winterIn the black season of deep winter
A storm of waves is roused
Along the expanse of the world.

Sad are the birds of every meadow-plain
Except the ravens that feed on crimson blood
At the clamour of harsh winter –

Rough, black, dark, smoky;
Dogs are vicious in cracking bones;

The iron pot is put on the fire
After the dark black day.

(old celtic poetry)


forest deer in Ashok’s courtyard

poem from Makarand

Concealed a little,
A little conspicuous,
Wary, timid deer move in the courtyard.
The green rolling hills,
From here to the horizon,
Fill my vision.
A red sun descends,
A yogi’s eye,
Intoxicated yet alert,
Offering peace and compassion.
Seeing this all,
Suddenly emerges,
My primal self,
the forest dweller,
Stretches his arms
Wishing the grazing deer
To come closer,
Bounding and bouncing.
How clearly they manifest before me
The fingers of Shakuntala,
The palm of Kanva
And the last look of Bharat
And without fear, O deer!
Here, take grass from my outstretched hand!
Divinely sweet mantras showering from the Sun!


I visited Makarand  in India a couple of months before he died


DSC_0535My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.


How do you know that the pilgrim track
Along the belting zodiac
Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds
Is traced by now to the Fishes’ bounds
And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud
Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud,
And never as yet a tinct of spring
Has shown in the Earth’s apparelling;
     O vespering bird, how do you know,
          How do you know?


How do you know, deep underground,
Hid in your bed from sight and sound,
Without a turn in temperature,
With weather life can scarce endure,
That light has won a fraction’s strength,
And day put on some moments’ length,
Whereof in merest rote will come,
Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb;
     O crocus root, how do you know,
          How do you know?

Thomas Hardy

Song from the mother

Song from the Mother

Let go of the need to know why…
remember the Earth Mantra deep in your bones,
that you are beautiful,
that you belong,
that you are wild and powerful,
wise women,
breathing together,
sitting in circles,
knowing that all things unfold
in the most perfect way.
(song on a card from Glastonbury)

Traveller – Reiziger – caminante


Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
sino estelas en la mar.
Reiziger, je voetstappen zijn de weg
en niet meer dan dat.
Reiziger, er is geen weg,
de weg ontstaat al gaande.
Al gaande ontstaat de weg
en als je achterom kijkt
zie je het pad, dat je nooit meer kunt gaan.
Reiziger, er is geen weg,
enkel kielzog in zee.
Traveller, your footprints are
the road and nothing more.
Traveller, there is no road;
the road is made as you travel.
Travelling, the road is made,
and as you turn to look back
you can see the path that
will not be walked on again.
Traveller, there is no road,
only a trail in the sea.

I deleted my “Space” and this poem by Antonio Muchado y Ruiz which I had placed there is the only thing I wish to keep at the moment.