01 April 2011

Fool's Day

I take refuge in the Great Silence.

Yesterday morning, which seems a long time ago, in a galaxy, far, far away, while I was waiting for coffee, I read the following, "...although it is a fact He cannot be found by seeking, only those who seek can find Him." This was in a novel about Shams and Rumi. I am reading it so slow slowly, probably the slowest I have read anything in my life. (I will tell you later if it is good.) Anyway, these words are like a warm jacket on a cold night to me.

Later, I write a little poem:

The melody of a wounded heart
Is like the rain that never starts
Can I build my love in the
Comfort of another?

I am not overly impressed with my writing ability. It seems like I am collecting lines for seven songs at once and I only have three melodies.

Then at lunch I read from Passage to India by Walt Whitman:

Swiftly I shrivel at the thought of God,
At Nature and its wonders, Time and Space and Death,
But that I, turning, call to thee, O soul, thou actual Me,
And lo! thou gently masterest the orbs, 210
Thou matest Time, smilest content at Death,
And fillest, swellest full, the vastnesses of Space.


Greater than stars or suns,
Bounding, O soul, thou journeyest forth;
—What love, than thine and ours could wider amplify? 215
What aspirations, wishes, outvie thine and ours, O soul?
What dreams of the ideal? what plans of purity, perfection, strength?
What cheerful willingness, for others’ sake, to give up all?
For others’ sake to suffer all?


Reckoning ahead, O soul, when thou, the time achiev’d,
220
(The seas all cross’d, weather’d the capes, the voyage done,)
Surrounded, copest, frontest God, yieldest, the aim attain’d,
As, fill’d with friendship, love complete, the Elder Brother found,
The Younger melts in fondness in his arms.




Late alone, "Did I do that?", finding someone has written my name on arrows of cynicism and cowardice, trying to understand what I want, I open Hafiz at random and find:

Surely
There is something wrong
With your ideas of
God.

O, surely there is something wrong
With your ideas of
God

If you think
Our Beloved would not be so
Tender.

Is there my problem? I go backwards to the start and read.

You Were Brave in that Holy War

You have done well
In the contest of madness.

You were brave in that holy war.

You have all the honorable wounds
Of one who has tried to find love
Where the Beautiful Bird
Does not drink.

May I speak to you
Like we are close
And locked away together?
Once I found a stray kitten
And I used to soak my fingers
In warm milk;

It came to think I was five mothers
On one hand.

Wayfarer,
Why not rest your tired body?
Lean back and close your eyes.

Come morning
I will kneel by your side and feed you.
I will so gently
Spread open your mouth
And let you taste something of my
Sacred mind and life.

Surely
There is something wrong
With your ideas of
God

O, surely there is something wrong
With your ideas of
God

If you think
Our Beloved would not be so
Tender.


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