Tag: shell

  • Pain

    Kahlil Gibran

    From The Prophet

    AND a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain.

    And he said:

    Your pain is the breaking of the shell
    that encloses your understanding.

    Even as the stone of the fruit must break,that its
    heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.

    And could you keep your heart in wonder
    at the daily miracles of your life, your pain
    would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

    And you would accept the seasons of your
    heart, even as you have always accepted
    the seasons that pass over your fields.

    And you would watch with serenity
    through the winters of your grief.

    Much of your pain is self-chosen.

    It is the bitter potion by which the
    physician within you heals your sick self.

    Therefore trust the physician, and drink
    his remedy in silence and tranquillity:

    For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided
    by the tender hand of the Unseen,
    And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips,
    has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter
    has moistened with His own sacred tears.

    Read more  Kahlil Gibran poems

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  • SHELL FREE

     

    Susan Dane

    Ten thousand pecks they say
    to break the shell
    and wiggle free,
    wide-eyes blinking.
    Nothing to be done to hurry things.
    It needs 10,000 pecks to build the beak.
    What must it think?
    At 10,000, beats
    one peck at a time, blind,
    until the darkness cracks
    and a different air wraps its flapping
    cold around it.  Light dazes in
    a rush of smells and greens.

    Are we too breaking free bit by bit?
    Certainly there is much
    that closes us in
    our own invisible porcelain:
    the hourglass,
    and sleepless nights,
    and lives with sand walls sliding,
    and everywhere the tight jacket
    of desire keeps us wrapped
    around ourselves.

    Still I wonder if the metaphor itself
    is not half-cracked.
    The question never asked:
    Are we the tiny embryo
    pressing to be born?
    Or is there something far unknown
    fighting for its breath in us– against us–
    cramped, curled and nerve pinched,
    its oxygen receding?
    Are we the chick or shell?
    The cage or caged?

    Or does some mystery make one of two?
    That with 10,000 pecks
    this dark sufferer
    splinters all our little hardnesses;
    And then this folded over doubled thing,
    crammed and squeezed,
    breaks free
    and when it does,
    God Himself wriggles out, ever so fragile,
    hesitant, still wet, but bodied!
    And the mystery!
    It doesn’t leave us behind,
    like some broken thing,
    an empty shell,
    but brings us on its frangible wings
    to a new home,
    that is precisely wild,
    and we,
    clumsy but unfettered,
    climbing,
    climbing!