Illusion of the fear


Suppose he says no?

mask fear

Samuel was down in the dumps and who could blame him?

His landlord had ordered him out of the apartment and he had nowhere to go.

Suddenly light dawned.

He could live with his good friend Moshe.

The thought brought Samuel much comfort, until it was assailed by another thought that said,

“What makes you so sure that Moshe will put you up at his place?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” said Samuel to the thought, somewhat heatedly,

“After all it is I who found him the place he is living in now;

and it was I who advanced him the money to pay his rent for the first six months.

Surely the least he could do is put me up for a week or so when I am in trouble.”

That settled the matter, until after dinner he was once again assailed by the thought:

“Suppose he were to refuse?”

“Refuse?” said Samuel,

“Why in God’s name would he refuse?

The man owes me everything he has.

It is I who got him his job;

it is I who introduced him to that lovely wife of his who has borne him the three sons he glories in.

Will he grudge me a room for a week? Impossible!”

That settled the matter, until he got to bed and found he couldn’t sleep because the thought came back to say,

“But just suppose he were to refuse.

What then?” This was too much for Samuel.

“How the hell could he refuse?”

he said, his temper rising now.

“If the man is alive today it is because of me.

I saved him from drowning when he was a kid.

Will he be so ungrateful as to turn me out into the streets in the middle of winter?”

But the thought was persistent.

“Just suppose…”

Poor Samuel struggled with it as long as he could.

Finally he got out of bed around two in the morning, went over to where Moshe lived and kept his finger pressed against the doorbell button till Moshe, half asleep, opened the door and said in astonishment, “Samuel!

What is it? What brings you here in the middle of the night?”

Samuel was so angry by now he couldn’t keep himself from yelling,

“I’ll tell you what brings me here at this hour of the night!

If you think I’m going to ask you to put me up even for a single day, you’re mistaken.

I don’t want to have anything to do with you, your house, your wife or your family.

To hell with you all!”

With that he turned on his heel and walked away.

The prayer of the frog. Volume – II

Anthony de Mello


The sheep-lion

Paula Rego – auto portrait in red

There’s a famous story about the lion who came upon a flock of sheep and to his amazement found a lion among the sheep.

It was a lion who had been brought up by the sheep ever since he was a cub.

It would bleat like a sheep and run around like a sheep.

The lion went straight for him, and when the sheep lion stood in front of the real one, he trembled in every limb.

And the lion said to him, “What are you doing among the sheep?”

And the sheep-lion said, “I am a sheep.”

And the lion said, “Oh no, you’re not.

You’re coming with me.”

So he took the sheep-lion to a pool and said, “Look!”

And when the sheep-lion looked at his reflection in the water, he let out a mighty roar, and in that moment he was transformed.

He was never the same again.


Anthony de Mello

To you and for you!

To you and for you!


If only you were aware… o moon

You, who are you…?


You… are all humans!

What is awakening like?

What is awakening like?

eye awareness

There’s a story about Ramirez.

He is old and living up there in his castle on a hill.

He looks out the window (he’s in bed and paralyzed) and he sees his enemy.

Old as he is, leaning on a cane, his enemy is climbing up the hill – slowly, painfully.

It takes him about two and a half hours to get up the hill.

There’s nothing Ramirez can do because the servants have the day off.

So his enemy opens the door, comes straight to the bedroom, puts his hand inside his cloak, and pulls out a gun.

He says, “At last, Ramirez, we’re going to settle scores!”

Ramirez tries his level best to talk him out of it.

He says, “Come on, Borgia, you can’t do that.

You know I’m no longer the man who ill-treated you as that youngster years ago, and you’re no longer that youngster. Come off it!”

“Oh no,” says his enemy, “your sweet words aren’t going to deter me from this divine mission of mine. It’s revenge I want and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

And Ramirez says, “But there is!”

“What?” asks his enemy.

“I can wake up,” says Ramirez. And he did; he woke up!

That’s what enlightenment is like.

When someone tells you, “There is nothing you can do about it,”

you say, “There is, I can wake up!”


Anthony de Mello


sacrifice at Full moon

A woman once told me that when she was a child her Jesuit cousin gave a retreat in the Jesuit church in Milwaukee.

He opened each conference with the words:

“The test of love is sacrifice, and the gauge of love is unselfishness.”

That’s marvelous!

I asked her, “Would you want me to love you at the cost of my happiness?”

“Yes,” she answered.

Isn’t that delightful? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

SHE would love me at the cost of HER happiness

and I would love her at the cost of MY happiness,

and so you’ve got two unhappy people,



Anthony de Mello


Malevic  Suprematism

Every man Dies!


Not every man really Lives!




underwater garden

If I had a dollar for every time I did things that gave me a bad feeling,

I’d be a millionaire by now.

You know how it goes.

“Could I meet you tonight, Father?”

“Yes, come on in!”

I don’t want to meet him and I hate meeting him.

I want to watch that TV show tonight, but how do I say no to him?

I don’t have the guts to say no.

“Come on in,” and I’m thinking,

“Oh God, I’ve got to put up with this pain.”

It doesn’t give me a good feeling to meet with him and it doesn’t give me a good feeling to say no to him, so I choose the lesser of the two evils and I say, “O.K., come on in.”

I’m going to be happy when this thing is over and I’ll be able to take my smile off,

but I start the session with him: “How are you?”

“Wonderful,” he says, and he goes on and on about how he loves that workshop,

and I’m thinking, “Oh God, when is he going to come to the point?”

Finally he comes to the point, and I metaphorically slam him against the wall and say, “Well, any fool could solve that kind of problem,” and I send him out.

“Whew! Got rid of him,” I say.

And the next morning at breakfast (because I’m feeling I was so rude)

I go up to him and say, “How’s life?”

And he answers, “Pretty good.”

And he adds, “You know, what you said to me last night was a real help.

Can I meet you today, after lunch?” Oh God!


Anthony de Mello

Face of a woman

Face of a woman

Gaze of Silence, a 1932 painting by Klee that took abstraction even further.

I dwelled in a face of a woman

who dwells in a wave

that the tide flings off the cost

that had lost in its shells

its harbour.

I dwelled in a face of a woman

who mortifies me,

who loves to be

in my sailing blood

to the very end of madness

a deaden lighthouse


Ali Ahmad Said Esber (Arabic: علي أحمد سعيد إسبر‎; transliterated: alî ahmadi sa’îdi asbar or Ali Ahmad Sa’id; born 1 January 1930), also known by the pen name
Adonis or Adunis (Arabic: أدونيس), is a Syrian poet, essayist, and translator. He has written more than twenty books and volumes of poetry in the Arabic language as well as translated several works from French.

Imprisoned in Syria in the mid-1950s as a result of his beliefs, Adunis settled abroad and has made his career largely in Lebanon and France. A perennial contender for the Nobel Prize in Literature, he has been regularly nominated for the award since 1988 and has been described as the greatest living poet of the Arab world.

Ono no Komachi

Selected Poems

Ono_no_Komachi 1


Though I go to you
ceaselessly along dream paths,
the sum of those trysts
is less than a single glimpse
granted in the waking world.


How sad,
the end that waits me –

To think at last

I’ll be a mere haze

pale green over the fields.


Blossoms blooming
Yet making no seed are
The sea-god’s
Whitecaps offshore.


On such a night as this

When no moon lights your way to me,

I wake, my passion blazing,

My breast a fire raging, exploding flame

While within me my heart chars.


The flowers withered

Their color faded away

While meaninglessly

I spent my days in the world

And the long rains were falling.


A thing which fades

With no outward sign

Is the flower

Of the heart of man

In this world!


Whose bloom will fade,

And yet the color does not show,

Is this alone:

In the world of love the flower

That opens in the human heart.


In this bay

There is no seaweed

Doesn’t he know it -?

The fisherman who persists in coming

Until his legs grow weary?


More heart-wrenching than

To sear my body with live coals

Against my flesh,

Bidding farewell on Miyakoshima’s shore

As you part for the capital.


Did he appear,

because I fell asleep

thinking of him?

If only I’d known I was dreaming

I’d never have wakened.


The autumn night

is long only in name –

We’ve done no more

than gaze at each other

and it’s already dawn.


When longing for him

Tortures me beyond endurance,

I reverse my robe –

Garb of night, black as leopard-flower berries –

And wear it inside out.


Since encountering my beloved

While I dozed,

I have begun to feel

That it is dreams, not reality,

On which I can rely.


Tears that but form gems on sleeves

Must come, I think,

From an insincere heart,

For mine, though I seek to repress them,

Gush forth in torrents.


Yielding to a love

That knows no limit,

I shall go to him by night –

For the world does not yet censure

Those who tread the paths of dreams.


I know nothing

About villages

Where fisher folk dwell;

Why must you keep demanding

To be shown the seashore?


Now that I am entering

The winter of life,

Your ardor has faded

Like foliage ravaged

By late autumn rains.


How bitter it is to see

Autumnal blasts

Strike the rice ears;

I shall, I fear,

Reap no harvest.


This body

grown fragile, floating,

a reed cut from its roots…

If a stream would ask me

to follow, I’d go, I think.


Men call love

Is simply

A chain

Preventing escape

From this world of care.


His heart, grown cold,

has become my body’s autumn.

Many sorrowful words

may yet fall

like the rustling leaves.


I thought to pick

the flower of forgetting

for myself,

but I found it

already growing in his heart.


Those gifts you left

have become my enemies:

without them

there might have been

a moment’s forgetting.


Submit to you –

could that be what you are saying?

the way ripples on the water

submit to an idling wing?


The pine tree by the rock

must have its memories too:

after a thousand years,

see how its branches

lean toward the ground.


The hunting lanterns

on mount Ogura have gone,

the deer are calling for their mates…

How easily I might sleep

if only I didn’t share their fears.


Since this body

was forgotten

by the one who promised to come,

my only thought is wondering

whether it even exists.


This abandoned house


in the mountain village –

how many nights

has autumn spent there?


If, in an autumn field,

a hundred flowers

can untie their streamers,

may I not also openly frolic,

as fearless of blame?


While watching

the long rains falling on this world

my heart, too, fades

with the unseen color

of the spring flowers.


Seeing the moonlight

spilling down

through these trees,

my heart fills to the brim

with autumn.


Upon my breast

Floats a boat of heartbreak

And I have just embarked;

There’s not a single day when waves

Do not soak my sleeves.

Ono no Komachi

(c. 825—c. 900)

Ono no Komachi (小野小町?, c. 825—c. 900) was a famous Japanese waka
poet, one of the Rokkasen—the Six best Waka poets of the early Heian period. She was noted as a rare beauty; Komachi is a symbol of a beautiful woman in Japan. She is also numbered as one of the Thirty-six Poetry Immortals.

The place of Komachi’s birth and death is uncertain. According to one tradition, she was born in what is now Akita Prefecture, daughter of Yoshisada, “Lord of Dewa”. Her social status is also uncertain. She may have been a low-ranking consort or a lady-in-waiting of an emperor, possibly Emperor Ninmyō (r. 833-850).

As a poet, Komachi specialized in erotic love themes, expressed in complex poems. Most of her waka are about anxiety, solitude or passionate love. She is the only female poet referred to in the preface of the Kokin Wakashū, which describes her style as “containing naivety in old style but also delicacy”.

There are legends about Komachi in love. The most famous is a story about her relationship with Fukakusa no Shosho, a high-ranking courtier. Komachi promised that if he visited her continuously for a hundred nights, then she would become his lover. Fukakusa no Shosho visited her every night, but failed once towards the end. Despairing, he fell ill and subsequently died. When Komachi learned of his death she was overcome with sadness.

Fernando Pessoa



– The poet is a pretender

Who’s so good at his act

He even pretends the pain

Of pain he feels in fact.

– I am nothing.

I will never be anything.

I cannot wish to be anything.

Bar that, I have in me all the dreams of the world.

– Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.

– My nation is the Portuguese language.

– I’ve always rejected being understood.

To be understood is to prostitute oneself.

I prefer to be taken seriously for what I’m not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect.

– I’m two, and both keep their distance — Siamese twins that aren’t attached.

– My past is everything I failed to be.

– We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin.

– To have opinions is to sell out to yourself.

To have no opinions is to exist.

To have every opinion is to be a poet.

– I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else.

What I’m attending here is a show with another set. And the show I’m attending is myself.

– But I am not perfect in my way of putting things. Because I lack the divine simplicity of being only what I appear to be.

– In the ordinary jumble of my literary drawer, I sometimes find texts I wrote ten, fifteen, or even more years ago.

And many of the seem to me written by a stranger:

I simply do not recognize myself in them. There was a person who wrote them, and it was I. I experienced them, but it was in another life, from which I just woke up, as if from someone else’s dream.

– There are metaphors more real than the people who walk in the street.

There are images tucked away in books that live more vividly than many men and women.

There are phrases from literary works that have a positively human personality.

There are passages from my own writing that chill me with fright, so distinctly do I feel them as people, so sharply outlined do they appear against the walls of my room, at night, in shadows…

I’ve written sentences whose sound, read out loud or silently (impossible to hide their sound), can only be of something that acquired absolute exteriority and a full-fledged soul.

– To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves. (It is exceedingly important that we not love.)

– To know nothing about yourself is to live. To know yourself badly is to think.

– Each of us is several, is many, is a profusion of selves. So that the self who disdains his surroundings is not the same as the self who suffers or takes joy in them.

In the vast colony of our being there are many species of people who think and feel in different ways.

– In my heart there’s a peaceful anguish, and my calm is made of resignation.

– Blessed are those who entrust their lives to no one.

– There are no norms. All people are exceptions to a
rule that doesn’t exist.

– I don’t know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don’t know what to think or what I am.

– I’d like to write the encomium of a new incoherence that could serve as the negative charter for the new anarchy of souls.

– Rocks in my path? I keep them all. With them I shall build my castle.

– Having waited for the urge to go, which I knew wouldn’t come.

– Let’s buy books so as not to read them; let’s go to concerts without caring to hear the music or see who’s there; let’s take long walks because we’re sick of walking; and let’s spend whole days in the country, just because it bores us.

Fernando Pessoa

(June 13, 1888, Lisbon – November 30, 1935, Lisbon),

Fernando Pessoa was a Portuguese poet, writer, literary critic and translator described as one of the most significant literary figures of the 20th century and one of the greatest poets in the Portuguese language.