The Mask - by Unknown

Always a mask
Held in the slim hand whitely
Always she had a mask before her
face -

Truly the wrist
Holding it lightly
Fitted the task:
Sometimes however
Was there a shiver,
Fingertip quiver,
Ever so slightly-
Holding the mask?

For years and years and years I
wondered
But dared not ask
And then-
I blundered,
Looked behind the mask,
To find
Nothing-
She had no face.

She had become
Merely a hand
Holding a mask
With grace.

If - Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

When Someone Deeply Listens To You - John Fox

When someone deeply listens to you
it is like holding out a dented cup
you've had since childhood
and watching it fill up with
cold, fresh water.
When it balances on the top of the brim,
you are understood.
When it overflows and touches your skin,
you are loved.

When someone deeply listens to you
the room where you stay
starts a new life
and the place where you wrote
your first poem
begins to glow in your mind's eye.
It is as if gold has been discovered!

When someone deeply listens to you
your bare feet are on the earth
and a beloved land that seemed distant
is now at home within you.

The Journey - Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and
began,

though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --

though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to
do,

though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,

though their melancholy
was terrible.

It was already late
enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.

But little by little,
as you left their voice behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,

that kept you company
as you strode deeper and
deeper into the world,

determined to do
the only thing you could do --

determined to save
the only life that you could
save.

The Invitation - Oriah

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
”Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

The Angel Who Lost Her Wings - Bahareh Amidi

Once upon a time,
there was an angel,
an angel who lost her wings.

She was walking through life,
wondering what fault
had made her wings disappear.

She saw the birds flying through the sky
and the bees buzzing around.

She saw a rock by the river
and she sat.
And she sat.
And she sat.

After years of sitting,
she decided to walk again
and look for her wings.

That is when she started to fly
wingless
with heart.

A Voice Through the Door - Rumi

Sometimes you hear a voice through the door
calling you, as fish out of water hear the waves,

or a hunting falcon hears the drum’s
Come back. Come back.

This turning toward what you deeply love
saves you.

Read the book of your life,
which has been given you.

A voice comes to your soul saying,
Lift your foot. Cross over.

Move into emptiness
of question and answer and question.

It Is Not Enough - David Whyte

It is not enough to know.
It is not enough to follow
the inward road conversing in secret.

It is not enough to see straight ahead,
to gaze at the unborn
thinking the silence belongs to you.

It is not enough to hear
even the tiniest edge of rain.

You must go to the place
where everything waits,
there, when you finally rest,
even one word will do,
one word or the palm of your hand
turning outward
in the gesture of gift.

And now we are truly afraid
to find the great silence
asking so little.

One word, one word only.

The Journey - David Whyte

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again

Painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that

first, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.

Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out

someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life.

You are not leaving.
Even as the light fades quickly now,
you are arriving.

Consider What Happens - John Fox

Consider what happens

upon hearing a poem

that moves you. The nod

of your head, tucking

your chin close

to your chest, as if

stopping to rest, as if you could cry now

in the middle of a long journey.

Here, whatever you regret having forgotten

even with your aching tiredness

(which you cannot forget) all of a sudden

turns to a surprisingly vibrant sky

as your eyes widen ever-so-slightly

in a recognition that shimmers

under your skin, wells-up

into a calm line-of-sight

that is your own and goes on

almost forever.

Astonished, you walk outside breathing

and slowly stroll in the fresh air

suddenly aware that back in your house

someone new, a stranger you like,

has arrived.

Phantom Pain Tries to Speak - John Fox

I am embers of the campfire dusted in gray ash
and still hot at 2 in the morning

I am the jellyfish you touch
in the dark water

I am the scary rustle of ceiling to floor curtains
late at night

I am the secret you must live with

I am the strange voice on the phone
you thought for a moment you knew

I am the stone sharp arrow pulled against
the taut bowstring

I am the rapids of a river
without a bed to rest in

I am the voice that calls out
"Set me free!"