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autumn: poem by brother daniel, of taize

updated wed 28 jan 04


Linda Pahl on tue 27 jan 04

Hello all.

I came across this wonderful poem by Brother Daniel of Taize and I
thought I'd share it.


blue with cold:
the autumn crocus.

My pots always go
into the fire.

Slowly the oxen plough
the Hercynian fields.
Field mice panic.

fresh from my hands,
my pots!
No, I will not drop you!

How busy the swallows flit,
noting on the lines
their farewell songs.

A grey-tit on a sunflower,
a chaffinch on an amaranth,
and me on my wheel.

the crimson creeper
dies of beauty.

Expecting a treasure,
I emptied my kiln.
I knead fresh clay.

Rain falls shapeless,
but in the undergrowth
mushrooms swell.

What would you be, vase,
if it weren't for me?
The same to you, potter!

Chrysanthemums lie dead
on the rubbish heap.
Who will deck their tombs?

Brother Daniel, of Taize


Linda Pahl, Kew Gardens, New York

(I throw on my wheel in my hall closet; the only possible solution in
this tiny apartment!)