Getting Here

By Fred Weiner

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About this book:

Getting Here

by Fred Weiner

A first collection from a gifted healer and poet.

Subjects: Spirit Poetry, Healing

5.5 x 8.5, softcover
64 pages

ISBN 10: 0-943914-91-4
ISBN 13: 978-0-943914-91-6

Book Details

Description

Fred Weiner has worked more than sixty years in the healing profession. The receptivity and energy that characterize his gifted healing work are also present in the creation of his poems. The poems in this collection offer glimpses into what nature and those we love can show us of ourselves when we surrender our self-absorption to them.

Selected poems

Abraham and Isaac

the way the violet dawn entered the tent with its coolness
the way I knew the day's darkness when I awoke
the braying of the asses in the cold
the way his body lay on the straw in the cold light of dawn
the way he stirred and came awake
the way the sweetness in his gaze disarmed me
the way we looked in each other's faces to kindle laughter
the way I came to know our destination
the wail of Ishmael when he saw me
the way my father led me into light
the way the men spoke in low tones around him
the way their deference felt quiet in my body
the radiance of his brow, the depth of his thought
the silence at the morning meal, the bitterness of the herbs
the way the women stayed in the shadows
the way he took up the fire
the way I carried the fire and the knife
the way the ass walked under her load
the remorseless ascending sun
the rough stones under my feet, the harsh wood on my back, the dust and the sweat
the way I drank the water in its time
the way I knew gratitude, and the nothingness of thirst
the way bitterness came upon me as I saw the hill
the way the wood bore into my back as I took the hill
the way he walked with me, carrying fire
my wonder at the absence of the lamb
the way I said the time had come
the way I took him and bound him and laid him up to sacrifice
the way he said he feared me not, but was afraid
the way I knew the nothingness in my heart
the way the knife edge blazed with holy fire
the way we were revealed to each other
the way the Deep Wisdom informed me in its purpose
and I came to know he belonged to God alone
the way the ram came in its time for the offering
the sudden coolness in the breeze
the red blood, the stillness


One Moon

one moon
a few rinds
of Spanish tangerine
cast in the azure sea

and so much sunlight
glinting and twinkling
in the masts
of the sailing ships;

the swell,
the lift and fall
in my breast,
the dying onshore breeze;

O Moorish girl—
framed in the archway
of my whitewashed room—
dark eyes shimmering—
raven locks
at your shoulders—
smile for me


Hearing your poem

In the old Chinese paintings
a few strokes is all it took
to show a mountain range.
Usually there's a footbridge;
a tiny figure stands part way
across. The moment captured
combines vastness and the mundane
so seamlessly that the impression
is of fathomless emptiness
behind everything. "From the first,
not a thing is," says sage Hui Neng.

Listening to you, I feel myself
motionless on that bridge,
suddenly, momentarily, momentously
a part of everything. When I allow,
I feel the water moving
beneath my sandaled feet,
remember that my staff just clattered
on the creaking boards.
In that instant, even the water
is mere potential. I might as well
not have a body, for all
I perceive of it, or my body
might as well be everything.
Your meaning is there,
timeless as the hills.

Book Details

Fred Weiner has worked more than sixty years in the healing profession. The receptivity and energy that characterize his gifted healing work are also present in the creation of his poems. The poems in this collection offer glimpses into what nature and those we love can show us of ourselves when we surrender our self-absorption to them.

Abraham and Isaac

the way the violet dawn entered the tent with its coolness
the way I knew the day's darkness when I awoke
the braying of the asses in the cold
the way his body lay on the straw in the cold light of dawn
the way he stirred and came awake
the way the sweetness in his gaze disarmed me
the way we looked in each other's faces to kindle laughter
the way I came to know our destination
the wail of Ishmael when he saw me
the way my father led me into light
the way the men spoke in low tones around him
the way their deference felt quiet in my body
the radiance of his brow, the depth of his thought
the silence at the morning meal, the bitterness of the herbs
the way the women stayed in the shadows
the way he took up the fire
the way I carried the fire and the knife
the way the ass walked under her load
the remorseless ascending sun
the rough stones under my feet, the harsh wood on my back, the dust and the sweat
the way I drank the water in its time
the way I knew gratitude, and the nothingness of thirst
the way bitterness came upon me as I saw the hill
the way the wood bore into my back as I took the hill
the way he walked with me, carrying fire
my wonder at the absence of the lamb
the way I said the time had come
the way I took him and bound him and laid him up to sacrifice
the way he said he feared me not, but was afraid
the way I knew the nothingness in my heart
the way the knife edge blazed with holy fire
the way we were revealed to each other
the way the Deep Wisdom informed me in its purpose
and I came to know he belonged to God alone
the way the ram came in its time for the offering
the sudden coolness in the breeze
the red blood, the stillness


One Moon

one moon
a few rinds
of Spanish tangerine
cast in the azure sea

and so much sunlight
glinting and twinkling
in the masts
of the sailing ships;

the swell,
the lift and fall
in my breast,
the dying onshore breeze;

O Moorish girl—
framed in the archway
of my whitewashed room—
dark eyes shimmering—
raven locks
at your shoulders—
smile for me


Hearing your poem

In the old Chinese paintings
a few strokes is all it took
to show a mountain range.
Usually there's a footbridge;
a tiny figure stands part way
across. The moment captured
combines vastness and the mundane
so seamlessly that the impression
is of fathomless emptiness
behind everything. "From the first,
not a thing is," says sage Hui Neng.

Listening to you, I feel myself
motionless on that bridge,
suddenly, momentarily, momentously
a part of everything. When I allow,
I feel the water moving
beneath my sandaled feet,
remember that my staff just clattered
on the creaking boards.
In that instant, even the water
is mere potential. I might as well
not have a body, for all
I perceive of it, or my body
might as well be everything.
Your meaning is there,
timeless as the hills.

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