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Yoga Poetry

We’re fortunate to have Kansas’s poet laureate on board as a regular blogger. These are her poems, either directly related to yoga practice, or related to yoga’s bigger purpose.
  • Yoga Poetry - Not Rare But Precious

    Precious Rest Yoga Poetry Not Rare But Precious   Think of what’s not rare but precious. ~ Ruth Gendler   The gift of light. Of dark. The squeaky swing set that’s really a blue jay searching for love and gravity. What tells you to lie down. Why standing back up each morning is precious as breath or clouds splintering into rain dissolving the drought. The horizontal day that turns into the vertical night, the stubble on the path between the furrows of labor, hope, and need. Any curve wheeling toward the horizon, all the dreams of finding your house...

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  • Yoga Poetry - Everything That Rises

    Yoga Poetry - Everything That Rises Rise up without fear to the coffee and daylight skimming the dark.   Rise through the remnants of the dream where you are lost, all pay phones broken.   Rise toward the piano you haven’t played for months, and place your hands on the keys of your memory.   Play badly but loud, and let the ringing rise through your arms.   Rise into the first slant of light breaking across the living room floor to coat the sleeping dog.   Open the door into the cold and run to the passenger door to...

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  • Yoga Poetry - Almost Gone

    Yoga Poetry Almost Gone The sun calls one last word in its rusting voice, then leans to the west, sweetening its tune by forgetting the melody. The taste of light lingers in the sudden cooling of breath, the slim branch of a twisted tree over the horizon where one crow waits for the shadows the moon will throw over the brome field two turns of the wheel back in time.   The stand of cedars wakes with a start. The dry ground loosens its new cracks and tilts rocks for the snakes to emerge. The wind moves on, nothing to...

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  • Yoga Poetry - Body of Time

    Yoga Poetry - Body of Time What did you expect?, the knee asks. Just the way of the world, says the elbow. The wrinkles of the knuckles laugh harder, and the little toes on both feet turn out as if escape was possible. This body of time takes another breath, sends another valentine, ignores another blast of hatred even as it learns new tricks: ways to hang upside down in ropes at the yoga studio, or catch the melting ice cream before it escapes from cone to sidewalk. Since it became an I, it revels in being owned, in being...

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  • Yoga Poetry - What the Sky is Made Of

    Yoga Poetry - What the Sky Is Made Of The sky is made of soft rain and hard light, the old yearning to be held, the ancient fear of not having enough, and the fountain of wind that says, Something’s gone, something else is arriving.   The sky is made of rocks shattered finer than the smallest atoms of human memory, air we call breath once we take it in and turn it to motion, anger, or song.   The beating of hummingbird wings compose the sky, as well as the fluttering of muscle on muscle, the space in between...

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  • Yoga Poetry - Then It’s Over

    Yoga Poetry Then It’s Over The blue breaks through the setting clouds, an old fire, while the field lays down its colors for the night. Sky tumbles over itself day to night, tension to calm. What we think happened, and what no one but the wind saw-- all lost to the first falling star. Nothing hurts for a moment. Those you love shine whether still here or long gone. A wide darkness envelopes the world, takes your hand, and shows you where to stop looking and where to start.

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  • Yoga Poetry - The Bridge

    Yoga Poetry - The Bridge The bridge is made of weather. The bridge is made of time. Translucent, the color of water, it spans the world in sharp relief to lushness of green, western edge of blue, rain shadow in between.   Five miles north, the cedars drink up the storm while the sky inhales old starlight, already dead when it lands, for rock and root, bowed thunderhead and nightfall, velocity and cricket song.   The bridge is a slim path between dusk and longing, a wide swath from sleep to starlight, an arm of weather linking here and there...

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  • Yoga Poetry - You Rise Up to Meet the Falling World

    Yoga Poetry You Rise Up to Meet the Falling World Whatever you lift to the sky, the sky covers: middle-of-the-night exaggerations dissolve to slivers of sadness on your pillow, middle-of-life jolts compress the heavens into one streak of sleet, thawing into softer ground. Like the rain cycle that obscures the view, you can lose your way on old ground or forget the innate blue light in everything, ready again. The surface of the tall grass spins in the breeze it swirls into existence. The present twists down to meet you each time you catch your foot. Stars inform daylight or...

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  • Finding the Moon

    Finding the Moon Did you stop now that you found the moon almost full, floating west across a small clearing between the clouds? Did you still yourself in the lawn chair on the deck, and give up waiting for one desire to name itself, or another to dissipate?   Where have you been, the beautiful world asks. Wind furrows your hair. The moon folds under a cloud the size of a great lake. The light leaves in increments. Lightning bugs thread their stories through the cedars, which hold all seasons, whether witnessed or not. The deep charcoal of the windy...

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  • Yoga Poetry

    Yoga Poetry You Rise Up To Meet the Falling World Whatever you lift to the sky, the sky covers: middle-of-the-night exaggerations dissolve to slivers of sadness on your pillow, middle-of-life jolts that seem to compress the heavens into one streak of sleet thaw into softer ground. Like the rain cycle that hides the light and obscures the view, you can lose your way on old ground or forget the innate blue light in everything, ready again. The surface of the tall grass spins in the breeze it swirls into existence. The present twists down to meet you each time you...

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