Friday, February 25, 2005


There is a part of me that cannot find expression in the language that we speak. There's a way I feel, the heart of me, that cannot find its voice in the smallness of the words we know. But there is a part of the longing, the loving, the compassion, the understanding, the feeling that can be found in poetry and I find myself in the lines and stanzas on the page. Poetry has become the bed on which I lie. It is the song I sing by day. Poetry speaks for me the fullness of my joy, the depth of my despair. Poesy tells of love so big I cannot contain it all and then it tells of love unwanted, unreturned. Poetry paints the picture of the inside of my life and I become the poem. I am the poetry.

When I read Rumi the first time I thought the poetry was nice. When I read Rumi the second time I thought the poetry was great. In my third time reading Rumi, I completely fell in...


A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot where it’s being boiled.
“Why are you doing this to me?”

The cook knocks him down with the ladle.
“Don’t you try to jump out. You think I’m torturing you. I’m giving you flavor, so you can mix with spices and rice and be the lovely vitality of a human being.

Remember when you drank rain in the garden. That was for this.”

Grace first. Sexual pleasure, then a boiling new life begins, and the Friend has something good to eat.

Eventually the chickpea will say to the cook, “Boil me some more. Hit me with the skimming spoon. I can’t do this by myself.

I’m like an elephant that dreams of gardens back in Hindustan and doesn’t pay attention to his driver.

You’re my cook, my driver, my way into existence. I love your cooking.”

The cook says, “ I was once like you, fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings. My animal soul grew powerful. I controlled it with practices.
and boiled some more, and boiled once beyond that, and became your teacher.”

~ ~ ~

With this one I fell in love with each line.

The longing is the gift...the desire is the answer...

Last night a man was crying,
Allah! Allah!
His lips grew sweet with the praising.
Until a cynic said,
So! I've heard you calling out,
but have you evergotten any response?
The man had no answer to that.
He quit praying, and fell into a confused sleep.
He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,
In a thick green foliage.
Why did you stop praising?
Because I never heard anything back.
This longing you express is the return message.
The grief you cry out from
Draws you to union.
Your pure sadness
That wants to help
Is the secret cup.
Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs
No one knows the names of.
Give your life to be
One of them.

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