Commonplace Book V

Alba
Italian for dawn
Scottish Gaelic for Scotland
I always thought it very onomatopoeic
(If dawn light had a sound for me it would be alba)
– Kim French‏

The silent mind touches the world without naming, without grasping and what it finds is only Love.
– t.k.

WHEN POETS DIE…
I have written
My last line
Watched it turn
Burn into a roaring fire
Sizzle down into
A whisper
That floats
And settles down
On your window sill
Transformed into a snowflake…
I have felt
My last emotion
Watched it engraved
In my book of life
I have
Braved a winter chill
Felt it
Drizzle down into
A shower
That rejuvenated me
And washed away
All my pain…
I have felt
A feeling of lying still
A corpse burning
On a funeral pyre…
When a poet dies
A soul is lost
Wandering through
Forests and woods
Without a destination
All that I had felt
Now rising up
To a crescendo
And the music plays on
Rises
And falls
A cascade of emotions…
So, let me bid adieu
The day is done
I have carefully wrapped up
My last feeling
It will lie with me
A solitary blossom
In my coffin
When a poet dies
I die, too…
– Anita Limbu Moktan

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
‭- ‭Philippians‬ ‭4:8‬ ‭NIV‬‬

My Religion Is New England
A selection from Vagabonds and Sundries
by L.M. Browning
My feast days come
When the apples are ripe
And the blueberries
Hang heavy with juice.
My communal wine
Is the crisp salty liquor sipped
From the oysters that grow
Along the black rocks in the bays.
On the afternoons when the molted leaves
Float in the air like bronzed snow flakes
And the gnarled pumpkin patches
Yield their copper bounty.
Walking across the wide floor boards,
Parched gray with dust,
Bending for the low horse-hair plaster ceilings,
Following the cramped stairways leading up to bed.
When the smell of the smoldering hearth
Beckons me home
As I walk through the village
On the first chilled winter night.
Having a heavy mug of hot cider,
A bowl of hearty fish stew.
And watch the fishing boats come in at dusk,
Their hulls loaded down heavy.
Sitting from my place along the shore,
Looking out unto tall masts,
The smell of the brine
When the wind is high in the east.
Driving down wooded roads,
Following the unending thread of stonewalls,
Winding along beneath the bower
Of Oaks, Maples, and Walnut trees.
I find that my home is my church.
And my heaven, a chair by the hearth.
In the dearness of it,
I find the sacred at work.
In partaking of it
—Belonging to it—
My heart swells
With a joy not to be conveyed.

Pax
by D. H. Lawrence

All that matters is to be at one with the living God
to be a creature in the house of the God of Life.

Like a cat asleep on a chair
at peace, in peace
and at one with the master of the house, with the mistress,
at home, at home in the house of the living,
sleeping on the hearth, and yawning before the fire.

Sleeping on the hearth of the living world
yawning at home before the fire of life
feeling the presence of the living God
like a great reassurance
a deep calm in the heart
a presence
as of the master sitting at the board
in his own and greater being,
in the house of life.

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