#teddy macker

[alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry]

Poem for my daughter by Teddy Macker

[lupovecchio]

Poem for my Daughter by Teddy Macker

It seems we have made pain

some kind of mistake,

like having it

is somehow wrong.

Don’t let them fool you—

pain is a part of things.

But remember, dear Ellie,

the compost down in the field:

if the rank and dank and dark

are handled well, not merely discarded,

but turned and known and honored,

they one day come to beds of rich earth

home even to the most delicate rose.

~

God comes to you disguised as your life.

Blessings often arrive as trouble.

In French, the word blesser means to wound

and relates to the Old English bletsian—

to sprinkle with blood.

And in Sanskrit there is a phrase,

a phrase to carry with you

wherever you go:

sarvam annam:

everything is food.

Every last thing.

~

The Navajo people,

it is said,

intentionally wove

(intentionally!)

obvious flaws into their sacred quilts …

Why?

It is there, they say,

in the “mistake,”

in the imperfection,

through which the Great Spirit moves.

~

Life is easy, yes.

And life is hard.

Life is simple, yes.

And life is complex.

We are tough, yes. But we are also fragile.

Everything’s eternally perfect

but help out if you can.

And big decisions—

decisions concerning

relationships, concerning children,

concerning death—

are rarely made cleanly.

In general, be wary—

even if just a little—

of talk of purity,

of goodness,

of light.

~

To love everything, not just parts …

To love all of yourself, not just certain traits …

To rest in not knowing …

To carry the cross

and to lay your burden down …

To savor the medicine blue of moon,

the fierce sugar of tangerine …

To laugh …

To be shameless, wild, and silly …

To know—fully, headlong,

without compunction—the ordinary magic

of our beautiful human bodies …

these seem worthwhile pursuits, life-long tasks.

~

By way of valediction, dear Ellie,

I pass along some words

from our many gracious teachers:

Eden is.

The imperfect is our paradise.

All is grace

[kevadsuvi]

[kevadsuvi]

The Anesthesia of Abstraction

Teddy Macker 

1. Talk of oneness or twoness or the trinity, of beingness or the Kingdom of God, of love, presence, the numinous and eternal: how far away such talk takes us, far away from the shade of the avocado tree, the thighs of ripe persimmon, the tongues of cattle licking the great blocks of salt in a hot dawning field. 

2.  For every time someone says systems theory one must say pines in the darkness; for every time someone says biodiversity or biophilia or sustainability someone must shout musk or barracuda or the whiskers of the carrot. The real, living, piebald world: we drop a cloak over it with our cumbrous sophistication. For every time someone says cumbrous sophistication someone must say the thighs of the goddess stippled with light.

[yearofbeinghere]

Teddy Macker: "A Poem for My Daughter"

It seems we have made pain some kind of mistake, like having it is somehow wrong.

Don’t let them fool you— pain is a part of things.

But remember, dear Ellie, the compost down in the field: if the rank and dank and dark are handled well, not merely discarded, but turned and known and honored, they one day come to beds of rich earth home even to the most delicate rose.

❖

God comes to you disguised as your life. Blessings often arrive as trouble.

In French, the word blesser means to wound and relates to the Old English bletsian—

to sprinkle with blood.

And in Sanskrit there is a phrase, a phrase to carry with you wherever you go:

sarvam annam:

everything is food.

Every last thing.

❖

The Navajo people, it is said, intentionally wove (intentionally!) obvious flaws into their sacred quilts …

Why?

It is there, they say, in the “mistake,” in the imperfection,

through which the Great Spirit moves.

❖

Life is easy, yes. And life is hard. Life is simple, yes. And life is complex. We are tough, yes. But we are also fragile. Everything’s eternally perfect but help out if you can.

❖

Work on becoming a native of mind, a native of heart. No thought, no feeling, could ever be “bad.”

It’s just another creature in the bestiary of Buddha, the bestiary of Christ.

Knowing this, knowing this down to the marrow, could save you, dear one, much needless strife.

Remember that wild and strange animals paused to drink at the pond of the Buddha’s mind even after he saw the morning star.

❖

No matter what you do, no matter what happens, it is impossible to leave the path.

Let me say that one more time: No matter what you do, no matter what happens, it is impossible to leave the path.

❖

Believe it or not, dear Ellie, some folks carefully imagine hideous gods tearing at flesh, clawing at faces, eating human hearts, and drinking cups of blood …

Why?

To shake hands with the Whole Catastrophe, to cultivate the Noble Idiot Yes.

According to their tradition, there are 84,000 “skillful means," 84,000 tactics of wakefulness, 84,000 ways to become spaciously alive, 84,000 ways to be at home in your life and in this world.

And many of those skillful means are like this one:

enlightenment through endarkment.

❖

Life appears to be fundamentally ambiguous.

Wily, everycolored, unpindownable.

For evidence of this, spend time with trees.

Over and over they say,

There is no final word.

And big decisions— decisions concerning relationships, concerning children, concerning death— are rarely made cleanly.

In general, be wary— even if just a little— of talk of purity, of goodness, of light.

❖

To love everything, not just parts … To love all of yourself, not just certain traits … To rest in not knowing …

To carry the cross and to lay your burden down …

To savor the medicine blue of moon, the fierce sugar of tangerine …

To be a Christ unto others, a Christ unto one’s self …

To laugh …

To be shameless, wild, and silly …

To know—fully, headlong, without compunction—the ordinary magic of our beautiful human bodies …

these seem worthwhile pursuits, life-long tasks.

❖

By way of valediction, dear Ellie, I pass along some words from our many gracious teachers:

Eden is.

The imperfect is our paradise.

All is grace.

"A Poem for My Daughter" by Teddy Macker. Text as published in This World (White Cloud Press, 2015). © Teddy Macker. Reprinted by permission of the poet.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Curator's note: Another long poem for you to savor into the new year and beyond. Only six days left until the conclusion of A Year of Being Here. Please be sure to complete my survey regarding a possible anthology of mindfulness poetry.

[therumpus]

POET Like a small bird, a finch, who pecks at a persimmon hanging on a branch, pecks her way inside the large lush fruit, fruit-surrounded.

The poet’s appetite for the lush, physical world is well-rendered in this tiny ars poetica.

Laura Haynes reviews This World by Teddy Macker.

[dk-thrive]

Does it break you heart a little? Does it seduce you just a bit Into loving more this odd hard world?

This is what you need to know: you need to know that otters wrap themselves in seaweed so they won’t,

while sleeping at night, float out to sea . . . Are you imagining this? Can you see the otters actually doing this?

Does it break your heart a little? Does it seduce you just a bit into loving more

this odd hard world? Oh otters, wrap yourselves tight! And sleep, exactly like you do, floating but seaweed-held

in our salty living waters! Oh otters, wrap yourselves tight! And you, the one who doesn’t, the one who doesn’t

tether himself down right, we are with you as you float away, we are with you as you sleep

and lose yourself in the night.

~Teddy Macker, The Otters and the Seaweed

[natureisthegreatestartist]

“The Otters and the Seaweed” by Teddy Macker

This is what you need to know: you need to know that otters wrap themselves in seaweed so they won’t,

while sleeping at night, float out to sea . . . Are you imagining this? Can you see the otters actually doing this?

Does it break your heart a little? Does it seduce you just a bit into loving more

this odd hard world?

(You can read the rest of the poem here. Photo by Mike Baird.)