The other day, I met an aritst in a tavern who gave me a scrap of paper with the url of her work, but I don't know that I would do the same. Max Eastman, an American writer said, "A poet in history is divine, but a poet in the next room is a joke." This sentiment was only recently expressed in respect of me in fact.
From the window,
We only see the winds of evening
For the moving of the trees,
And shadows draw all the light
Right now, I am still of the opinion that the finest poem I have written was just last week. Maybe it's just my favourite, for who is to judge? When I finished that poem I felt such rare joy and the next morning at work I could not remember the names of long-time colleagues. This state lasted half a day. It was akin to that mad divine drunkeness that Rumi and Hafiz rave about. Sadly, I could not bear it long and I know everyone else thought I was just plain drunk. At its best, my poetry is a ladder to God. At its worst, you decide.
This happiness you give,
It mingles with the dust,
We have dropt it it so carelessly
There is gold in all the streets
You have walked;
And your streams of sorrow glitter
In this certain light
And be glad.
Well, there are two poems from this evening by way of introduction to one poem. I am not even sure if this is one poem below, except it was all composed this morning. I was worried it was a strange poem, but it is just a little weary.
Who can understand?
Not I, the eyeless-eye.
Songs of God escaped
…from your lips
The songs of God
……from your lips
My tears are gentle now
The infinite sadness calm
I have laid down my pen
And asked the Author
To take up the course of my life.
Prayers are flying
On wings so many colours
In a gigantic whirl.
Always this dream returns,
Ever and ever and ever:
The reins of the horse fall from my hands
And I cling for dear life to his neck,
He rises on two legs
To snort and prance in desperate rage,
Until exhausted, only trackless fields
Greet us once more
Always, ever and again.
Lovers, in love, TRULY –
These pages are blank for you,
My ink has no spells,
Nothing to entice,
There are no rules for you –
Throw the book away.
You can not be defeated by my many
Talking, smiling, laughing disguises.
But in my tears, conjoined, revealing
Dreams within dreams, we really fight.
All day and night, without end,
Only seeming pause, pretend respite.