Monday, June 6, 2016

Poetry on Yoga and Meditation

by Kate Potvin, 300 Class of 2016

I sift the sand for what
I know will never be
found on shore. Finally, 

I offer myself to the tide,
rough edges exposed
to the constant tumble

of thought. Sinking
into the fear of feeling
human, inner siren

singing: I am I am I
am… smoothing,
softening until I catch

the light, just for a 
moment a glimmering—
before I am swept

back in with the tide.

By Katie Aller, 200 Class of 2016

Sitting in silence.
Propped up, dropped in.
Extending and expanding into my limitless being.
I float in my pyramid of light.
Hovering bright
Noticing... my thoughts, the past, what awaits, how I arrive, what I've cast.
Posture. Presence.  Essence.  Poised
Equanimity. Symmetry. Harmony.
Fill me with space to breathe, to weave, to be the Dove and Love
No Where to Now Here
Some How to Know Now
Be Me
With One
Every One

By Holly Caiello, 200 Class of 2014

Today I will explore my limits.
I will act as just myself
for no other purpose than for myself.
Let me release the need to be somebody,
and instead relax into knowing that
I am somebody, special and not special,
I am just myself.
When I step forth as just me,
and you step forth as just you,
we can be peace.


by Priya Krishnan, 200 Class of 2016

When the teacher asked
“Now, which of you has a sacred space?”
the students began to clamor,
about the bustling walkway through the city,
the barbershop that made hair smell
like wet noodles in the snowy air,
the wooded single-track through the ponderosa pines
studded with screaming birds,
the café that smelled like warm butter and boasted
the incessant thrum of a coffee machine,
even the abandoned construction site where
sawtooth dinosaurs in macabre ballet poses
danced amidst stray dogs with tattered tails.

Only in the back, there was a boy,
whom the others heard and grew quiet,
and when he spoke, they nodded:
he talked of the comfort of putting
the key into the ignition
of his grandfather’s whispering old blue Buick,
and of turning the key,
of the CD’s noiseless slide into the player,
and the bass thrumming every mile,
of each calcium syllable forming and crumbling on itself
within the chapel of his mouth,
and his fingers making fractals on the dash,
and the wheels spiraling,
and going and going.