The Music We Are
Did you hear that winter is over?
The basil and carnation cannot control their laughter.
The nightingale, back from his wandering,
has been made singing master over all the birds.
The trees reach out their congratulations.
The soul goes dancing through the king’s doorway.
Anemones blush because they have seen the rose naked.
Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the courtroom,
and several December thieves steal away.
Last year’s miracles will soon be forgotten.
New creatures whirl in from nonexistence,
galaxies scattered around their feet.
Have you met them?
Do you hear the bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle?
A single narcissus flower has been appointed
Inspector of Kingdoms. A feast is set.
Listen. The wind is pouring wine.
Love used to hide inside images. No more.
The orchard hangs out its lanterns.
The dead come stumbling by in shrouds.
Nothing can stay bound or be imprisoned.
You say, End this poem here, and wait for what is next.
I will. Poems are rough notations for the music we are.
Basically asks the question, why is something considered a mystical spiritual experience in some places…. and a psychotic episode in America / the Western world ? (and how do we change that?)
Very very interesting. Apparently there was a revolution to look at psychiatry through a more spiritual lens at one time, but I gotta tell you when I was in the hospital that was CERTAINLY not the case.
Also the book delves into the topic of psychedelic drugs as well.
Always find myself thinking of Rumi, when it comes to madness as a religious experience. Here is one for you.
Shreds of Steam
Light again, and the one who brings light.
Change the way you live.
From the ocean-vat, wine-fire in each cup.
Two or three of the long-dead wake up.
Two or three drunks become lion hunters.
Sunlight washes a dark face.
The flower of what is true opens in the face.
Meadow grass and garden ground grow damp again.
A strong light like fingers massages our heads.
No dividing these fingers from those.
Draw back the lockbolt.
One level flows into another.
Heat seeps into everything.
The passionate pots boil.
Clothing tears inot the air.
Poets fume shreds of steam,
never so happy as out in the light.
Words, even if they come from the soul, hide the soul,
as fog rising off the sea covers the sea,
the coast, the fish, the pearls.
It is noble work to build coherent philosophical discourses,
but they do block out the sun of truth.
See God’s qualities as an ocean.
This world is foam on the purity of that.
Brush it away and look through the alphabet to essence,
as you do the hair covering your beloved’s eyes.
Here is the mystery:
This intricate, astonishing world is proof
of God’s presence even as it covers the beauty.
One flake from the wall of a gold mine
does not give much idea what it is like
when the sun shines down inside
and turns the air and the workers golden.
–Word Fog, Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
what is this? what what what.
so beautiful. Rumi is always beautiful. always contemplating changing my religion to rejoicing Sufism.
A spirit that lives in this world
and does not wear the shirt of love,
such an existence is a deep disgrace.
Be foolishly in love,
because love is all there is.
There is no way into presence
except through a love exchange.
If someone asks, But what is love?
answer, Dissolving the will.
True freedom comes to those
who have escaped the questions
of freewill and fate.
Love is an emperor.
The two worlds play across him.
He barely notices their tumbling game.
Love and lover live in eternity.
Other desires are substitutes
for that way of being.
How long do you lay embracing a corpse?
Love rather the soul, which cannot be held.
Anything born in spring dies in the fall,
but love is not seasonal.
With wine pressed from grapes,
expect a hangover.
But this love path has no expectations.
You are uneasy riding the body?
Dismount. Travel lighter.
Wings will be given.
Be clear like a mirror
Be clean of pictures and the worry
that comes with images.
Gaze into what is not ashamed
or afraid of any truth.
Contain all human faces in your own
without any judgment of them.
Be pure emptiness.
What is inside that? you ask.
Silence is all I can say.
Lovers have some secrets
That they keep.
hey please don’t fall for me, just don’t.
time traveler. The past is looking more and more surreal every day.
you ever find yourself crying on an examination table to a doctor who insists you’re only sad because it’s winter?
you ever find yourself unable to even disagree because your confidence level is zero and you have de-evolved to something almost unrecognizable to anyone who knew you before?
Submit to love without thinking,
as the sun this morning rose recklessly
extinguishing our star-candle minds.
“The day that I am crazy for your love,
I’ll be such a madman that even demons can not compare.
What a blink of your eyelashes does to my heart,
Even the stroke of the pen of the master of the Divan can not compare.”