- Rafting - By Tony Watkins - a story that illustrates two very different kinds of leadership
- The Man Who Planted Trees - by Jean Giono - a classic, inspiring story of the power of individual agency and living systems
- The Kathakali Man - by Arundhati Roy, from The God of Small Things about a traditional storyteller in a cynical modern world
- End Of The Century - Which Is Why Wipers - a poem by Jeremy Cronin
- Story-telling - getting to the heart of things - by Doug Reeler - Exploring story-telling as a key element of practice
Parachuting cats into Borneo! A Cautionary Tale.
(Quoted in Rachel Wynberg and Christine Jardine, Biotechnology and Biodiversity: Key Policy Issues for South Africa, 2000)
In the early 1950's, the Dayak people of Borneo suffered a malarial outbreak. The World Health Organisation (WHO) had a solution: to spray large amounts of DDT to kill the mosquitoes that carried the malaria. The mosquitoes died; the malaria declined; so far so good. But there were unexpected side effects. Amongst the first was that the roofs of the people's houses began to fall down on their heads. It seemed that the DDT had also killed a parasitic wasp which had previously controlled thatch-eating caterpillars. Worse, the DDT-poisoned insects were eaten by geckoes, which were eaten by cats. The cats started to die, the rats flourished, and the people were threatened by outbreaks of typhus and plague. To cope with these problems, which it had itself created, the WHO was obliged to parachute 14 000 live cats into Borneo. Operation Cat Drop, now almost forgotten at the WHO, is a graphic illustration of the interconnectedness of life, and of the fact that the root of problems often stems from their purported solutions.
(Quoted in Rachel Wynberg and Christine Jardine, Biotechnology and Biodiversity: Key Policy Issues for South Africa, 2000)
In the early 1950's, the Dayak people of Borneo suffered a malarial outbreak. The World Health Organisation (WHO) had a solution: to spray large amounts of DDT to kill the mosquitoes that carried the malaria. The mosquitoes died; the malaria declined; so far so good. But there were unexpected side effects. Amongst the first was that the roofs of the people's houses began to fall down on their heads. It seemed that the DDT had also killed a parasitic wasp which had previously controlled thatch-eating caterpillars. Worse, the DDT-poisoned insects were eaten by geckoes, which were eaten by cats. The cats started to die, the rats flourished, and the people were threatened by outbreaks of typhus and plague. To cope with these problems, which it had itself created, the WHO was obliged to parachute 14 000 live cats into Borneo. Operation Cat Drop, now almost forgotten at the WHO, is a graphic illustration of the interconnectedness of life, and of the fact that the root of problems often stems from their purported solutions.
Answers from the Elements
Rumi
A whole afternoon field inside me from one stem of reed.
The messenger comes running toward me, irritated:
Why be so hard to find?
Last night I asked the moon about the Moon, my one question
for the visible world, Where is God?
The moon says, I am dust stirred up
when he passed by.The sun, My face is pale yellow
from just now seeing him. Water: I slide on my head and face
like a snake, from a spell he said. Fire: His lightning,
I want to be that restless. Wind, why so light?
I would burn if I had a choice. Earth, quiet
and thoughtful? Inside me I have a garden
and an underground spring.
This world hurts my head with its answers, wine filling my hand, not my glass.
If I could wake completely, I would say without speaking
Why I’m ashamed of using words.
(Reprinted by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
Rumi
A whole afternoon field inside me from one stem of reed.
The messenger comes running toward me, irritated:
Why be so hard to find?
Last night I asked the moon about the Moon, my one question
for the visible world, Where is God?
The moon says, I am dust stirred up
when he passed by.The sun, My face is pale yellow
from just now seeing him. Water: I slide on my head and face
like a snake, from a spell he said. Fire: His lightning,
I want to be that restless. Wind, why so light?
I would burn if I had a choice. Earth, quiet
and thoughtful? Inside me I have a garden
and an underground spring.
This world hurts my head with its answers, wine filling my hand, not my glass.
If I could wake completely, I would say without speaking
Why I’m ashamed of using words.
(Reprinted by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
The grandmother in our hearts
Simric Yarrow
Viva! The wisdom of the grandmothers
who notice the perfumes we try to hide and sometimes save our lives
who share the power of simplicity
showing compassion for our consumer confusion
who live inside all our hearts
helping us bring each other in from the cold hard edges
listening for magic moments
defending our rights to live free lives
fighting only with power-words and power-stories that recreate dignified roles
turning scavengers into instant livestock entrepreneurs
and when we meet with open ears
we’re upgrading democracy for free
for those whose feet will walk where their wild hearts and discerning minds direct
showering fountains of strength that catalyse cataracts of loving courage
sometimes, the snowflakes of feelings freeze in folly
mother-in-law and daughters-in-law get stuck in circles of thirst
well-meaning northern woodchoppers cause clear-cutting in the south
but still, one voice can change what’s possible and thunder-clear the air
and that kitchen community, huddled round ancestral hearths
can open that long-locked door of fear
and meet the wider world with wide mirror-smiles
Barefoot Guide 4 Writeshop, Johannesburg November 2013
Simric Yarrow
Viva! The wisdom of the grandmothers
who notice the perfumes we try to hide and sometimes save our lives
who share the power of simplicity
showing compassion for our consumer confusion
who live inside all our hearts
helping us bring each other in from the cold hard edges
listening for magic moments
defending our rights to live free lives
fighting only with power-words and power-stories that recreate dignified roles
turning scavengers into instant livestock entrepreneurs
and when we meet with open ears
we’re upgrading democracy for free
for those whose feet will walk where their wild hearts and discerning minds direct
showering fountains of strength that catalyse cataracts of loving courage
sometimes, the snowflakes of feelings freeze in folly
mother-in-law and daughters-in-law get stuck in circles of thirst
well-meaning northern woodchoppers cause clear-cutting in the south
but still, one voice can change what’s possible and thunder-clear the air
and that kitchen community, huddled round ancestral hearths
can open that long-locked door of fear
and meet the wider world with wide mirror-smiles
Barefoot Guide 4 Writeshop, Johannesburg November 2013
The Holy Longing
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Tell a wise person or else keep silent
For the massman will mock it right away.
I praise what is truly alive
And what longs to be burned to death.
In the calm waters of the love nights
Where you were begotten,
Where you have begotten,
A strange feeling comes over you
When you see the silent candle burning.
Now you are no longer caught in this obsession with darkness
And a desire for higher lovemaking sweeps you upward.
Distance does not make you falter.
And now, arriving in magic, flying
and finally, insane for the light
You are the butterfly.
And you are gone.
And so long as you haven't experienced this,
To die and so to grow,
You are only a troubled guest on a dark earth.
(Reprinted by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Tell a wise person or else keep silent
For the massman will mock it right away.
I praise what is truly alive
And what longs to be burned to death.
In the calm waters of the love nights
Where you were begotten,
Where you have begotten,
A strange feeling comes over you
When you see the silent candle burning.
Now you are no longer caught in this obsession with darkness
And a desire for higher lovemaking sweeps you upward.
Distance does not make you falter.
And now, arriving in magic, flying
and finally, insane for the light
You are the butterfly.
And you are gone.
And so long as you haven't experienced this,
To die and so to grow,
You are only a troubled guest on a dark earth.
(Reprinted by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
Letter to Suvorin
(Anton Chekov, Sakhalin Island, off the coast of Siberia)
July 11, 1890
Greetings, friend, from the world's end! You were right,
the tea is terrible! We are moored at last off Sakhalin.
Because there's no true harbor we'll sleep on board,
cross the bay of reefs by daylight. Six thousand miles
of floods, thieves, mud and tedium between me
and home - I almost understand
why you say this place doesn't concern us.
On shore, forest fires march down the mountains -
perhaps these flames are eternal, no one in the village
tries to put them out. On deck, the same numbed peace:
women and children, soldiers and manacled convicts
huddle together and try to sleep.
- But even here the weeks pass. It's August now.
I woke at five this morning as I do each day to bells
from St. Vladimir's squat log cabin of a church.
Since the convicts are refused entrance, I, too, stay clear.
I pulled on two pairs of pants for warmth, smoked my pipe
watching the Tartar Straits sunrise, then worked till dark.
I've decided to interview every person on the island.
You say these lifers hold no interest, but on the contrary
I can't stop thinking of them. This morning
I met Mikhail, a man chained two years to a wheelbarrow.
Like so many others, but with his four-year-old, his Nadja,
who's always at his side, even sleeps in his barrow.
And thin Lydia, a twelve-year-old who answered
all my questions, then asked could I afford
a whole rouble to lie with her?
I forced myself last week to watch a whipping.
A doctor like myself examined the man they meant to break,
pronounced him fit for ninety lashes.
The flogger dealt five blows from the left,
five from the right, impassive as a teacher belting a child.
It's not the same, I know, but I kept seeing my father,
how he'd lift the cane above his head, reaching
for more force. I was five. He made me kiss
the rod that taught me justice. I fled the guardhouse,
the whipped man's cries following me down wood sidewalks.
In one yard I saw a rooster tied by its leg,
in another a lock and chain around a pig's neck-
I swear, everything on this island's bolted down.
I climbed to the lighthouse, my favorite spot,
spray breaking over rocks named The Three Murderers,
and along the cliff line the windblown fires
have their own grandeur.
What do you think, is even hell beautiful?
Last night, beneath Bengal lanterns and fireworks,
I dined with Sakhalin's governor high above the village.
The governor spoke on "the golden age of prison care."
My own speech, on building the island's first school,
disappeared in polite applause. A warden
who'd drunk too much French champagne
told of hanging nine men for a single crime:
"There was an entire bouquet hanging in the air."
When the bodies were lifted down
the doctor found one still alive.
Some nights, since he hanged the man
a second time, the warden can't sleep.
How I long to leave this island! Alexey, when I see you next
in Petersburg we will have tea and jam on a silver tray
- how absurdly happy I felt just now, writing that!
Imagine, candlelight on thick preserves,
raspberry or gooseberry, and everything terrible in life
again going on out of sight.
Listen, friend, I need you. Tell me how do we savor
good tea while others suffer? How do we
give thanks for the taste of gooseberries?
THEODORE DEPPE in THE WANDERER KING
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
(Anton Chekov, Sakhalin Island, off the coast of Siberia)
July 11, 1890
Greetings, friend, from the world's end! You were right,
the tea is terrible! We are moored at last off Sakhalin.
Because there's no true harbor we'll sleep on board,
cross the bay of reefs by daylight. Six thousand miles
of floods, thieves, mud and tedium between me
and home - I almost understand
why you say this place doesn't concern us.
On shore, forest fires march down the mountains -
perhaps these flames are eternal, no one in the village
tries to put them out. On deck, the same numbed peace:
women and children, soldiers and manacled convicts
huddle together and try to sleep.
- But even here the weeks pass. It's August now.
I woke at five this morning as I do each day to bells
from St. Vladimir's squat log cabin of a church.
Since the convicts are refused entrance, I, too, stay clear.
I pulled on two pairs of pants for warmth, smoked my pipe
watching the Tartar Straits sunrise, then worked till dark.
I've decided to interview every person on the island.
You say these lifers hold no interest, but on the contrary
I can't stop thinking of them. This morning
I met Mikhail, a man chained two years to a wheelbarrow.
Like so many others, but with his four-year-old, his Nadja,
who's always at his side, even sleeps in his barrow.
And thin Lydia, a twelve-year-old who answered
all my questions, then asked could I afford
a whole rouble to lie with her?
I forced myself last week to watch a whipping.
A doctor like myself examined the man they meant to break,
pronounced him fit for ninety lashes.
The flogger dealt five blows from the left,
five from the right, impassive as a teacher belting a child.
It's not the same, I know, but I kept seeing my father,
how he'd lift the cane above his head, reaching
for more force. I was five. He made me kiss
the rod that taught me justice. I fled the guardhouse,
the whipped man's cries following me down wood sidewalks.
In one yard I saw a rooster tied by its leg,
in another a lock and chain around a pig's neck-
I swear, everything on this island's bolted down.
I climbed to the lighthouse, my favorite spot,
spray breaking over rocks named The Three Murderers,
and along the cliff line the windblown fires
have their own grandeur.
What do you think, is even hell beautiful?
Last night, beneath Bengal lanterns and fireworks,
I dined with Sakhalin's governor high above the village.
The governor spoke on "the golden age of prison care."
My own speech, on building the island's first school,
disappeared in polite applause. A warden
who'd drunk too much French champagne
told of hanging nine men for a single crime:
"There was an entire bouquet hanging in the air."
When the bodies were lifted down
the doctor found one still alive.
Some nights, since he hanged the man
a second time, the warden can't sleep.
How I long to leave this island! Alexey, when I see you next
in Petersburg we will have tea and jam on a silver tray
- how absurdly happy I felt just now, writing that!
Imagine, candlelight on thick preserves,
raspberry or gooseberry, and everything terrible in life
again going on out of sight.
Listen, friend, I need you. Tell me how do we savor
good tea while others suffer? How do we
give thanks for the taste of gooseberries?
THEODORE DEPPE in THE WANDERER KING
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
A sleep of prisoners
Christopher Fry
The human heart can go the lengths of God.
Dark and cold we may be, but this
Is no winter now. The frozen misery
Of centuries breaks, cracks, begins to move;
The thunder is the thunder of the floes,
The thaw, the flood, the upstart Spring.
Thank God our time is now when wrong
Comes up to face us till we take
The longest stride of soul men ever took.
Affairs are now soul size.
The enterprise
Is exploration into God.
Where are you making for? It takes
So many thousand years to wake,
But will you wake for pity's sake!
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
Christopher Fry
The human heart can go the lengths of God.
Dark and cold we may be, but this
Is no winter now. The frozen misery
Of centuries breaks, cracks, begins to move;
The thunder is the thunder of the floes,
The thaw, the flood, the upstart Spring.
Thank God our time is now when wrong
Comes up to face us till we take
The longest stride of soul men ever took.
Affairs are now soul size.
The enterprise
Is exploration into God.
Where are you making for? It takes
So many thousand years to wake,
But will you wake for pity's sake!
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
A little town at a time
Elsbeth, E. (2003)
I know too many small towns from the inside out.
I know.
No one really knows how many people live there. They don't count the
bodies in that place. It is not important. They know how many graves
are marked and how many not. How many people left and how many
stayed. And those who are yet to be born they leave to the hands of the rubbing
old women and knowing gods for they have their own ways that
few can recognize and most must fear. Here every thing has its place and
for some nothing has its time. At this place, washing hangs because it
must on days when the wind blows strong.
There.
They know enough, how many houses there are, whose child was
fathered by which man on what day of which season, who sees in the
burning playfulness of the sun revenge from a living God, which woman
needs to be watched carefully, whose clothes need to be passed down
to whom.
There.
Small towns live in two minds. Its back turned to that which it cannot
change and that which their own eyes cannot believe. I know. I come
from there. I was born there. I return now. To small places. Every other
week I pack my bags and I go. Back. On gravel roads cutting away the
skin of distance, carving me back into what ought to be, a little town at a time.
But it cannot be the same. I speak with a pausing tongue for the things
I have to say are strange and out of place.
Development.
A secluded word that falls too easily off my mother's tongue and puts out
the fire between them and me. Us. They who are black and rural like me,
make me walk in mourning with a bowed head and closed eyes swaying
dangerously like a thirsty child towards tears. Here. Learned knowledge
loses its certainty and the mind is tripped like a circle drawn violently
in the air given belief by the nod of a passing stranger.
For they know what time it was when the world stopped and stared and moved on
leaving its name behind in the starving bark of a dog chasing leaves.
Here the world waits and redeems itself in the name of dogs who answer to
Bin Laden, Pagad, Mandela. Here. Dogs, who are seldom called, seldom
touched, often chased away and mostly fed with the shame of left over
meatless bones are the memory of a world gone forgotten. Here. Dogs are a
white smile and a black scream. They are explained in time. Never
understood with time.
It is here.
That they know they give birth to me every time I return. They know.
And I know.
That I must know my place.
Here.
I know too few small towns from the inside out.
(Reprinted by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
Elsbeth, E. (2003)
I know too many small towns from the inside out.
I know.
No one really knows how many people live there. They don't count the
bodies in that place. It is not important. They know how many graves
are marked and how many not. How many people left and how many
stayed. And those who are yet to be born they leave to the hands of the rubbing
old women and knowing gods for they have their own ways that
few can recognize and most must fear. Here every thing has its place and
for some nothing has its time. At this place, washing hangs because it
must on days when the wind blows strong.
There.
They know enough, how many houses there are, whose child was
fathered by which man on what day of which season, who sees in the
burning playfulness of the sun revenge from a living God, which woman
needs to be watched carefully, whose clothes need to be passed down
to whom.
There.
Small towns live in two minds. Its back turned to that which it cannot
change and that which their own eyes cannot believe. I know. I come
from there. I was born there. I return now. To small places. Every other
week I pack my bags and I go. Back. On gravel roads cutting away the
skin of distance, carving me back into what ought to be, a little town at a time.
But it cannot be the same. I speak with a pausing tongue for the things
I have to say are strange and out of place.
Development.
A secluded word that falls too easily off my mother's tongue and puts out
the fire between them and me. Us. They who are black and rural like me,
make me walk in mourning with a bowed head and closed eyes swaying
dangerously like a thirsty child towards tears. Here. Learned knowledge
loses its certainty and the mind is tripped like a circle drawn violently
in the air given belief by the nod of a passing stranger.
For they know what time it was when the world stopped and stared and moved on
leaving its name behind in the starving bark of a dog chasing leaves.
Here the world waits and redeems itself in the name of dogs who answer to
Bin Laden, Pagad, Mandela. Here. Dogs, who are seldom called, seldom
touched, often chased away and mostly fed with the shame of left over
meatless bones are the memory of a world gone forgotten. Here. Dogs are a
white smile and a black scream. They are explained in time. Never
understood with time.
It is here.
That they know they give birth to me every time I return. They know.
And I know.
That I must know my place.
Here.
I know too few small towns from the inside out.
(Reprinted by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
Just as the winged energy of delight
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Just as the winged energy of delight
carried you over many chasms early on,
now raise the daringly imagined arch
holding up the astounding bridges.
Miracle doesn't lie only in the amazing
living through and defeat of danger;
miracles become miracles in the clear
achievement that is earned.
To work with things is not hubris
when building the association beyond words;
denser and denser the pattern becomes --
being carried along is not enough.
Take your well-disciplined strengths
and stretch them between two
opposing poles. Because inside human beings
is where God learns.
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Just as the winged energy of delight
carried you over many chasms early on,
now raise the daringly imagined arch
holding up the astounding bridges.
Miracle doesn't lie only in the amazing
living through and defeat of danger;
miracles become miracles in the clear
achievement that is earned.
To work with things is not hubris
when building the association beyond words;
denser and denser the pattern becomes --
being carried along is not enough.
Take your well-disciplined strengths
and stretch them between two
opposing poles. Because inside human beings
is where God learns.
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
And so it begins
Simric Yarrow
And so begins the delicate task of expression
Boldly allowing the pen to tell us the tale
Giving free room to our inside wobbles
Pouring forth titles and chapters researched with
Years of treading upon this earth
I wonder how to speak and share myself
Showing my flutter-heart but
In this yearning for revolutions of minds
Striving to include
Striving to be included
There is a dance of trust here, a dance of clarity
The information clay is shaped and moulded
Into delightful curls and conjunctions
Will it form strong soil for blooming thought-flowers
In those who meet these phrases?
Will more emerge another day
To other listening voices?
If I keep the words inside I know a part of me will choke
My part unplayed, my song unheard
For like the birds I have my task
And I must spit and mewl and puke these drafts
And breathe and pause and sleep and dream
And scratch and further form
Until they stand
Humming their harmonies for all to hear
Released from the tended gardens of my soul
Barefoot Guide 4 Writeshop, Johannesburg November 2013
Simric Yarrow
And so begins the delicate task of expression
Boldly allowing the pen to tell us the tale
Giving free room to our inside wobbles
Pouring forth titles and chapters researched with
Years of treading upon this earth
I wonder how to speak and share myself
Showing my flutter-heart but
In this yearning for revolutions of minds
Striving to include
Striving to be included
There is a dance of trust here, a dance of clarity
The information clay is shaped and moulded
Into delightful curls and conjunctions
Will it form strong soil for blooming thought-flowers
In those who meet these phrases?
Will more emerge another day
To other listening voices?
If I keep the words inside I know a part of me will choke
My part unplayed, my song unheard
For like the birds I have my task
And I must spit and mewl and puke these drafts
And breathe and pause and sleep and dream
And scratch and further form
Until they stand
Humming their harmonies for all to hear
Released from the tended gardens of my soul
Barefoot Guide 4 Writeshop, Johannesburg November 2013
Until one is committed
William H. Murray (from his book "The Scottish Himalayan Expedition"):
Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. "Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it."
(Thanks to Tom Hunter for correcting the impression that these were all Goethe's words)
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
William H. Murray (from his book "The Scottish Himalayan Expedition"):
Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. "Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it."
(Thanks to Tom Hunter for correcting the impression that these were all Goethe's words)
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
In ways we cannot know
Simric Yarrow
This heart-open project to bare our soles is first a spiral-spider movement inwards
To that mysterious ambiguous saucy source of constant change
When we tap that treacley tree-core
We can challenge some of what has gone before
Provided that we remember to use singing tones too
For we wish to spread the wonderfully dangerous belief
That there is a peachy potency for change in every soul
We wish to support this sap’s flow into our connecting communities
Just as it flows in birdsong and bubbling laughter
And leafing through the many forms this tree may shape
The many performances this being we are birthing may inspire
We will cook a patchwork platter
We will warm up a new rhythm, a new dance in syllable and sound and colour
Branching from our theory-trunk into a forest feast of story
Our roots and twigs will tingle with the knowledge that the waves of breakdown desperation
Hold future fulfilment in their foamy crashing
And if we intuitively trust the ripple-vibrations of our vibrant sharing
Our works will wash their way into the world
In ways we cannot know
Barefoot Guide 4 Writeshop, Johannesburg November 2013
Simric Yarrow
This heart-open project to bare our soles is first a spiral-spider movement inwards
To that mysterious ambiguous saucy source of constant change
When we tap that treacley tree-core
We can challenge some of what has gone before
Provided that we remember to use singing tones too
For we wish to spread the wonderfully dangerous belief
That there is a peachy potency for change in every soul
We wish to support this sap’s flow into our connecting communities
Just as it flows in birdsong and bubbling laughter
And leafing through the many forms this tree may shape
The many performances this being we are birthing may inspire
We will cook a patchwork platter
We will warm up a new rhythm, a new dance in syllable and sound and colour
Branching from our theory-trunk into a forest feast of story
Our roots and twigs will tingle with the knowledge that the waves of breakdown desperation
Hold future fulfilment in their foamy crashing
And if we intuitively trust the ripple-vibrations of our vibrant sharing
Our works will wash their way into the world
In ways we cannot know
Barefoot Guide 4 Writeshop, Johannesburg November 2013
The Man Watching
Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far-off fields say things
I can't bear without a friend,
I can't love without a sister
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it's with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestler's sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far-off fields say things
I can't bear without a friend,
I can't love without a sister
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it's with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestler's sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.
(Reprinted here by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
Mental Fight
Ben Okri
A few selected extracts
Already, the future is converging with the past.
Already the world is converging.
The diverse ways of the world
Will create wonderful new forms,
Lovely cultural explosions
In the centuries to come.
Already I sense future forms of art,
Of painting, sculpture, humour,
Already I sense future novels,
Plays, poems, dances.
Already I sense the great orchestras
Of humanity, a world symphony,
A world jam, in which the diverse
Genius of the human race -
It's rich tapestry of differences -
Will combine, weave, heighten,
Harmonise all its varied ways
And bring about a universal flowering
In all the vast numbers of disciplines
And among the unnumbered people.
Already I can hear this distant music
Of the future,
The magic poetry of time,
The distillation of all our different gifts.
Will you be at the harvest,
Among the gatherers of new fruits?
Then you must begin today to remake
Your mental and spiritual world,
And join the warriors and celebrants
Of freedom, realisers of great dreams.
You can't remake the world
Without remaking yourself
Each new era begins within.
It is an inward event,
With unsuspected possibilities
For inner liberation.
We could use it to turn on
Our inward lights.
We could use it to use even the dark
And negative things positively.
We could use the new era
To clean our eyes,
To see the world differently,
To see ourselves more clearly.
Only free people can make a free world.
Infect the world with your light.
Help fulfill the golden prophecies
Press forward the human genius.
Our future is greater than our past.
We are better than that.
We are greater than our despair.
The negative aspects of humanity
Are not the most real and authentic;
The most authentic thing about us
Is our capacity to create, to overcome,
To endure, to transform, to love,
And to be greater than our suffering.
We are best defined by the mystery
That we are still here, and can still rise
Upwards, still create better civilisations,
That we can face our raw realities,
And that we will survive
The greater despair
That the greater future might bring.
From "Mental Fight - an anti-spell for the 21st century", Phoenix House 1999
(Reprinted by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
Ben Okri
A few selected extracts
Already, the future is converging with the past.
Already the world is converging.
The diverse ways of the world
Will create wonderful new forms,
Lovely cultural explosions
In the centuries to come.
Already I sense future forms of art,
Of painting, sculpture, humour,
Already I sense future novels,
Plays, poems, dances.
Already I sense the great orchestras
Of humanity, a world symphony,
A world jam, in which the diverse
Genius of the human race -
It's rich tapestry of differences -
Will combine, weave, heighten,
Harmonise all its varied ways
And bring about a universal flowering
In all the vast numbers of disciplines
And among the unnumbered people.
Already I can hear this distant music
Of the future,
The magic poetry of time,
The distillation of all our different gifts.
Will you be at the harvest,
Among the gatherers of new fruits?
Then you must begin today to remake
Your mental and spiritual world,
And join the warriors and celebrants
Of freedom, realisers of great dreams.
You can't remake the world
Without remaking yourself
Each new era begins within.
It is an inward event,
With unsuspected possibilities
For inner liberation.
We could use it to turn on
Our inward lights.
We could use it to use even the dark
And negative things positively.
We could use the new era
To clean our eyes,
To see the world differently,
To see ourselves more clearly.
Only free people can make a free world.
Infect the world with your light.
Help fulfill the golden prophecies
Press forward the human genius.
Our future is greater than our past.
We are better than that.
We are greater than our despair.
The negative aspects of humanity
Are not the most real and authentic;
The most authentic thing about us
Is our capacity to create, to overcome,
To endure, to transform, to love,
And to be greater than our suffering.
We are best defined by the mystery
That we are still here, and can still rise
Upwards, still create better civilisations,
That we can face our raw realities,
And that we will survive
The greater despair
That the greater future might bring.
From "Mental Fight - an anti-spell for the 21st century", Phoenix House 1999
(Reprinted by the Community Development Resource Association - www.cdra.org.za)
