by William Blake
Appears and God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night -
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.
read the Bible day and night,
But thou read’st black where I read white.
is the Study of Art,
Praise is the Practice of Art.
know of no other Christianity -
And of no other Gospel –
Than the liberty, both of body and mind,
To exercise the Divine Arts of Imagination.
Nations grow Old, The Arts grow Cold –
And Commerce settles on every Tree.
Poem by Pablo Neruda
love the handful of the earth you are.
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations;
your skin throbs like the streak
of a meteor through rain.
Your hips were that much of the moon for
your deep mouth and its delights, that much sun;
your heart, fiery with its long red rays,
that much ardent light, like honey in the shade.
So I pass across your burning form, kissing
you—compact and planetary, my dove, my globe.
Music by Philip Schultz
is music in the spheres of the body.
I mean the pull of the sea in the blood
of the man alone on his porch watching
the stars wind bands of light around his body.
I mean the roll of the planet that is the rhythm
of his breath & the wilderness of his perception
that is the immensity of light flowering like stars
in the lights of his eyes. I mean the singing
in his body that is the world of the moment of his life,
Poem by John Diamond, M.D.
of all our suffering
is not knowing
And we never will
until we know
from our mothers,
from She, the Goddess Supreme.
(For such she was in our infancy,
and so she still is now.)
Only then can we act as Gods,
bestowing our Love back to her,
and then to all.
the task of life
is to find our Perfection,
and this only comes
through first finding hers.
Not just hers as she is,
but Hers as she yearns to be:
the fullest expression
of pure Maternal Love.
are many paths
One of the easiest
is through Music,
for it came first
from our mothers
her rocking, her lilt,
and her lullaby.
And it comes now from our Muse,
the Mother of Love within us.
from your Inner Temple,
for There She dwells.
by Shel Silverstein
skin is kind of sort of brownish
Pinkish yellowish white.
My eyes are greyish blueish green,
But I’m told they look orange in the night.
My hair is reddish blondish brown,
But it’s silver when it’s wet.
And all the colors I am inside
Have not been invented yet.
Woman Deserves a Poem by River Malcolm
I want to tell you how beautiful you are
In such a true and unforgettable way
That you will never doubt it again.
It will be as though through the lens of
the poem you will suddenly see: yourself.
Truly the whole of you, naked.
It will be as though you are walking alone
In the woods when a great blue heron lifts
Into the air, or a single wild orchid blooms,
Or the moon shines down on still water,
And it is enough. Your heart stops.
You are left grateful, simply for being alive.
It will be your own beauty this time
Taking you so suddenly and by surprise,
The mysterious beauty of you entire life
Carefully inscribed in your body.
be as though the poem becomes
Your dream lover, caresses your skin
With absolute tenderness, lights up
With its touch every cell in your body,
Enters you with a gasp of astonished
Desire, plunges deep into the secret
At the center of who you are.