“In the dark I rest,unready for the light which dawnsday after day,eager to be shared.Black silk, shelter me.I needmore of the night before I openeyes and heartto illumination. I must stillgrow in the dark like a rootnot ready, not ready at all.”

“A voice from the dark called out,"The poets must give usimagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiarimagination of disaster. Peace, not onlythe absence of war." But peace, like a poem,is not there ahead of itself,can't be imagined before it is made,can't be known exceptin the words of its making,grammar of justice,syntax of mutual aid. A feeling towards it,dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we haveuntil we begin to utter its metaphors,learning them as we speak. A line of peace might appearif we restructured the sentence our lives are making,revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,questioned our needs, allowedlong pauses. . . . A cadence of peace might balance its weighton that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,an energy field more intense than war,might pulse then,stanza by stanza into the world,each act of livingone of its words, each worda vibration of light--facetsof the forming crystal.”

“The AvowalAs swimmers dareto lie face to the skyand water bears them,as hawks rest upon airand air sustains them;so would I learn to attain freefall, and floatinto Creator Spirit's deep embrace,knowing no effort earnsthat all-surrounding grace.”

“1) Did the people of Viet Namuse lanterns of stone?2) Did they hold ceremoniesto reverence the opening of buds?3) Were they inclined to quiet laughter?4) Did they use bone and ivory,jade and silver, for ornament?5) Had they an epic poem?6) Did they distinguish between speech and singing?1) Sir, their light hearts turned to stone.It is not remembered whether in gardensstone lanterns illumined pleasant ways.2) Perhaps they gathered once to delight in blossom,but after the children were killedthere were no more buds.3) Sir, laughter is bitter to the burned mouth.4) A dream ago, perhaps. Ornament is for joy.All the bones were charred.5) It is not remembered. Remember,most were peasants; their lifewas in rice and bamboo.When peaceful clouds were reflected in the paddiesand the water buffalo stepped surely along terraces,maybe fathers told their sons old tales.When bombs smashed those mirrorsthere was time only to scream.6) There is an echo yetof their speech which was like a song.It was reported their singing resembledthe flight of moths in moonlight.Who can say? It is silent now.”

“Days pass when I forget the mystery.Problems insoluble and problems offeringtheir own ignored solutionsjostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamberalong with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearingtheir colored clothes; caps and bells. And thenonce more the quiet mysteryis present to me, the throng's clamorrecedes: the mysterythat there is anything, anything at all,let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,rather than void: and that, 0 Lord,Creator, Hallowed one, You still,hour by hour sustain it.”

“I am, a shadowthat grows longer as the sunmoves, drawn outon a thread of wonder.If I bear burdensthey begin to be rememberedas gifts, goods, a basketof bread that hurtsmy shoulders but closes mein fragrance. I caneat as I go. ("Stepping Westward")”

“Turn from that road's beguiling ease; returnto your hunger's turret. Enter, climb the stairchill with disuse, where the croaking toad of timeregards from shimmering eyes your slow ascentand the drip, drip, of darkness glimmers on the stoneto show you how your longing waits alone.What alchemy shines from under that shut door,spinning out gold from the hollow of the heart?("The Sea's Wash In The Hollow Of The Heart")”