praise to truth, eternally new, it loves us
   like a virgin bride, we pursue but never reach it.

I sing praise to astonishment, compressing and
   exploding us, and to the bliss gently opening in it.

I sing praise of the finite, that sorrowful sister who
   stands at the edge of the world, uncannily
   calm and submissive.

I sing praise to waiting, it droops inside us like an ear of
   overripe grain, silence is closest to fruition.

I sing praise to motion, which picks us up and always
   sets us before a new mystery.

I sing praise to suffering, which renews us, we change in
   jolts like wood crackling in a fire.

I sing praise to pain, which destroys the heart, blood
   trickles to the ground, assurance bows its head.

I sing praise to bliss, at a loss for sheer sufficiency, an
   uncanny suppleness enfolds and saturates us.

I sing praise to happiness, never in short supply,
   we joyously babble and mindlessly spin, man is a child to be assuaged.

I sing praise to love, which stays to the last, the tiniest
   bird singing a comforting song, I will never forget it again.”


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