A mirror cannot capture the light of the
sun,
nor can words — but for a moment —
contain all that a heart may feel.
Written for my wife Nasim on her birthday yesterday.
Whenever I have thirsted
though my tongue sought water
my soul sought for this.
Whenever I have yearned
though my dreams dreamt of futures
my soul dreamt of this.
Whenever I have labored
though my efforts aimed higher
my soul aimed at this.
Whenever I have swooned
though my heart longed for beauty
my soul longed for this.
Experience is a gilt onion.
I peel it back, layer by layer,
and always I find this.
This is the purpose.
This is the meaning.
This is the intent.
Perhaps you wonder what I mean?
In truth, you wonder about this.
It was the first day.
Even as the Earth
I drew the clouds of self about me;
blocking out a Sun
Who never ceased to shine.
And in that darkness,
I wept with great sadness:
turning the dust beneath me to cloying mud…
Caught in the mire between me and Thee.
Now it is the second day.
Green shoots have fought their way
through dirt and weighing sod.
From the muck arises a teeming life;
even the worms have purpose.
Tomorrow, it will be the third day.
When the sun shall break from the clouds,
and the mist of self — of airy substance only —
will know an end to such days as these.
When the smell of rain
is fuller than the rain itself…
When one drops fall
and then a thousand;
when the first bolt
divides the sky;
when a clap resounds
like the Hands of God;
and the water on your lips
fell from Heaven…
After the fury and the darkness
will shine every color
that eyes can see.
If a candle approach the Sun,
how can it complain of its smallness,
its feebleness, its weakness?
Alone in the dark, it weeps and pines.
Even it shines — but to no avail.
O futile, feeble candle!
If truly you aim for the Sun,
how will you complain?
With each step:
your tears flow stronger
your light grows weaker
even your steps will fail…
For these are the signs of progress!
One who stands before the Sun
must lose all trace of self —
but not through effort or intention:
any more than a runner
intends to lose his breath.
And when you find the Sun,
there can be no more sorrow —
even as your light dims
and your faculties recede…
He who finds the Sun knows only glory.
What cup is there more bitter than Time?
All life’s beauty, lain in the dust;
all tomorrow’s hopes, forgotten.
To our lips we raise a vinegared tang,
where only yesterday, there was wine.
Trust not the deceit of color or song.
To the eyes, a wondrous thing;
to the ears, a paean of heaven.
Already the Puppeteer readies his box,
where he hides them all before long.
Yet, in the lover’s heart lies a secret.
A knowledge unknown to tongues;
a truth hidden even from minds.
That in the heart of pain lies a door,
one step beyond grief and regret:
That if we had not loved, we should not hurt;
that if we’d been not warm, we would not shiver.
All bitterness we taste is in memory of sweet;
all longing we feel, a proof of union.
For this terrible pain we call our life,
is knowledge that the soul knows of better.
It is written:
“Verily, we are from God,
and to Him shall we return.”
If a wise man speaks to a fool,
he will use the fool’s language —
lest the language of the wise
lead him to greater folly.
Yet if the fool pays too much heed
to the words and forms adopted,
he will mostly see in them
the shape of his own reflection…
He should wonder less the form,
and more what could not fit it:
Forget the drop, drying on your nose;
ponder the clouds and thunder.
Only the soft rains do I hear…
The sheets of water on my back;
the thunder and wind.
For all of the noise
there is the deepest silence.
My footfalls are a clamor.
I walk the shores
of a swollen river,
the nighttime at my back.
We have always sought Truth.
But the terrible irony is:
In its pursuit, we haven’t its aid.
That is: We cannot use
a Truth we do not know
to measure those we think we’ve found.
Thus history is replete
with such cases of irony;
of believing we already know
the name, or the face
of Whom we seek.
We imagine it will come
from kings or royal lineage;
when it appeared from a carpenter
of unknown descent.
Or we believe it can be told
by learned men and scholars;
when it came from a desert nomad,
illiterate and cast out.
We look to men of virtue
or a proven character;
when deliverance came
from the hands of a killer.
Or we long for personages
of fame and great reknown;
when the final word
was the word of a prisoner.
If history has taught us anything:
In matters of Truth and wisdom,
never trust your expectations.
I have heard the sea
pour out its mournful lament;
and the dirge of the clouds
with their rumbles and lightnings.
I have watched the grey sky
enfold us in a shroud of sorrow;
as the pall-bearer drops
loose their lugubrious weight.
These storms that feel
like unending death:
yet they kiss the ground
with bright green hope.
I was a crystal chalice
open, and waiting for the rains to pour.
Since youth I had longed for fullness.
It seemed my being had been made
in the shape of something
I was meant to find.
But for so long, I was a bearer of hollows.
My bones made dull groans
as the winds passed over me.
I trembled when the Earth trembled,
and viewed every precipice
with shattered dreams.
The she came into my life.
She poured forth, from a long, fluted stem;
filling all my spaces with her ruby kiss.
She intoxicated me, my lady Wine,
and made every dark place
smile with an inner glow.
We are quite a pair, she and I.
When other lips come for sohbat
they stumble away down dark alleys,
unable to bear the heady laughter.
I was a chalice, once;
now I am only a taste, divine,
borne aloft in Saghi’s arms.
To me,
my days are as diamonds.
The moments of my life
are a precious gold;
the minutes and the hours — priceless.
I should not sell them cheaply.
If I do not have time
for what concerns me most,
then who has my time?
And at what price did I barter it away?
A loving Creator
has created this mote of love.
My seconds are the soul of the gift.
They are, in fact, all that I am.
There can never be a dearer possession.
O, do not waste my days
in concern of where I am going!
or even of what I have been.
The Lover has summoned His friends.
Relax… enjoy the relationship.
It led the way before me:
cool, and dark
an unending ribbon of night
stretching to meet the horizon.
Its waters had captured an image of heaven —
toying with its lights,
setting the stars to dancing
and making of the moon
a disk of liquid silver.
What fish gathered below,
I wondered?
what denizens of the mighty river
to contemplate my evening ride?
Yet the boat leapt on, quick prow
slicing through the splashing black;
my face catching the wind
and those untamed waters, my soul.
There is a wilderness underfoot
and I hear the branches crunching…
Somewhere, the deer are watching me,
in soft, silent contemplation.
There is a shore nearby;
the hush of waves draws closer.
It leaves me wondering only:
when will my pilgrimage end?
Along the way, in this exile,
sunlight survives through the branches
In muted forms that cast a glow upon the trees.
And the mosses, they point me north.
Here and there there are clearings;
and once even I found my way to a spring.
They tell me a City lies beyond,
just at the edge of the blue and the green,
on fine sands where forest leads to ocean.
I trek on, ever watchful.
It could be I am just around the bend.
Life hammers its minute nails
into the houses of bone in which we live.
Did you think your coffin made of wood,
awaiting construction on some future day?
It should be so easy to see:
this coffin I carry around with me:
206 tiny timbers sewn by ligaments
waiting for me to die.
pain reaches up
fingers of nettles
a hand from a dark and bitter pool
deep within
as it wraps around
our bright, present moment
and begins to squeeze…
our mind is a flaming torch
held high in that hand
a tribute to the joys of tomorrow
I have spoken to a few of the wise ones
who journey after God.
They speak often of the length of the journey;
of its perils and subtle trials;
of their longing, and deep ardor.
So many, it seems, are on their way;
so few, it seems, are arriving.
Perhaps the problem here
is that they sought what they sought;
for what man can discover God?
Perhaps the answer lies, instead,
in seeking what He seeks…
If a child wants truly to learn of
the world of his father,
he must put away childhood
and become a parent.
But in doing so,
though he learn the lessons of fatherhood
it is no longer the child who knows it.
There is no way for one world, so apart,
to become another.
So too, a man who would find God
must leave himself to begin that journey.
Yet it would no longer be him, when he arrives.
Does a parent long for the child
to leave his own state
and join him in his?
Or would he rather be a parent
spending time with his young ones…
In truth, he wants what all fathers
wish for their children:
that which best suits the child.
One world, looking over the other,
fulfilling itself
by wishing the fulfillment of the other.
I think all this journeying of the wise
is to a place with no reality:
like a seed wanting to know the Tree
who ceases to be in that knowledge.
Such a thing is a long, impossible journey
for the seed.
Perhaps it were better
if we sought what seeds should know:
and in this Way,
learn the mysteries of growth…
I asked a key
who had found his lock:
“How did you know?
What did she say
to convince you?”
He looked at me a while,
then told me:
“It’s wasn’t so much
what she said —
as what she didn’t:
a seamless joining together;
a lack of noise
to proclaim ill-fitting;
an absence of effort
where before
there had always been.”
Is the sound of sorrow
limited, like a voice’s cry?
Or does the soul’s suspiration
heed no boundaries of space or time?
The winds of late have seemed
to hold a deeper tone;
More than just the capping of waves
along the rolling blue.
Was that your soft weeping I heard?
or were those salty drops the ocean’s own…
O Nasim!
gentle breeze of the Merciful
delight to eye and mind
beauteous form of intellect
a sharp arrow
flying through the fields of hearts…
You’ve trapped me.
I think of you often now.
When will I feel your breezes again
to lift this building heat
O Nasim?
How do I know I’m in love?
If her touch steals time
and her breathing slows it
but her absence makes it long.
If her thoughts of me
are how I know myself,
her lips blurring right and wrong.
If my heart is her creation:
her smile saving me, he frown destroying me —
a gate to both world in her eyes!
If faced by the road of self-destruction
careless, I court my soul’s demise.
I feel your peace on quiet nights
when the cool winds presage rain.
Later your joy rises, with its gentle warmth
to dry the dewdrops weighing the leaves.
Your beauty sings like songbirds on branches
or crickets pleading with the star-filled night.
Your bright qualities are indeed my Charon:
for their sublime touch ferries me to other worlds.
Do the clouds above
feel emptied when the sun leaves?
casting pale shadows
of their pallid selves
along the moonlit ground…
What shape of sorrow
steals across their misty brow?
Loosing one tear
and then a thousand
upon a silence too profound.
You were like the wind in my life:
sometimes bitter cold,
sometimes you embraced me.
When you blew hard
it ruined all the fragile things;
and when you blew gently
it was enough to move me.
On warm days you were a south wind
bringing hope and renewal;
but in the winter season
I could sense the end was near.
You were never anything I could grasp
even though I felt you:
When I reached out, there you were;
as I closed my arms, there was nothing.
You dried my tears and burned my lips.
You made the heat bearable
and the cold even worse.
You were like a dance —
a sweeping cloud of leaves —
but the steps were just beyond me.
Friend of hawks! stirrer of deep waves,
beginner of storms
and end to my peace and calm…
My wind-vane points the way
but I can’t catch up.
You were always on the move:
heading towards me, running away.
I hear news of you. They tell stories.
But however far you go
to my thoughts you keep returning.
How can I describe being together?
Every inch of you
reached miles into me.
Your hair
more than beautiful strands of black,
like a dark river where my fingers
wandered and strayed.
Your whole being
was a banquet of heart and mind
to fill my beating cup.
I walk away from your table
drunk every time —
flush until my heart is dizzy.
If children laugh at my staggering walk
let them know
how weak your memory makes me.
I am “ghani” now: rich like a king
whose eyes see only gold;
Or a fish, not contented with drops
who in your ocean feels no need.
Whom do I write to now?
Where can I send my complaint?
Time has uncoiled like a serpent
whose fangs have felled my hopes.
I await the next strike
the paralyzing blow
after which, I soon expect
to be swallowed whole.
Are we all consumed so viciously?
Or is this choice delight
only for those who ask?
Pray for His will
and you might find it:
unfolding in your life the way
a venus flytrap
responds to the slightest touch…
He is a devourer of souls, a sacred flame
to burn all wooden forms of love!
“He who is beloved of Me,
him shall I slay.
He who is slain by Me,
I Myself shall be his ransom.”
My partner is my pain tonight;
and somewhere in that: a compassion
whose depths I will never fathom.
Night, tonight
fair black on
drops of starling white;
a dreamer’s sea
for finer sails
O captains of the light!
onward ho,
to heaven’s hold
where angels take their flight
and join the
twirl of galaxies
who dance upon such heights.
If all the world is perfect
within a grander scheme,
tomorrow’s bitter cup
is sweeter than it seems.
If eyes be taught this Way
of seeing past the veil,
they’d find an end to pain;
so would happiness prevail!
For darkness hasn’t essence
to bear against the Light;
whose first arrows of dawn
are fatal to the night.
Until they ask:
Mustn’t night, too, succeed day?
To which I answer:
The Sun never sets;
it’s the Earth that turns away.
A mirror is little more than
a reflective pane of glass,
maybe a meter square,
yet what it can reflect
is unbounded…
Never think
great dreams are beyond you!
Perhaps they are — but so is the sun
beyond the flower
it warms all day long.
Young Leyla,
with bright eyes
like stars from another heaven.
You guide this lonely mariner,
his ship twice-wrecked
against life’s tormented seas.
For now I have
new hopes to lift me:
that elsewhere in love’s firmament
there might be other eyes
like these.
If you could see your own face
the way I do
every mirror would trap you.
Now a nightingale
you would soon see:
you are also the rose.
Your days would be filled up!
your nights,
spent in your own arms.
So why are we divided?
Why did He give you such beauty
and me the eyes to see it?
You look in the mirror and
think you’re not enough…
but for me
you are almost too much.
My toes can’t reach the floor
when you walk by —
the sky is not high enough
to describe how I soar!
Yet you say,
“I am too fat, too dark,
too ugly, not good enough.”
and little by little, I die.
You are stabbing us both
with that disapproving blade!
Why can’t lover and beloved
occupy the same space?
Such beauty —
it nearly burns my soul! —
yet fails to admire itself:
Nicki, Angela, Zhinous,
Fariba, Nini, Leyla, Samira,
Mahtab, Nasim, Sandra…
The list has no end
of angels who walk this Earth
but cannot see.
If only I could loan you
my eyes
for one moment!
If seer and seen
could put off
their cloak of separation
for a while…
But then,
if not for that distance,
what power would move
this poet’s pen?
There is a kind of knowledge that is known
only
if contrasted with ignorance.
If not for ignorance, what would it be?
Easily recognized, touted, much sought;
such knowledge reigns supreme through
the hallowed halls of Academe!
However, because its existence is contrastive,
it doesn’t really exist at all.
It shows up only if placed in a certain light.
This is the manifest form of knowing,
from which “knowledge” takes its name.
Then there is another kind of knowledge:
one that has no contrast.
As such, it cannot be seen. Where is it?
It is all action, and no words.
It enters through the door
like a humble beggar
but in fact, it is king.
This is the hidden essence of knowing,
from which “knowledge” has its meaning.
Its effectiveness cannot be trapped
or entombed on gilded pages.
Like a warrior poet, it keeps peace
until the moment of inspiration.
The other is a fumbling scholar
who thinks one more book
will make him wise.
Learn everything about everything!
You are still only reading the index.
Know the name of every plant?
Now watch them grow!
How do you recognize a master of essence
when he has no ties to form?
Search for his knowing look
paired with a feeling of ignorance.
Someone who, if others talk about the weather,
prefers to walk outside.
One who chooses people over sociology,
health to medicine, joy to truth —
and truly loving to every kind word.
He will be conspicuous
by what’s missing:
Such faith — so very few beliefs.
Tenderly, with your arms around me
your lips close to my ear
your head against my shoulder
your hair on my cheek
your warmth, surrounding me
your still, calming air
your eyes, mostly closed
your form next to mine
your breathing, soft and deep
your quiet silence
your gentle, stirring touch…
You are everything I dream of
and nothing I can know —
without you here, beside me,
holding me just so…
The wind whispers secrets
ears cannot hear,
its magics unknown to a
“heart possessed by fear”.
Gird up your faith!
Walk on those waves!
Find the hidden Gem
that hides before your eyes…
For the moment is precious
and the days are short;
soon, this grand movie
will play to its end.
So listen again —
listen a thousand times! —
to that coy, coquettish wind…
and when you hear its answer:
Ascend.
I shall cast upon the mountains —
as a clarion call! —
the name of my Beloved;
and commit to paper
such tales of loving mention,
all will be astonished.
Whatever names you knew of Love
before this — forget them!
The beating of every lover’s heart
will be the sound of my communion.
So many things to study, to know,
not only a million facts
but a million points of view…
The skies of man’s endeavor
are filled with countless lights!
each standing bold against
the empty backdrop of night.
No one can count them all.
Every season brings a new configuration.
Run, run to catch up, but they outpace you.
Then comes the Dawn of understanding.
The True Orb touches the horizon,
Its first rays bringing all to naught;
the very meaning of “seeker” vanishes
when he enters the presence of the Sought.
One Light in Heaven,
all lesser things be gone,
even the blackness between
now a glowing shade of blue.
On that Day, there is only Him.
Whatever else had seemed of interest
must fall to Heaven’s coup.
Sometimes I feel such mysteries
moving through this pen!
telling the same truths
over and over again,
all of them, simple verses —
recollections of the Friend —
but though I write them down
there seems to be no end.
I think perhaps
your heart is a little bird,
longing to beat its wings
in the high places,
to sing and sing
until Song itself says, “Enough!”
I sit near you
and hear the flapping
of those tiny wings…
Your body seems to float away.
If you ran with all your might
you couldn’t catch up
with that eager heart.
You are a creature of spirit
living here for a short while;
don’t ever imagine
the bars on your cage
are a part of who you are.
Fly on, little bird:
fly on — until flight becomes you.
I find myself happy today
for one thing above all:
that I’ve learned what it means
to like one’s self completely.
Certainly not because of
any degree of perfection;
that, I was never able to achieve.
But as I look at
the people around me —
the variety of characters,
attitudes, activities —
I find a certain, indescribable beauty
pervades them all.
Life is not about
what is deserved — but what is;
And if we fail to recognize
this amazing beauty before us,
so evident — right here,
in this company, right now —
If we neglect to perceive
what it’s trying to show,
we will have missed out
on a precious opportunity.
O Khidr!
My tricky friend
and true,
my green Satan,
my soul-destroyer…
You’ve pounded my heart
into a tasty morsel,
thrust me onto a skewer,
and roasted me like kabob.
I never knew I could be so delicious.
The friends of God do not understand
my love for you.
They think me mad, of no account;
they imagine my joy is from
lack of understanding.
I tell your tales and do my part,
but even if they hear me
they don’t listen.
As for me, I choose that
wild and reckless dance!
headlong into the fire.
Turn me over the coals —
again, and yet again —
that I may wear this
blackened char of self
as my crown of glory.
Spring has come
stealing dew from the leaves
to make flowers:
a fecund dance
of seed and soil and sun.
The pregnant Earth,
the watering sky;
all the land giving birth:
a hoarde of children
who scream with their colors…
The bees are dressed in banded aprons,
gathering what can be gathered,
making their honeyed draught.
Love is in the air, this season.
What will you make of it?
I’m sitting here
at this proper dinner party.
But I can’t help noticing
the fit of the chair beneath me;
how the breeze from outside
brushes against my skin…
The chocolate on my fork
is a kiss on the lips,
and the sweet music
woos me with its song…
How funny, that despite
all these people around me —
You still find ways of making love.
I know God is the Creator of all
and I am but a handful of dust.
So why did He create me?
The Heavens above —
the dust and the Earth below.
A storm appears on the horizon.
The sky cracks with a blinding light
and the heavens rumble.
Soon a fast rain drenches me,
soaking through, turning me to mud.
It pours and pours.
The rivers flow.
After the storm passes
and many days go by,
tender shoots appear from
my dusty soil.
They reach up toward Heaven,
turning to the Light.
Soon I am tall and proud —
and covered with thorns.
Just as I fear I might have no use,
it happens:
the purpose of this cycle:
With the coming of the Rose
and the appearance of Beauty
I understand now,
Why He is the Creator
and I, this handful of dust.
I remember being planted
in the soft Earth.
It was warm there,
comfortably dark.
I slept for ages —
though an aching tension
grew within me.
Soon the changes came
that would change me forever.
I grew, and sprouted,
yielding what I had
to offer life.
These grains were taken
and ground into fine dust
as if having no value at all.
I was astonished the Miller
would treat me so.
Did he not perceive my beauty?
Then this dust,
the fruits of my time on Earth,
were placed in a fire and burnt;
mixed with water and kneaded.
I was twice baptized
then pounded and shaped
and pounded again.
I asked the Baker:
“Why heap your indignites upon me?
First the Miller and now you,
what ever happened to my dear friend,
the Farmer?
Why did he release me
to such misery?”
As if not enough, the Baker
took me to the oven
and showed me the awful beauties of flame.
I was scorched and hardened;
my doughy crust became like stone.
At the same time I puffed up.
My skin was tanned.
I became like a proud soldier —
though burning in a fire
and begging for escape.
Will no one treat me well?
At last I emerged,
and was whisked away
to the table of Bounty.
I saw many fruits there,
many delicate wines,
but they all compared themselves to me,
each asserting its superiority.
Then the Host plunged his sword
into my back
and cleaved me in twain.
I was cut and cut,
not bleeding, but sighing out steam.
Even this One did not cherish me!
At the instant of my final despair
when I thought I could bear no more
this Host led me to His lips
and bestowed on me
His fatal kiss.
I passed into His mouth
and was ground up — again —
between His mighty teeth.
I traveled down the throat
and landed
in a lake of searing acid.
My life has been pain after pain!
an unending torment —
every moment of peace
concluded by a new anguish.
In that dark and foul place,
as the liquids ate my bowels,
I contemplated the injustices of life.
I thought long and hard,
even though my mind was fading…
When there was almost nothing left
I bade the world goodbye
and plunged into my death.
This has been the tale of my death;
but of the life that came after
I can say nothing.
Look to the face of my Beloved:
In the health of His ruddy glow
perhaps you can discern me.
O sweet girl!
Do you know that I was
solid when you met me
but now I flow along?
Love has that effect:
It gives even a mouse
the chance to fly!
or a mote of dust
to sparkle like the Sun…
What expressions of love
He deserves from me!
What better actions
than those I perform!
What kinder words
than what I’ve written!
What higher thoughts
than my highest attempt!
My faith is bound
by the limits of my being.
Were it bound by the limits of His,
how could I remain?
Like a flickering flame
before the Almighty Sun:
I would suddenly disappear.
There came a day
when the blood in my veins
turned to wine:
now I am always drunk;
When my eyes filled
with a special light:
now I cannot see darkness;
When my waking life
became as a dream:
now I am always soaring…
These things happened slowly
and then quickly
the way a flower grows
for weeks and weeks
and one day suddenly blooms.
There is no one who is not growing
toward their heart’s fulfillment.
Turn to the Sun,
drink the bountiful rains,
strive to push through that
weighing soil…
The rest will happen of itself.
Her voice has a sweetness
like warm honey in my ear…
She soaks into me;
sugars my thoughts;
Drenches my heart
in amber warmth…
She fills me
with a golden light.
Now the bears are coming.
But however much
they take away,
she puts back
again.
The wind one morning
carried Your voice to me;
but when I turned my head
it was gone.
Looking up one night
a sparkling Light caught my eye;
but when I turned my head
it was gone.
A fragrance on the breeze
enchanted both heart and mind;
but when I turned my head
it was gone.
Until at last
the thought came to me:
Why do I keep turning away?
We spoke each other’s name
into the late hours.
I, in voice, since Yours are
the Most Beautiful Names;
and You, in silence,
aptly naming my nothingness.
Until dawn
we went on like that,
my myriad questions
always answered by the same reply…
What silent wisdom! Truly:
“Knowledge is a single point.”
I raised up my hands
and you held me with unseen Arms.
We danced until the stars
returned to the void.
I pray, and the words are Your own.
So, without power
to move or breath,
I close my eyes and open Yours…
…and watch
the stirrings of the Dawn.
Sometimes, only poems will do.
The words as they meet the paper
sing with a subtle voice,
a quiet, ringing tone
that resounds in the heart:
this is poetry.
So I lift my pen, my wand
and conjure fair spells
to entrance the heart
and grant the power to fly…
Poetry is a doorway to impossible lands.
As if my pen
had drunk too much
its joy beyond all keeping —
dancing across the page,
wild with meaning.
A slender reed
thrumming with songs
of passion and Persian princes;
these are not mere lines,
but the tracings of a pen
turned whirling dervish.
How suddenly life seizes upon one,
breaking along the shore
of our sand-castle plans
like so many dissolving fingers.
The sands of the desert are calm and quiet.
A snake makes himself into a pen
and draws the longest letter I have ever seen.
The lizards push against the rocks
up and down, up and down —
inmates of Hell’s own fitness spa.
The gila monster is still where I last saw him.
And above it all, the cactus, centuries old —
Old Man of the Desert —
yet an infant of the sands and rock.
And me, with my pen.
What can I say?
I am always thirsty.
How strange that
I sought you for so long;
when Yours were the eyes
I looked with all along…
In Your voice, I cried out;
on Your feet, I carried on;
with Your mind
I dreamt my troubled dreams.
If only I’d paid
more attention
I might have noticed:
Whenever You breathed, I exhaled;
whenever Your eyes closed
I laid myself to rest.
If the moon believes
it shines with its own light,
yell up to Heaven: “Not quite!”
If not for the Sun,
we would know the moon only
by its nothingness:
the occlusion of nearby stars.
Hence the mystic is nothing — a void;
when he shines you see only the Sun.
He has no voice of his own;
no feet to carry him on;
no sight, no mind:
All that he has is borrowed.
Know who you are without Him
and perhaps
you will know Him without you.
I awoke to find myself holding a book.
I did not know its language;
I could only look at the pictures,
imagining stories, the way children do.
I began to study, to make an effort
to crack the code.
After which I noticed: the story had a Plot…
Now I read as one who cannot take time for sleep!
That book was my life, my world;
my understanding: what Your words finally taught me.
What a fierce sun stares at me today.
The roads shimmer in the air;
the lizards alone enjoy it.
Through my tinted lenses
I watch the girls go by…
Everyone talks of Fall
as if Spring had never been.
The cup of water in my hand
is already warm!
Summer, in Tempe, Ariona.
How can I speak without using Your voice?
What power of mine can move my tongue?
Which of these words did I bring into being?
How much of their meaning was authored by me?
Did I create the phenomenon of sound?
In fact, what of “me” exists in the world?
How can I abstract myself from Creation?
Then there is only Him: “There is no God but He.”
What I call “soul” is a function of His singleness.
I cannot even say “I am”; only that “He is”.
Everything I thought was “I” is “He” —
In this, one of His many forms,
reflected from this humble point of being.
Dear Leyla,
I wonder if your heart
was really made here.
So pure:
a crystal globe
that catches the sunlight
and sparkles with a
white, colorful fire.
When I talk to you
I swear,
I hear the angels speaking.
How did you come to be?
Were you just there,
one day,
sitting by the road
and your mother took you in?
Dear Leyla,
never change who you are.
Just knowing you
has taught me more
about love.
O fire, beautiful fire!
Your pain so intense
it tickles my soul.
I am burnt today,
my skin is black and
puffed and ruined.
Little by little
you turn me into
a delicate smoke;
Up, up, into the vast sky I go
floating on the finest breezes.
What is it
that hounds me in the dark?
in the lonely hours,
in the still and secret places…
My heart is a hunter
that stalks my mind.
I hide in the daylight —
but when all is quiet
it still finds me.
I have heard it said:
“There is something about
the dark sanctity of the night
that beckons me.”
I fully agree.
The true mystic is a lion
with the face of a kitten.
Only his own kind know who he is.
He speaks in the softest words —
so soft, their name is “silence” —
yet his tone resounds for days.
He is a presence without presence:
a stillness full of motion.
While seated, he soars;
over water, he strides.
Like an invisible wind
you never see him, though
he works to great effect.
Eating little, relishing everything;
he never argues, but always wins.
His life is a happy contradiction.
The people think he is nothing —
a kind of innocent child —
to which he whole-heartedly agrees…
For it is this very nothingness
that makes him great.
Writing these lines is foolish.
Does a beautiful woman ask for a kiss?
Do the thirsty need prompting to drink
or the lonely a reason to open their arms?
As the ink dries, it chastises me:
Those who can understand me need no words
and those who need my words cannot understand me.
The goal is within your reach: take it!
Why keep pushing it away?
Every complaint
every harsh word
every sigh of despair
is a hand, repulsing the arms of God.
His gift is the very Creation
some wish to leave.
Who leaves a party in search of the party?
Madness!
And if they ask:
How can you be so happy all the time?
I would say:
As long as that question makes sense to you
my answer never will.
‘Twas the season for sneezing
and all through the house
not a creature was quiet —
not even the mouse.
With tiny-sized sniffles
and paws he should clean,
a sick little mousekin
completed the scene:
A family of ill ones
all tucked in their beds,
sipping coughsyrup cocktails
to lighten their heads,
But the poor baby mouse
had nothing to take:
his chest was all stuffed,
his nose and eyes ached.
So under the floorboards
he crawled here and there,
searching for aspirin
or things he could share;
Maybe a tissue,
a coughdrop to lick…
anything people might
take when they’re sick.
“If it works for others,
then maybe for me!
I’d try anything now,
even Vitamin C!”
He searched and he hunted
this way and that
his aching head tired,
his hair full of mats,
Till at last he sighed
and gave up his quest,
tucking his tail
for a brief moment’s rest.
When who should appear
but a girl and her sniffles;
carrying handfuls of Kleenex
all wadded in fistfuls;
She noticed the mouse
and begin to shout!
but the sight of his plight
kept the cry from her mouth.
They startled each other
and stared eye to eye:
the mouse in his corner
the girl on her side;
“Oh dear little mouse,
what’s happened to you?
It looks to my eyes
like you’re sick with the flu!”
His eyes were too runny
to blink in response,
so he wiggled his whiskers
and twitched his tail once.
She patted his head
and said, “My dear, it’s alright!”
You can cozy with me
for the rest of the night!
So they slept in her bed
that girl and her mouse,
and no one else stirred
all through the house.
When the foggy tides
surge upon the land,
filling in the spaces
of the grey-bricked cities
and the meadows of green,
and the anodyne hills,
pluming everywhere like smoke
from a Great Father’s pipe…
Then it seems like
a sea upon the sea,
with buoys that flash red
where the skyscrapers dreamed;
and perhaps a poet or two
watching from his fog beach
musing at the millions
who’ve become fish, unawares.
Each man is himself a pen:
a slim reed
cut from the bed of possibility,
fired in the pain and trials of life,
until the crack
that is his central flaw
fills with the ink of yearning
and bright tales appear —
from so humble a tool —
to tell of our Master’s beauty.
Before it blooms
a rosebush is little more than
a useless bunch of thorns.
Yet once the rose appears
we sing only its praise!
Then be like that Gardener
Who planted the bush,
and Who loves it
at every stage
for what it will become.
Her hair falls
like ebon silk
flowing to her sides;
Her fair skin
a honeyed milk
that calms my thirsty eyes;
Her sweet smile
undoes my heart,
time dallies in that stare;
I wonder still
those cherry lips…
Let every man beware.
Sunlight
where do you go?
I know that at dusk
you make the mountains glow.
Your last ray catches my eye
but I wonder:
why must you go?
Why leave me to the dark of night?
To the cold,
to the bitter hours…
The moon’s a poor reflection;
the stars, a distant company.
Is my only hope to wait?
To trust we’ll meet again?
My dear sunlight
where did you go?
It is said that I dream too much.
Perhaps I am a thing of dream
always on the point of vanishing…
Yet while the world carries on
I will dream for it a better life,
that perchance these dreams may fuel
the industry of souls and seers.
Colors, like purple;
sounds, like a lover’s whisper;
lazy Sundays in the city,
or any day in the country.
Evenings like this one:
soft breezes that play in the flower bed,
a lonely cat, crying for a friend,
and my thoughts, seeking your memory…
I know the feel of the midnight wind;
I know the touch of another’s soul.
Both pass over, moving, changing
and feeding the fire within.
At once soft and profound,
silent and symphonous —
our wordless exchanges
touch eye and brow and heart with meaning.
Yesterday became what it should have been.
And now, the present forming between us —
I wonder if that late-night spent
was not the future as it ought to be.
The tree
digs its roots deep
drawing out
nourishment and means
from the Earth.
It stands tall
stretching out boughs
to receive the Light
that shines down
from Heaven.
It yields fruit
for others to live by;
gives shelter
to those below
and a home to those above.
It marries
the two Kingdoms
of ground and sky
into a beautiful
bountiful creation.
If a man
could learn
such secrets as these
he would know
his place in the world.
Behold!
I am the Moth Satan
wreathed in flame.
I glow with a heat
only lovers
can comprehend.
My scepter
is my burning limbs;
my crown,
my blazing brow;
my throne,
the torment
that surrounds me…
Behold!
I am the Moth Angel —
for fire and love
have made me king.
When the Master appears
is a time
for questions and answers:
Your questions,
His answers.
Do not presume
to know in His presence;
do not even imagine
you know what Knowledge is.
Bow to your Sensei!!
If he says you’re hungry,
feel your stomach growl;
let His words
become your reality.
As long as you consider Him
with your eyes
you see a feeble man;
As long as He looks at you
with His
He gives His counsel.
How many a lover
the flame of love has burned;
How many a knower
laments what he had learned.
When fire teaches secrets
the mind cannot withstand,
Show the flames your madness
Behold: they understand.
The poets strung pearls
so I undid the strands;
the wise crafted words
so I helped them understand.
The sophists debated
so I tied up their tongues;
the prophets prophesied
so I gave Destiny a hand.
When all was done
and the smoke had cleared
each one bowed down before me:
“How swift thy sword!” they exclaimed.
But I, the poet madman,
did demure:
“It was Love that smote thee, sires,
for none may play the lord
in His domain.”
I was a fish
of the vasty deep.
Alone on beds
of coral and pearl
I used to take my sleep.
Until one day
I climbed up high
and filled my lungs with air —
now I cannot dive at all
except into despair.
I prayed to God,
“Assist my way!
I long to know Your depths —
if only for this bulb of air
this cursèd gasp of breath.”
How can nothing
keep me from Something?
This air inside me
is not me
but binds me just as well.
So God answered
and poked me good
to save me from my hell.
I turned my sight unto myself
and found You
standing within me.
How long I pursued your fragrance —
sweet Joseph of my heart! —
only to find: I was that bouquet.
Should a masterpiece ask of itself,
“Where is Mastery? Where is Art?”
Behold: they stand within thee!
Man is the Supreme Talisman.
If he hath not known himself
how can he know Thee?
He seeks Music: he is an instrument!
He prays for Light: he is a lamp!
Fruitless, he labors tirelessly,
straining every muscle
to know the meaning of Effort —
and still he does not know…
Ponder a moment this thought:
How can a man know completion
if what he seeks is “the Sought”?
How can I say if I love God more,
or you, my dear friends?
When I want to hear Him laugh,
I tell you the joke.
When I want to ease His pain,
I offer you the balm.
Whenever you smile, I see Him;
whenever you sigh, I hear Him:
For if He is the Light
and you are His candles,
I need add but a spark of love —
and suddenly He appears.