Palpable Specter of Absence

The palpable specter of absence,
brushes the lips ere the press of a kiss,
softening on the edge of a sigh’s sweet perception
and there upon this precipice
we cast our wishes
in all cardinal directions.

Every sad memory
holds a glowing lantern to Your face
and I fade into this visage
leaving not a trace,
nor the slightest pain
whilst Love falls as threads of light
in the gentlest of rain
gathered up in thirsty jars
open skyward
watching stars.

Not You again
but me again
who drifts from my own presence
on the sweet attar of Your absence’ essence.
tis You again
not me again
I am a ghost in my home,
a pleasant haunting
after You have gone.

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Aesthetic Nihilism


Beauty is rebellious… An essence within the march of surly youthful endeavors to always buck the establishment. Beauty usurps beauty in a multispectral uprising against the status quo. It seeks the foreground of awareness, and the ever-expanding symmetry behind which banality and inattention frets.

Beauty is the catalyst of carefully culled confusion – the “aha moment” of clarity, where a single deep blue river inhales and braids exhaustively into scintillating rivulets. It is the sound of swooping translucent wings, slicing contrails through sunlight above the alpine tree line – dancing curves bent delicately across stark still tundra.

Beauty is the viscous glaze of realization settling over the jagged latticework of our city’s brick and mortar… the orange spark from the knap of the sculptor’s chisel. It is the song of a dove at dawn intermingled with that of an owl at dusk.

Beauty is the intricately folded fingers of my grandfather praying to something he cannot see, that he can hardly believe, and diligently hope.

Beauty longs with endless desperation to be described by an artist who herself has been bested by the glory of her own rebellious desire to endlessly create anew.

To be beautiful is to be an aesthetic nihilist – to replace all that has ever been beautiful with all that is beautiful now in a search for all that is beautiful next.

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My Teacher is Now

I asked her to tea. She said, “my teacher advises me not to.” I told her my teacher said it’s okay. She asked me who is my teacher, I said, “the tea is my teacher.”

I asked to kiss her. She said her teachers do not approve. I said that my teacher does. She asked me who my teacher is, I said that “the kiss is my teacher.” She asked, “why not the tea?” I replied, “but what does tea know about a kiss?”

I asked her if she would go with me now for a walk. She said, “so your teacher is now the walk?” I said no, “my teacher is now.”

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Leaves and Limbs

“I free you,” said the bare limbs
to the falling leaves.
Below, they gathered in a memorial;
A sea
of so many colors,
Perhaps To honor
the loss of their beloved
or perhaps to finally effervesce
in so many hues they never knew
were each awaiting promises.

Looking up in their paisley passion,
“We free you,” cried the leaves,
as they clattered in Autumn’s breeze.
The limbs’ shiver surrendered to utter stillness
and the slide of leaves turned and shredded
and star petal vibrant colors began
to bleed,
to brown at their ragged edges.

Sympathy for the beauty
that hangs on by a frail stem.
Sympathy for the limb who
could do nothing as its verdant creations
withered in a cold submission
A cold,
it could not control.

What returns to you in Spring
are not soldiers and replacements.
What returns in spring
are not wishful memories.

I’m not here for you to die upon.
We’ve come not to die in seasons,
but to fall from this life
in endless cycles
beyond which time and place
lose touch with reason.

“I’ve one love,” said the limb
To hold death and life
In the buds and knots
That lie within.
All lies within.

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Happy Now Years… The History of Now.

O’, such romance, this fickle affair with time.

But imagine if every day were New Years Eve; were we to dutifully absorb a moment of wistful reflection at morning awoken or before closing our eyes at night. Think about it. If we thought back over the past 24 hours and counted the memories of special importance, reconciled bitter regrets, and then toasted cheerfully to the next 24 hours.

Or to recount that kiss at the door; and that delicious free cup of coffee the barista gave you, and when that man opened a door for you this afternoon because your arms were full of groceries. Remember that argument you had with your son as he left for school or the unexpected bill you received in the mail. Or the intersection this morning when that guy with the “homeless, cold, and hungry” sign sadly looked away — while you locked your car doors as he walked by.

Reflect and hope to never forget or take for granted these snippets of the recollected day. Apportion the relevance of your losses and squander not the gains. It was a day to look fondly upon new friends that came and went in the instant of a smile and to wish well of passerby’s with remembered frowns but forgotten faces.

Remember the closing of this past day is not to honor the loss of celebrities or shake a white-knuckled fist at the notoriety of national politicians, or fear river floods and forest fires, and writhe in humanity’s ignorance of shelled villages and refugees and Nobel prizes and downed jetliners. The world of the hour has not happened to you, rather you happened to it. Send the day off with a gift of your own – never see it off empty handed, while yours are full.

Why do we recall, love and loathe so distantly? Consider the nearby little feats and failures in the life of the spectator that become prey to the grand affairs of the illusion of measured time. We quickly turn past pages of truth to fancy ourselves in the foreground of this artificial accounting of merely tabloid worthy and otherwise untenable acts and scenes in someone else’s play.

Honor the nourishment of the long year in sipped spoonful’s of precious seconds. Make note of what is within the reach of your hands and lips. Turn your eyes to whomever nearby can hear your sighs. Tune your senses to the utterances of close company that caresses your ears.

The brilliance of the sun and its blushing moon do not know time. Let them be timelessly beautiful. Why amass the individuality of four seasons into one? Why blend the distinction of morning and night? Let each hour’s basket of immeasurable moments be your one celestial sized revolution. Be the historian of NOW.

Each slice of movement no matter how still is worthy of celebration. Happy “chronoversary.” Happy Timelessness.

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Precisely Enough

When I do not have You
I endure,
Yet, I’d break were You only mine
Without You
I depart
When I’m with You, I arrive.

If I am kissing You,
I cannot hear Your words.
When we are done kissing,
Your voice echoes throughout me.
The empty hand rises,
the full hand falls.

We fashion the other into a ghost
Yet You are tactile to my touch,
All around me fades away in Your presence
The world is the ghost
and we haunt its translucence.

I am always struggling
I am always succumbing
So, are we worthy of all this loving?
I endure, I break – yes
I’m here, I’m gone – yes
It is too much,
It is too little
and this is precisely enough.

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Long Sweet Solitude

O’ long sweet solitude
beside You
and if not with You,
then surrounding the thought of,
If not the thought,
then within the vast lingering emptiness
that only Your limitless essence could leave.
I melt and pour myself into Your mold
I harden to become Your cast.
It seems, whether I am or am not,
I am either You, or becoming You.

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Shebi-Arus: Rumi’s Wedding Night (Khamosh)

The Dervish [original] by Artist Nasser Ovissi.

Khamush (Silence)
(Jelal-a-din Rumi)

“Carry your baggage toward silence:
when you seek the signs of the Way,
don’t make yourself the focus of attention.
The Prophet said, “Know that amid the sea of cares
my Companions are like guiding stars.”
Fix your eye on the stars and seek the Way;
speech confuses the sight: be silent.”

“Rumi: Jewels of Remembrance”
Camille and Kabir Helminski, 1996

 

December 17th is Shebi-Arus, the celebrated “wedding night” of the adored 13th century mystic poet and teacher, Jalal-a-din Rumi. This was the night of his passing and his reunion with the Beloved. On that day, there was much lament for the loss of a man and yet there was rejoicing in the elevation of his soul.

Many are surprised to find out that Rumi is among the most widely read poets in America. Yet, despite his poetic couplets and ghazals being so prolific, many do not realize it is his that they are reading. It is amusing to think that many believe his passages are by writers for Hallmark. Most of his poems originally written in pristine Persian, have been translated to English over many decades and centuries.[oftentimes poorly or with incorrect citation of authorship]. It is never authentic to break apart poems into greeting cards; but who is really speaking Rumi’s words anyway? If this is how the fragrance of the message is passed, so be it.

Kabir Helminski is an esteemed Sufi scholar, beloved devotee, and renown Shaikh of the Mevlevi Order of Sufi. The Mevlevi order was founded around 1273 by Rumi’s followers after his death, particularly by his successor Hüsamettin Çelebi and Rumi’s son, Baha al-Din Muhammad-i Walad. Anointed as Shaikh, Kabir is a widely read and listened to translator of Rumi and cofounder and codirector of the Threshold Society, dedicated to Sufism. He is one the world’s most influential Muslim spiritual leaders. His translations of Rumi are indeed beautiful and faithful.

Kabir explains that Rumi’s original name was Muhammad and that he was given the title Jalal (glory, splendour) al-Din (of the religion) meaning the great [one] of religion. Later he was also named Molana meaning lord or master. The name “Rumi” refers to his place of origin, in this case, from Rum (or Rome). Ottomans named the Eastern Roman Empire as Rum and since Rumi lived most of his life and is enshrined in Konya, Turkey, his name endures. Actually, Rumi was born in Balkh (now Afghanistan) so he is also called Balkhi.

Kabir tells us that Khamush, the Silent, is a sobriquet that Rumi (also referred to as Mevlana or Maulana) often used in his poems. More than a thousand of his poems end with reference to his beloved teacher and friend, Shams-i Tabrizi, and about five hundred odes end with khamush. The word “khamush” has many meanings when spoken in Farsi, Urdu, and Hindi; but in all applications, it means silent, mute, and quiet. Rumi makes reference to silence because only silent contemplation can lead one to the Way of Sufis, to self knowledge, and ultimately the knowledge (reunion) amidst God.

The true translations of Rumi’s poetry, while fragile and sometimes contested between native Persian speakers and others, are faithfully accomplished less by scholars than by impassioned lovers of esoteric divine expression. The original light of Divine Love is expressed from pre-eternity across centuries and diverse cultures through a succession of metaphoric glass panes of many a lamp; each pane being that of a prophet or teacher’s clarity. Often we do not even see the glass, so pure is the teacher. What we behold instead is simply the source of light itself – the timeless intention of Love.

The veils that intercede with the light of loving consciousness are raised by the limited mind, but lowered by the purified heart. One does not polish panes of glass (of understanding) with broadcast words, but rather with devotional silence; khamush. This silence is a still and untainted awareness, not muddled by words and rationalizations. To feel the Love of Rumi, say nothing with your mouth and listen without ears.  Let the senses slip back to the sea of deep consciousness.

Rumi wrote,

“There’s a moon inside every human being.
Learn to be companions with it. Give

more of your life to this listening. As
brightness is to time, so you are to

the one who talks to the deep ear in
your chest. I should sell my tongue

and buy a thousand ears when that
one steps near and begins to speak.”

We are not all attuned to perceiving the mystical properties of Divine Love. And even those that are, long to behold the dream vision of God and of the prophets. Rumi conveys to us the relieving words of the Prophet Mohammed, “… Happy [is] he that has seen me and [happy is] he that looks at him that saw my face.”

Extending this further as a metaphor, I would say that few, if any, can stare at the sun without being blinded. We can, however, gaze without harm at its light reflecting in the face of the moon. The moon, who directly and forever faces the sun (the Beloved), is the beautiful glowing lover. Rumi reflects (transmits) Shams this way. If we stay in the presence of lovers, we can feel the Sun.

Rumi says,

“When a [glass] lamp has derived [its] light from a candle [within], every one that sees it [the lamp] certainly sees the candle. If transmission [of the light] occurs in this way till a hundred lamps [are lighted], the seeing of the last [lamp] becomes a meeting with the original [light]. Either take with [all] thy soul from the hindmost [last in succession] light— there is no difference— or from the candelabrum [lamp].”

Rumi is the flame of Shams. He held a love so pure – as to be self dissolving – that they are unified in the highest state of love. This story of the embodiment and dissolution in pure love is told in other epic romances; Majnun became one and the same with Layla; we see the same Romeo with Juliet, Viz and Shamin, Heer and Ranjha.

Rumi continues,

“Either behold the light [of God] from the lamp of the last [saints], or behold His light from the candle of those who have gone before.”

It is said, “my teacher’s teacher is my teacher.” And so human love can rise to archetype of the true “True” Love.

The translations of Rumi have taken a Persian voice into an English one, but this is merely the succession of lamps; teachers and clerics, poets and empaths, those who bear the torch of mystic lineage. Irrespective of the transmission’s link in the chain, the source is the same. Love cannot be conveyed, shaped, or obscured by language – it stirs the heart and confuses the mind.

May God bless us in the direction of our attentions to the Truly existent; those messages from Mevlana which cannot be heard or seen, but passes through all mediums. Rumi’s poetry fills silence with deeper silence…only in this state do we directly hear the Beloved.

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Mysterious Depths

There are page-empty days
that I do not wish to draw you,
in charcoal or yellow
or write of you,
or kiss you, or make love to you;
or to sing beside you about lost treasure,
or to hear you, or to speak English to you…
these are days when I do not know myself.

I only slip on loose-laced shoes,
throw my cloak over my shoulders,
grab my grandfather’s walking stick,
and wander down into the mysterious depths
of loving you.

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Waiting for the Spider to Return

Planet earth is a garden forest skyline.
I stick my face in its bosom often.
It is a sea of foaming white caps, and a
buzzing hive of fuzzy bodied bees;
a pile of empty paint cans and
half buried abandoned car tires.
It is the tipping sleeping tea tree,
filled with the susurrus of singing birds.

Below the silver mist
is a percussion of clicking heals
and pavement-scuffers.
Etching paths on a celestial-sized magnetic sphere
to which the metal of all mankind sticks.
The earth is the sweet creamy filling
between chocolate wafers.

The mantle surface is teaming
with a tangle of connective nerve fibers
that defibrillates the heart.
Everything is conjoined through the senses,
so that life seems to be just a country road
between dusty towns.

Electric hissing dendrites
attach the hollows of my chest
to every single vibrating thing –
I am nothing but a gossamer thread
scintillating in sunlight.
The earth ensnared in me,
we are waiting for the spider to return.

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