Angels. While they used to ubiquitous, just like flies are now. And nowadays angels and gods only live "huddled in dark unopened books." Dark, I guess because they are not opened. They hold the secrets. Not just any secret, great secrets.  Most people have to go out of their way, open these books, to discover these angels.  I wonder if words are the angels. Whoever they are, Miss Jones -- the librarian I assume -- can hear them. True lovers, the caretakers, the librarians, tall in stature with bent heads because of their humility, can hear the whispering angels. 

The books are whispering. Do you hear them? I guess you have to be making rounds, be tall, and keep your head tipped to hear them. I guess there is magic in books like there is in chanting.

Once we have forgiven Charles Simic for his stereotyping of librarians we consider some of the better implications of his poem. We have all come across books that we gaze at with puzzled wonder. What kind of book is this? Who would have read this book? Why was it written? Who would take the time to write it? The very existence of the book in hand tells us that a whole range of real people worked carefully to prepare the text, set the type, produce the item, distribute and promote it. A librarian with sensitivities will occasionally have pangs of guilt or second thoughts about culling such books. Their rarity stops us in our tracks, the purpose of their very existence is not to be denied. “A Dictionary of Angels” would stay where it was parked because angelology is a genuine if under-attended subject of theology. Books on angels have a permanent shelf life in this Library. To have records of named angels is essential in getting to know the minds of other generations, whatever our own definition of an angel. Scripture and Talmud would be missing something were angels to be deleted. Students of angels would probably take exception to the second verse of the poem, where Simic wishes to relegate angels to the past: this is not something that makes sense if they are part of the heavenly realm. He also indulges in comic or far-fetched descriptions of angels that bear really no resemblance to their appearances in Scripture and elsewhere in Judaic, Christian and Muslim tradition.  More riskily, in fact it’s heretical methinks, the poet seems to imply that angels only exist today in books. The rabbis would have had something to say about this strange idea, not to mention the shepherds watching over their flocks by night. As it is, we should leave encounters with angels to those who have something to say. The poem’s purpose, however, is not to deny angels, rather to get us to listen to the ‘whispering’ in the books, and even if we cannot hear anything, to pay attention to those who can hear the ‘whispering’. The materiality of the book itself may fall apart yet there are presences everywhere. Their own existence in time is telling us of other existences and other experiences than our own. We must cull with a discerning eye, but also with extra senses of the kind possessed by Miss Jones.   

In the song Phulko aakha ma says “let me never kill an ant by unknowingly walking on it.” I find it endearing that in their vast compassion Buddhists find saving ants important. But Jane Hirshfield questions if actively saving an ant is a useful act. 

We think we are saving ants. And that trivial pursuit may make us proud. But, actually are we in control? We had other important things to do; but because everything was shut down we needed to do something kind. So we save an ant that was crawling on the couch. We picked it up and dropped it outside.  However, we then realize, that we didn't really save the ant. The ant is as alone outside as it was  inside. He will not find his family again.  He will be alone and likely die alone.  What then did we save? Was this compassion useless?

“I know that heaven does not exist,” says Mirza Ghalib in his famous ghazal. “But it is a still great way to keep your heart happy.” When we think we are being kind, when we give ourselves the credit, is the compassion useful?  In any case, I think I'll leave saving ants to Jane, and I'll take a few cisterns of silence to fill my singing. 

The purpose of life is to sing!

Straight Translation:

I'm caged; even if they don't consider my lamentation good

why is my existence bad for the song-weighers of the garden

It is night time. And I am reading Walt Whitman in bed before I sleep. And I am awakened by these lines. 

I learn that these are lines that are the most famous of this poem about death. How beautifully the poet comes alive through his poetry.  A poem about death and goodbyes suddenly becomes a poem of immortality. Isn't that amazing? These are not merely words; these are walt whitman himself loving you back like you love him. I am reminded of Guru Nanak.  "These are not merely my words," says Nanak. "These are the words of my love."  I am reminded of Kabir. "These are not merely songs," he explains. "These are the loftiest principles that live forever." It seemed weird when he first said, "I announce what comes after me." Such confidence.  It makes a lot of sense when you get to these lines.