Art is a journey into the most unknown thing of all - oneself. Nobody knows his own frontiers… I don’t think I’d ever want to take a road if I knew where it led.

Louis Kahan
    Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.
    let my hidden weeping arise
and blossom.
    Let everything happen to you.
Beauty and terror.
Just keep going.
No feeling is final.
    Perhaps creating something is nothing but an act of profound remembrance.
    This is what the things can teach us: to fall, patiently to trust our heaviness. Even a bird has to do that before he can fly.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke
» Parabola Magazine: From The Book of Hours I, 12

parabola-magazine:

From The Book of Hours I, 12

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for
 
may for once spring clear
without my contriving.
 
If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.
 
Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing you as no one ever has,
 
streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.
 
—Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

    Voices. Voices. Listen, my heart, as only saints have listened…
    And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been.
Autumn Day

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

Rainer Maria Rilke

http://www.asappictures.be/partage/partage/staff/bar/cours_du_soir/contemporary%20masters%20of%20photography/Craig%20Cutler/1/culter_leaves_0.2B_4.jpg

Craig Cutler

    

The Angels

They all have lips profoundly tired
and lucid souls without a seam,
and yearning (like a sin desired)
moves sometimes slowly through their dream.

They nigh resemble one another
and walk His gardens silently:
so many intervals that gather
in God’s majestic melody.

But only with their wings extending
do they call forth the heaven’s gales:
like sculptor God Himself were bending
the pages, and His hands were mending
the book of dark creation tales.
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