When I’m Quiet (#25wtT)

There’s no interpreting.
Whenever I speak about it,
clouds pass between me and the sun.
When quiet, I burn slowly,
while others run for shade.

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What is “Is”

A most beloved friend and I met a month prior to my writing the passages below  in January of 2013.  Little did I know of Sufism or the Shahadah and little do I know now.  It’s a tad philosophical, in many ways incorrect, stodgy, an only hints toward that divine experience we so love on faith.  By I still enjoy these confusions.  So, this morning as I prepared to travel west for a retreat in the tradition the great Maulana (Rumi), I stumbled upon this email to that friend which began with a passage by Kabir Helminski; the passage that inspired the remainder of the email.  So it’s perhaps not surprising that I will meet Shaikh Kabir this weekend, three years later.

 


 

 

“I am contained, as a guest, in a faithful heart, without qualification or definition or description, so that through the medium of that heart everything, above and below, may win from Me sovereignties and fortune. Without such a mirror neither Earth nor Time could bear the vision of My Beauty.”

– Shaikh Kabir

Living in contrary to a world (Dunya) is to place that world in an immobile place, un-reaching and unreachable place. A loving heart (“Dergah of Love”) shimmers inward from the nexus, along that delicate membrane that is the mirror between Self and World. Porous before impermeable – it is. Such that selfdom is not a place of space and time, but a ubiquitous realm, that when experienced by two or more – conjoins their essences into one. It is as present as a the earths horizon is finite; as the tip of starlight before it simply exhausts itself before ever reaching the eye of consciousness. If we are the source of such light, then nothing ends or fades…we are not at the receiving end of light, but it’s creator.

My God is not a bitter one – He is not fearful of what is taken away or given, for giving and receiving are origins with no beginnings, destinations with no ending. To speak of God in terms that make Him unattainable is to destroy ourselves, to make Him fully achievable is to destroy Him. There is no God, rather God is. The act of being equals “is.” “Is”ness requires an a priori state from which an action of belief implies “existence.” To argue whether there is or isn’t a God gives more credence to “arguing” than what we actually argue about. God is…from there, one may continue the sentence or not…that is not the argument…it is the origin of choice…the only one we are given in this universe that seems to have merit. Bill Clinton – may or may not have been existentially moved to dispel he was lying when he stated, “there is nothing going on between us…?” Is means there was never a was. All things “are” and “are not.”   His affair with “that woman” had always been an “is” from the beginning of time, but as a reality to be contended with,  to manifest or not.  This as much the case as his affair with an elephant or becoming a famous race car driver. He played on the present and past tense implications of “is.” So, “is there a God” is not a question relative to his existence or purpose… Yes, there “is a God” in the Bible, in the Koran… But in our hearts, our minds… “God is.” And “God is not…” Suppositional argumentation always begins, “God can be…so where do we go from here?” I’m making myself dizzy…

The human condition (being fleshly alive, with a soulful capacity) is to experience the fine line between starvation and fulfillment. Within capacity of Soul, there is no ending, no suffering, no entrance from the outside that is not opened from the inside. Yet we are in a world, where monetary systems are inextricably tied to biology, and nourishment an integration function as as relationship captured within a global physical value system. The equation of biology, versus the Soul, exchanges within limited opposites…feast or famine, abode and homelessness, physical joy and pain. The human condition is to exist in an entropic world that is not driven toward active existence but static equilibrium…quite simply everything is born to die. And a little more is dissipated with each change state. Are we in error to equate thermodynamics and human socio-cultural behavior in their proclivity to irreversibly progress toward disorder?  Are we victims of entropy, creators, or misguided in our imaginings of “order?” I do not ask if there is order, order “is” or order “is not.” So where we go from there, is to the hearts language – animus lingua.

Love and thermodynamics.  The soul is not measurable energy, it does not exchange states – it simply is what we must acknowledge in order to understand the course of humankind…and love.

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Amber Love

When first I saw you
I saw love,
But not as a spellbound boy.
I found you
Pristine.
A sacred temple
I could not climb nor enter.
You belonged to no one,
Though you
Are claimed
By so many others’ dreams.
It was the beauty of your love,
Not the love of your beauty,
That made me
My own attachment. A candle,
Which I delicately hung
From your mantle.
It was a gentle
Amber
Love.

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Half Asleep and Half Awake

I relish the now rare states
of being held by a half sleep space… where
a companion feels no compulsion to move,
or even open her eyes. Where
our voices connect in languages
foreign to the masses
who claim to speak or talk
or write.

I thought to myself, “how light a touch
to pen such a heavy meaning
onto so fragile a parchment….”
And now I go back to sleep
with a stirring poem, softly
running its fingers through my hair,
whispering, “free me,
lest I remain a dream,
half awoken.”

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The Purpose of Poetry

Poetry has no purpose.
None at all. It seems to be
some kind of emission from a busy mind,
a broken heart, a clouded memory,
a longed for future. It has no purpose
because it does not fulfill
any of these states.
The busy mind still toils,
the heart crumbles,
memories fail,
and the future eludes.

Poetry is a rope dropped into a coil
at the bottom of a dark pit; its usefulness
is hardly imaginable. Its words are
square wheels on a child’s go-cart
at the top of hill. It is an untamable wild animal
being chased around by a poet
with a vanity stick.

The purpose of poetry is that
of the disembodied spirit, cut from the palace
of heaven…and that purpose is,
to seek its purpose
before it dies by the writers pen
on the parchment of
humanity.

What is the purpose of poetry?
It is the most noble,
non-purposeful thing
to ever dawn upon
our awareness – no more,
and no less than a wine splashed peach sunset,
or the waterfall of blue sorbet,
the velvet catkins of a pussy willow
and the tappings
of your grandfathers ghost in the curio cabinet, or
the hearts quiver
in a lovers exhale…
Find the purpose of these, and then maybe
you’ll find your answer.

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The Stirring

She lifts her face …
She says she can touch the sky,
So it is she that scatters these clouds
abandoned in a long-ago last goodbye.

There’s a story by Pasternak,
“He let go of my hand,”
Tanya says with tears in her eyes,
“and I was lost!” I am this man.

And this one, she walks out of canyon lands,
clenched by roots of evergreens,
Into the surf of an ocean that carries
the scent of another far into her dreams.

And she says to me,
“…as high as I could never reach before,
I could touch the sky;
glide my hands through constellations
and move the stars to reflect in the gaze of others…”
lighting lanterns in their hearts.

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The Sound of Distance (#25wtT)

Some sounds I hear
Through your silence
You’re listening
And I am waiting
Until you echo.
Then you see my point
And I hear music.

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Feathers

Faith is a feather on a sandy beach
Jarred from its station by the slightest breeze.

And love is a feather placed on your forehead
Lost in the whisper by what a sage might say.

Time is a feather dropped in a caravanserai
Its barbs are ruffled with a charlatans sigh.

Count naught on a feather that lies in plain sight
‘Tis the one hidden in the wing on which you’ll take flight.

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Lost in a Poem

I chose a black parchment

and left my poem in light gray letters.

The words were underwhelming,

but the darkness overtook you.

Years later I re-read cautiously in low light;

you’re somewhere on these pages.

 

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Intersections

Swaying on the train,
Lovers lean and my lips
Curl and part vicariously
That I might complete
Their kiss.
I move with them
In their hesitation with their
Tongues’ self-consciousness.
I only imagine
If they were us
Our uncompleted love.
And I watched
And I waited
For mouths to consummate
To meet – but no
My moment’s lost
Lurching forward
to a stop.
I’ve only steel handles
For this flesh
To hold from falling.
The doors slide open
We all disappear again
From another intersection.

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