Poetry
Fr. William Paul McKane

Out of the shadows
Out of the shadows he stepped forth
and did not say a word,
but wrote his name in invisible ink
on my windowsill.  ​

Her voice
In the still moment between sleep and waking
I heard her voice, whispering;
and when the light filled my empty room,
I heard nothing but her heart beating.

It rained
It rained that night, that still cold night,
Not like any other.  It rained
down tear drops from her angel face,
tracing down my windowpane. ​

Melting
Packed snow hardened into ice
melting slowly in the January sun,
leaving pools of waters
sitting on the frozen face of earth.

Morning offering
O seething, breathing, heaving waves upon the shores
of lake and ocean and of time, 
and winds that blow ceaselessly night and day,
endlessly, relentlessly, driving thoughts away
and leaving nothing left between you and me.
And all will die, yet all remains:  sea and wind 
and sun and moon, and earth and sky, and you.

​Untitled
​You carried me to the aspen grove
naked in late autumn wind
and set me down upon a granite rock.
You carried me as far as you could,
I needed to rest beneath the aspens.
Mousi-San, you turned white with age,
and still you wag your tail.
We will press on together now 
and find the source of still-running waters. ​​

Facing
Who is this man or beast who shadows me--
or not a beast but some sheer mystery
whose presence comes both faintly and in power--
When I must turn and gaze into the dark 
and quickly turn away, forgetting what I’ve seen--
not seen at all but dimly darkly sensed.

And do I dare to turn toward your face?
That’s not a face and nothing one can know 
or feel, and yet that shadows me today 
and yesterday and every day that comes 
unwelcome guest appearing from nowhere--
decaying leaves ooze mud beneath my feet.

At once you take a faceless skull that mocks--
a blackened mask before a lightless blank
that follows after after and before  
and comes yet closer ever closer than before
enclosing me in your blank nothingness
and making me as lifeless as your formless face.  

“You are not facing me your mind is wandering
some sad and sorrowful and fearful sickenings
not standing still to see what still stands still.”
“Who are you then, or what, that speaks to me?”
“Your shadow and your life and your impending doom,
and all you ever were and ever will become.”

I see my lifeless form, a body lying still,
and feel no breath no beats but nothingness
for I am gone not I— no I that sees 
just you that gazes down on lifelessness;
for you have done your work, sheer emptying
Dissolving me into yourself, o death.

Untitled
She keeps silence in her black-night robe
and speaks to those who hear her voice
through the Ponderosa pines
soft and low, and not a word is said
as he dozes beneath the waning moon

Arising
That out of which the sacred stream arises
that single point that moment in space--
there and only there do I find you
gazing beyond the rising point to no you

what I find is that I have not found
what I have is what I do not have
who I am is who I am not
who you are is what you are not

not something not nothing not here not there
but beyond whatever can be seen or felt
beyond the hidden stream flowing forth
beyond all that can be known or unknown

there is no I-and-You, nor I-or-you
there is no thing and no no-thing--
an arising out of an unseen source
and a flowing forth from not known where

in the utterly dark light of the flowing forth
In the soundless stillness of a single moment
in the silence of the darkest night
there somewhere not there you are

eye cannot see nor ear hear
and I cannot enter in or depart
the way requiring that no I enter
and no thing be carried in

no sound no heartbeat no breath of life
no thought or feeling no word or stirring
but a single point still flowing forth
forming whatever is coming to be--

all I-thought fails it cannot satisfy
for it at once articulates and deceives
diverting the uncertain gaze from the point
out of which the stream flows forth

no forgiveness needed no shame no excuse
no awareness of all one lacks or is
no diverting streams of consciousness
but a still silent solitary awareness

each word uttered a mere approximation
a partial truth a distorting of truth
a moment of diversion from arising

Night is nearly over
Night is nearly over, yet daylight has not broken in
the air still and cold well below freezing
glowing embers and a small flame warming
Beethoven’s 14th quartet in c-sharp minor playing quietly
dogs stretched out and gone again into death-like sleep.

And I sit listening reading breathing writing waiting
for the low light of pre-dawn to make the world show up
the world outside the walls of this sitting room
sitting somewhere on our turning planet yet unmoved
while moving through space moving in time.

Reading through Psalms 86-90 once again 
having recourse to English translations and to the Greek
the Hebrew text by my side nearly impenetrable
yet beckoning me to learn to read the originals
to what purpose make such a requiring effort?

For most of my years have come and gone
“no more than a watch in the night”
time no time remaining utterly unknown to me
a passing creature in a passing world
already older than most men live to be

I set myself before the majesty of God
no god but a vast unknown sea of tranquillity
neither alive nor dead neither moving nor moved
impenetrable yet not foreboding
Impersonal and still to my turning mind.

A passing shadow a halting breath and silence
that cannot be recalled or delayed or removed
no movement no turning no running from nor towards
necessary and inevitable and time no more
no time to undo what was done or left undone.

This very night your life is required of you
to whom will you give all of your heaped up possessions?
o Israel, prepare to meet your God
from everlasting to everlasting, you are
a mere shadow that passes never to return

Do now be now as you will to be in your last moment
now is all the time you have, and you have no time at all
do not delay turn away make sad excuses
the breath you take now is your last or may be
your heart that beats may cease now or in a moment.

Enter now into that which you seek to enter for ever
do now what you choose to do as death draws near
for it is ever near even at the gate a breath
a gasping breath away and you are gone
into the dark from which no traveler returns

Not to meditate is to seek to escape death
to meditate is to die now freely and at once
grasping nothing owning nothing being nothing
but emptying out the boat to sail rudderless
into the sea of oblivion the sea of forgetfulness

Here there are no loves no cares no clinging memories
no wishes to rise and no distracting voices
no I no ego no self no searching consciousness
neither breath nor breathless flesh nor fleshless
no faith no hope no love no intoxications 

Just still nothingness and a blowing out
how can one say what cannot be spoken
how can one know what is not knowable
how can one be when everything ceases
night is passing silently into day

Between the out-of-which and the unknown into

I

As the body tends to the earth,
the mind is free to question,
exploring whatever problems or questions
present themselves to the wondering mind.
For the human mind—if one has or is a mind--
by whatever it is seeks to know the truth
about what it senses matters most, 
and to find its home in the starry cosmos.

I do not take for granted that I have a mind,
or a soul, or any such thing-like thing;
what is experienced is not a thing at all,
but perceptions feelings thoughts questions 
often in a roving and puzzling succession
whose beginning and end are unknown,
whose exact causes at each moment are unknown:
Human being like all being is a mystery to itself.

One experiences that which we call “now,”
a present moment that suddenly begins and ends,
comes to be and passes away for another now.  
The how and why one does not know.
Each moment of one’s existence comes gratuitously
with its reason and its source not seen at all,
but now a moment—now another—as if endlessly:
One is conscious not then or when but now.

One’s body is somewhere, but not the mind--
if a mind can be said to exist at all--
one’s thinking feeling self is not constrained by place
or past or future time, but occurs now, right now,
a part of the mysterious flow of all reality,
a part of the vast and uncontrollable universe,
a living part of a world beyond one’s eager grasp:
One knows of no existence apart from the whole.

II

What are the questions that need to be asked
as the body tends to the waiting earth?
Is it the pull of gravity downward that raises up
the mind? Aware of ending soon, does one
seek to be awake and alive here and now?
Does not each day become more precious
as one feels the body pulling downward?
To live with gratitude is a gracious life.

One has not brought oneself forth out of nothing,
nor can one prevent oneself from returning there.
Here you are, somewhere between beginning and end,
between the out-of-which and the unknown into,
between yesterdays now gone, tomorrows to come,
between sheer darkness before and darkness after--
each moment a mysterious wonder to be enjoyed,
each moment given once and never to return.

The Sea and I
Do now, be now, as you choose to be
for today and for all eternity.
The only time you have is now,
and you have no time at all,
for time cannot be had, cannot be owned.

Do not attend to any memory
Do not get caught in feelings’ web.
Sit still and choose to be now
As you wish to be for eternity
In the silence of your stilling heart.

A million million I’s must pass away
Into the stream of presence,
Let them be, take hold of none,
Only by self is self dissolved;
Merely let it float away.

All that I have been or done,
All that I am now or wish to be
Does not matter, only hinders
The boat from freely floating
Down the river of life to the sea.

I grasps I thinks I feels I wants
All of I now floats away
Into the sea of mindfulness
Into the ocean of forgetfulness
Of all that is has been will be.

I swims struggles wants desperately to be
In some form, in any way, it does not matter
As long as I survives the ravages of time.
The I that seeks is the I to be lost
The I that wants is itself unwanted.

The sea of presence inundates the land,
The sea of no thing washes I away.

That which does not exist
That which does not exist in time and space
That which has no body, no form, no shape
That which has no voice, no hands, no heart
That which needs nothing, wants nothing, is nothing
That which is not changed by changing time
That which is not moved or changed by anything
That which has no name nor personality
That which simply and unqualifiedly is--

To You the timeless, spaceless, nameless no-thing
To You that is, who is, indivisibly 
To You whom I cannot see or touch or feel
To You neither far away nor close at hand
To You beyond all words I can conceive
To You beyond all feelings that I feel
To You beyond all knowing and thinking
To You I turn the gaze of my wondering mind--

I read the psalms and prayers as required,
I think of words to express to that which is
I share as duty requires in the standard prayers
I reflect on the teachings of long-honored traditions
I do not deny the partial truths of hallowed words
I do not neglect to formulate words in my mind
I seek to obey the laws laid down for good and still
I long for the simple truth, for invisible light.

Be opened my mind to that which is
Be stilled my heart to imagined goods
Be emptied my spirit of false imaginings
Be longing my heart for the unwished-for;
Be open my soul to your life-forming ground
Be still my soul in the presence of nothing
Be empty myself of gods and of no gods
Be attentive my heart to the inconceivable.

Knowing unknowing
​
I

Not a dissolution of consciousness,
or not that only, or primarily,
but an increasing awareness of ignorance,
an awareness that what has appeared to be known
is not so well known, is perhaps unknowable;
and one’s mind moves in a condition
of semi-consciousness, not knowing in truth,
but somewhere in-between knowing and unknowing

The cup I am holding exists, and I feel the warmth
of heated coffee, and taste its flavor,
but this kind of informational knowing 
does not satisfy the desire to know the truth,
does not equate to knowledge worth having.
It is a kind of knowing that can satisfy
one’s superficial desire to know the truth
about what really matters:  what is, and what is not.

I read a text, a source seeking wisdom,
and I become aware of several things:
First, that I truly understand almost nothing I read,
that words perplex me, and details baffle;
second, that what is being read is at best gray, 
an approximation to truth, a generalization 
that may shed some light, but also obscures,
because what it says is not crystal clear truth:
Every formulation is imprecise and wanting.

II

“Not a dissolution of consciousness—”
But is it possible that consciousness is dissolving,
that as one becomes increasingly aware 
that what one thought one knew is not knowledge,
that the formulations in speech are approximations,
that in truth one’s mind is losing its grip--
not on reality perhaps, but on what has been taken
as real and dependable for knowledge?  

The human mind is adrift in a sea of unknowing,
whether aware of this condition or not.
Some become aware of unknowing, 
and close-mindedly assert that nothing can be known;
most human beings seem to live as if they believe
that they know what in truth they do not know;
and yet reality is not truly as they believe it is.
What we think we know we do not truly know.

III

Step by step one may gain a degree of knowledge
into things that may matter, or may not;
a kind of knowledge of things and of processes comes
with determined study and much effort.
But how does one come to know what is,
what is most worth knowing, even if unknown?
How does one learn the truth or gain insight
into what matters most for the human being?

To know oneself is a knowledge worth having,
to know what it is to be truly human, 
to know how one becomes more fully human--
or more truly, fully human than one is now.
To know oneself and one’s share in humanity,
one must also know one’s place in reality,
what it is to exist, to be at all,
and why one exists, and why the world exists.

What is the knowledge worth seeking
for a being—called “human”—that is fleeting
and not fully substantial, nor fully unreal,
but ever in a process of becoming what one is?
What is the truth about our place in the whole,
in the sensed and partially known mysterious whole?
As consciousness is formed, what moves the process?
If consciousness dissolves, into what does it pass?

IV

What ought one seek, what is truly worth seeking,
as one exists between knowing and unknowing,
between what truly is and what may partially be?
To what should one direct the gaze of one’s mind?
What is the knowledge worth seeking, even if
it cannot be gained or acquired in a lasting way?
What partial truths and fragmentary information
should one let go in order to seek the unsought for?

The discontent of a mind that knows it does not know
what it ought to know, and what truly matters:
many palliatives serve to sooth the searching mind,
and do not bring one closer to the truth.
What is and what is not, what is good, and what is not,
what endures and what passes away:
and consciousness, being aware of not knowing,
yet longing to know the truth that is worth knowing.

  

Seeking to be conscious of nothing
Although the music playing in my room delights me
“Widerstehe doch der Sünde,” opening aria of Bach’s cantata,
sung by the marvelous voice of Marta Höffgen--
for everything indeed there is a time and season,
and now silence must reign to hear the spirits sing. 

How unsilent is this Sunday silence, bestirred by wood stove’s fan
and broken more rudely by cars and trucks racing by my window 
reminding me how much I long for real silence, dead silence,
and the wind howling in the creek valley, blasting then singing
nearly forty miles an hour:  frigid Montana winter winds--

Winds that wind around my little world may be threatening sounds 
and are for those stranded standing naked deer cattle horses 
but for me they are enchanting disturbing calming sounds
friendly winds of creative destructive spirits howling and dancing
through the twilight world of a late winter evening.

Still silence of slow breathing, heart beating slowly slower, 
softly snoring old Moses (such a wonderful companion)
ceso todo y nada:  noise of fire fan winds autos 
and worrisome thoughts—where’s Elijah now? what is he doing?  
feeling warm—thirsty—fire dry air in congested nasal passages.

Into another world, stiller world devoutly to be wished  
here and now is the point of entrance into no time
seize the moment—no, let the moment be—cease everything
ceso todo—yet longing for the pause between two breaths
between two waves:  refreshes restores reorders regrounds.

Renothing—for imaginings must cease as well as
words images feelings thoughts memories--
stripped naked like a cow on a barren coulee hillside 
waiting to give birth in a blasting winter wind
when everything departs and no thing abides.

Deus nihil posted on a cell door taken down--
gods too must die—die Götterdämmerung--
descend lower—break the lantern and its shadows--
descend below the surface waves, seeking nothing--
Nichts und alles / ceso todo / deus nihil.

Somewhere between the hither and the farther shore
buoyant body returning to the surface—dive back down,
you cannot save the earth or land—let them be--
nor your country, but perhaps a solitary soul still sounding 
the silent depths beneath the unseen sea.

The depths of the unseen unknown unhoped for ground
limitless bottomless unreachable unteachable abyss
of nothingness—and still one must do one’s duty,
and preserve the best that has been achieved, 
letting everything go from one’s own gripping fingers.  

Return to the beginning—to the silence out of which arises--
light be! and there is light, enlightening every consciousness— 
o light invisible, light unseeable, light dark to wandering eyes--
that out of which the stream of being darkly arises or
stream of consciousness seeking to be conscious of nothing

A Meditation written on Holy Saturday

LORD God Almighty, unknown beyond all gods,
beyond all that exists in time and space,
beyond the confines of beliefs and creeds,
beyond religions and communities:

In You, to You, we breathe songs of thankfulness,
for You bestow mercy on all Your creatures--
on all Your beings, living now and deceased,
who accept You into our wondering minds.

Your love in us overcomes the bonds of prejudice and hate,
breaks down the walls that would divide and separate,
overturns the money changers in the churches
and widens the ranges of heart and mind.

For You LORD God are the ever-living One;
though our wicked words and deeds assaulted You--
though You were mercilessly killed in our human flesh--
You remain forever the ever-living One.

We have not yet died in our bodies of flesh,
but in the tumult of our minds, and waywardness of heart,
we have passed from simple life into a twisted death,
no longer recalling nor yet beholding the encompassing light.

Although you, LORD God, were ever with us,
our hearts and minds were not with you or for you
but for ourselves—for whatever each wanted or willed--
and consciousness of You was fast forgotten.

Yet You have penetrated the self-entombed dead heart--
You the ever-wakeful, ever-watchful One burst in;
You did not abandon our soul to the Sheol of self,
but quickened, enlivened, and set us free.

Your enlightening truth dispels the darkness of unconsciousness,
the power of your love liberates from hate and selfishness,
the deathlessness of Life enlivens every I,
the beauty of your Life all spirits beatify.

No evil, hate, or cruelty can ever destroy You,
no power on earth can touch or entangle You;
although wickedness dismembered even the body of Christ,
You are Life forever, beyond death’s dying domain.

In Jesus of Nazareth and in every human being
You undergo the plunderings of suffering and death;
You have been abused, abandoned, and betrayed,
and yet remain forever the ever living One.

Evil ripped your body from head to feet,
but no evil of hate or vengeance grasped your soul.
Death triumphed over your body, in every body death,
as Your spirit ever-rested in the bosom of God.

Your eyes were closed by death’s clawed hands,
Your spirit utterly indestructible; Your Christ--
all beings in the flesh—experience death’s brief reign,
but in the spirit You are Life eternally.

Because You live, LORD God, we also live, 
because You are deathless, so are all spirits--
because You in-breathe our inner selves with love, 
our minds with the beauty of your radiant truth.

All that exists in space and time is ever passing away,
all that shares lovingly in You forever abides.
You create and recreate each being through love,
You in whom, with whom, each one perdures.

In every you we meet the human face of God,
in all that exists erupts the ever-present One;
all we see and hear still passes away,
and all in You endures forever.  Hallelujah!     

Here there is neither here nor there

Everything utterable is misunderstandable.  
There is no unlimited, unbounded thought,
no thought that perfectly expresses,
no faultless and unquestionable revelation,
no final and complete explanation.

“Everything transitory is but a likeness,”
but that of which it is a likeness is inexpressible
in any words beyond limitation and misunderstanding.
That of which everything passing is an image
is itself beyond image and likeness.

“The mares which carry me conveyed me
as far as my desire reached.”
When desire reaches an object in space-time,
it is temporarily held bound by that object
and may forget its unreached destination.

The desire of the mind is for immovable truth: 
to know what is and what endures,
what does not constrain or limit desire,
but opens it up into the unbounded,
unimaginable realm of inexpressibility. 

At any moment, in any place, it reaches
into the unreachable inexpressible 
into that which has neither name nor form
nor boundary to be crossed, color to be seen,
without a particular, limited way of being.

By the ladder of love it reaches into love
by unknowing alone it reaches into the unknown,
by still desiring it moves into unmoved stillness
until it knows only that it does not know
and imagines nothing that is imaginable.

Here there is neither here nor there,
now there is neither past nor future.
What can be formed of the formless is unsatisfactory
and unsatisfactoriness draws one further on
into that which cannot be known or touched.

How is it also you?  
How is it that that which simply is
becomes expressed as a non-ego I?
Is it neither personal nor impersonal,
nor both impersonal and personal?

If no symbol does full justice to the meta-symbolizable,
then one needs to be tolerant of many symbolizations
and not think that any one or all are final or complete.
This and that point, guide, lead beyond this and that
Into that of which everything is but an imperfect likeness. 

Many are the symbols that tell a partial story,
many are the ways that lead to the trackless.
Many are those whose desires get fixed in the unfixed,
many are those who do not stretch out into the unattainable.  
Stretching out into is the way of noesis.  

When symbols cease to inspire desire
to reach into the essentially inexpressible,
moving beyond the limits of all symbols
by the way of unhindered desire,
then symbols atrophy from inexperience.

Here there is neither here nor there
but everywhere and anywhere 
wherein one knows one’s unknowing
and desires the heretofore undesirable,
in a fleeting moment reaching into the unattainable.