Ligsma Kirpe, originally from Latvia, will be celebrating her 90th birthday on Anzac Day. This poem comes from a Creative Studies  Group, which she led 1983 – 1984. It was performed in Eurythmy at the 2004 Anthroposophical Conference in Melbourne.

Katherine Rudolph





The Blue…moves…in the distance….

and on the far horizon,

holding up strongly

the very dome of the sky

with the mighty sun

in his embrace,

backing out darkness from the sunlit world.


He cares also that

darkness gets some light,

lifting forth bits of it

upon the sunlit areas

and silvering the features

in the depths of shadows,

so we all can read

the names of each


After the sunset

the Blue enkindles stars

upholding the moon

to guard our rest.

For the blue cares

that the world has light.


Thick heavy clouds

are causing him anger.

Then he kicks through

with thunder and lightning.


Frost he arranges

in star-like patterns,

breaking icicles at times

into new forms that

emerge from his weaving

of darkness and light.


Or when a shape

gets swallowed by fire,

he guides its transmutation

by pulling the flame in

and guiding the soul

to the yonder world.


Blue serves as a bridge

between two worlds

joining spirit and matter.


When the sun shines

on winter days,

the whole earth lies

enwrapped in the Blue’s love

for her dreams and memories

on the last season’s warmth.

In her night-like lap

Earth broods and nurses

seeds, roots, decaying bodies

which had their life and colours

entombed by the Fall,

longing….longing to become

remade and reborn.

Everything waits hoping

for a Christmas star

to strike out of the Blue

which holds the threads

from past to future.




Then a bell rings.

A star is alarming

a seeds inner core

with light activity,

germinating its own

warmth and will

to crack and to break,

to explode its hard shell,

rolling aside

the husks of entombment,

rousing the rocky flesh

of Earth to the light above,

the Yellow comes to birth.


It is Easter for the seed,

peeping out freely

into the sunlight

to yell out and around,

to yell up and below,

being uplifted

by the yellow sunlight,

as it licks the soil

from the coolness,

moulding the green leaves

in a new globe

filled with light.



There one can meet

livelier beings:

wind, bees, butterflies

and the very

being of Sun,

which imparts everyone

with its own self,

joyous in giving,

loving and blending

soul into soul

by its warmth.


The Yellow gives out

its own being,

and the Earth likewise

blooms out her forces

towards the Sun.


Human souls also loosen their fetters

expanding towards

primeval state

of Paradise where:

all the God’s creatures are

swaying in the Sun:

flower blossoms, ears of corn

tree-tops of the mighty forests,

elder people, little children,

all young maidens, all young men.



Light in itself

we never know,

but its weavings

with the darkness of earth

gives us the feeling

of the many colours,-

a meaning to life.


Sunshine appears

as our best friend,

extending her hand to everyone,-

the innocent and the wonton,-

wakening, reinforcing,

comforting, lifting up

with her life-sustaining

yellow glow of joy.


She frees us too

from our own enclosure.

She opens the ways

to new enlightenment.

We all become

as brothers and sisters

while yellow sunbeam





‘Til one bright day

her shine is struck

upon a smooth object

throwing back

her own good will.


“A bottle in dry grass.”


The sunbeam mirrors

her own splendour

upon this obstacle.

Through it she shines,

into it she shines

according to the laws

of her own being 

To dissolve, alleviate

any gravity she finds.

But now, look!

Some of the light

is trapped there

by that tricky

man-made thing!

Those very solid walls

force themselves upon her.

She tries to get out,

Is knocked back again

upon her own,…upon her own

shortcomings and despair.

Thus, she comes to feel

the might of light’s opponents

bottled up there

on the dry grass

by the roadside.


This should remind us all

of our soul’s descent

from the yonder Sun

to the body of flesh

filled with life,

yet possessed also

by devils of hell.

How does the soul

enkindle her fire

in the blood-stream

to carry on battles

between heaven and hell?

How does the blood

find its pulse

to carry on life

for new endeavours?


Pressed by the grip

of the adverse forces

the embottled light-beam

goes through an agony

of changes in her nature.

There is no way forward,

There is no way back,

no way up, nor below,

but the counterpart of all,-

the very nothingness

as a grip for

one’s own self-centre

filled with the power

of heaven and hell

in a burning heat

capable to beat,

revolve and to wreck

any hindrance

by a sudden

quick explosion!


Reddening with rage

of fierce fire which

sets hunger to its guts

out it gushes, swelling,

roaring and devouring

by its sparks and flames

everything they bite on…


that had once been grown

by the very delicate

love of Sun and Earth,

Which the…savage one

Meets but  through…. Death,


“What have you done?”

Conclusion, another voice:


Such fires feed on

the perishable only

freeing the soul forces

for a new life.

And when the violence

of the absorbing flames

is tamed and exhausted,

reds of calmer hues

glow through the ashes,

revealing to us

the meaning of spirit

which masters the self

in our similarly

red hued blood.

Ligsma Kirpe