In Praise of Sweet Darkness

The following poem by David Whyte was selected for inspiration to write and experiment with new kinds of poetry during a session of The Sacred Center’s Awakening the Creative Spirit program. In this exercise we used a modified and condensed version of the Glosa style to create "In Praise of Sweet Darkness."

Sweet Darkness

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love…

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

Anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.

-- David Whyte

"ancient" photo by lucy

In Praise of Sweet Darkness

The dank, moist smell of a cave.
The skin of a snake molting away.
The rich loam of life.
Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize its own.

A mother’s womb.
One mustard seed of hope.
The blood of crucifixion.
There you can be sure you are not beyond love…

Holding & sustaining.
Nurturing & growing.
Rising from the dead.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn

Birth moving into new life.
The oak rising from an acorn.
Darkness giving way to light.
Anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.

Inner Poet

My inner poet is French.
Tipped beret and Mona Lisa smile. Her voice rings out with playful laughter, her arms wide open, leaping into darkness and light. She is beautiful and earnest. Seductive and serious.
She was born on the wings of angels and birthed out of pain and suffering.
I recognize her in the first morning light by the gentle shores of the sea. She is bathed in God’s fragrance and surrounded by belief.

What does this inner poet know for sure?
She is light. She is dark. Complete and unfinished. A creature of God. A glorious paradox.
This poet lives hidden from sight. Covered in blue scarves and white. Peeking through the window and knocking on the door. She lives at home inviting others to come and sit by her fire.

Her imagination is infinite. She dreams of knowing and being known, of embracing and being embraced. She desires community, fellowship, peace and solitude.
She must speak of everything. The resonant and the dissonant. The beauty and the depravity. The joy and the sorrow. The fullness of life and the darkness of death.

She sits on the sidewalks of Life, holding a thin cigarette and dreaming her dreams.
Her voice speaks in a beautiful accent. Tipped beret and all-knowing smile.
My inner poet is a romantic. She is French.

photo: mona lisa by italian (not french) painter, leonardo da vinci

Heart Haiku

Heart
Crimson Cold
Beating, Breathing, Bleeding
Caught in a Vise
Yearning

Heart
Purity Personified
Beating, Bleeding, Breathing
Caught in a Vise
Loving

Heart Caught in a Vise
Evil and Beauty Conveyed
Grips the Hold of Life

modern cinquain and haiku poetry

Woods of Splendor

The journey winds through woods of splendor.
Darkness and exposure reach from barren limbs--
limbs intertwined with delight and holiness.
Bending boughs offer protection from the storm and
their pursuit is filled with love and fullness.
It is perfect and whole.
The path is wet and wild, brilliant in its darkness.
The sensual and luscious step out of hiding to become known,
Enriching the journey in blazing splendor.

"st. joe's cathedral"

The Edge

Come to the edge, He said. Come to the edge.
She smiled, lifted off the ground and did a cannonball into the unknown.

The unknown exploded and burst into a million miracles—glistening in the sky for all the world to see.
They floated through the sky, touching corners of the universe that had never known such brightness.

Come to the edge, She said. Come fly with me through the crystal atmosphere.
It is glorious. It is dangerous. It is life.