Free Verse # 458 (watching her sleep)

This warmth between us
the knitted verse of poetry

~

Life happens while you wait
for a lover to ease the knot of fate

~

What am I? — Just a shadow passing in the rain.

~

If someone asked me
what proof have I got
that I really lived,
I’d only have my poetry.

~

Wounded by this longing,
I write poetry.

~

Water washes the skin but rain cleanses the soul.

~

Barefoot
she walks in my dreams
spilling moonlight
from her dark hair,
her breath
a candle whispering
the softest intimacy.

~

Watching her sleep,
to the candle’s light
he weaves his breath
and covers her gently.

Wandering Thought # 123

Writing, when true and honest, is a path that leads us deeper and deeper into the forest of silence. In the end we become listening itself, vibration, tune, melody, the inner sound of the world and all its objects; we become, if it is possible, pure openness. We also become extremely solitary, as the distance around us grows and grows. It cannot be said that we lost ourselves, but that we traded one path for another. Of course, this choice cannot be recognized by the majority who are only familiar with noise and oblivious of their own soul.

Another Way of Being

As though life
is a fog,
a fading dream,
vanishing as we reach
to touch it,
images shivering in the water,
flowing away, already gone
when barely seen.

We live in the afterglow
of things that were,
eclipsed before being
fully embodied,
things filled with decay
even as they flourished,
things that are always leaving
only to lead us on and on
to a nowhere that exists
only in our hearts.

The heaviest love
is weightless and impotent.
The strongest attachments
are thin as the wind.

In this vast, endless
openness,
I pray, teach me
surrender,
let me become love. The only journey is the one within,
all else is illusory.

The Poem as a Place of Insight

I sleep but the poem’s words
hold their vigil,
a swarm of falcons
turning and turning in the sky within
so much that I feel a little dizzy
as I wake at morn,
their fresh taste wet on my lips,
like mist in the rising sun
quickly fading before
I could capture them,
leaving me with their flame
burning in my bones
and keeping me alive all day
with an ache for the unfathomable,
whispering strange things to my ear
that each day drive me a little closer
to the edge of madness
where I can finally begin to see
the world just as it is.

Wandering Thought # 122

“All conditioning aims at that: making people like their unescapable social destiny.”

Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

I believe that the only way is to play the game while acknowledging it for what it is, that way one can maintain a certain level of freedom and independence, even if only in spirit and not always in external engagements. We do not have to act and think exactly as the world expects of us, but neither will the world turn into what we wish and desire. There is a middle path to be followed, though most, out of spiritual lethargy and need of comfort, will remain oblivious to this, and will take their social conditioning for the ultimate reality.

Haiku # 711

Cruising into old age,
reading books
and writing poetry.

~

With one foot in the grave
she sits smiling at me…
my mother

~

هذا المطر
في عتمةِ الليل عاشِقَين
يُقَبِلان بَعضَهُما

~

This rain…
in the dark night two lovers
passionately kissing

~

كقمرٍ في الماء
ترتَجِف
وأنا أُقَبِلُها

The Poet & God

Poetry…
exchanging words
for a moment with God;
but, by then, words
are no longer words
but something else,
words emptied of themselves
and filled with silence,
words as vessels for the spirit,
words as boats
that carry one over
on wings of spirit
to that other realm,
which is in this realm,
inside.

But the poet is not a priest,
no, he is a messenger,
and for that he pays
the utmost price;
he feels himself torn
as he approaches the moment,
present and open to the utmost,
ready, burning for revelation,
aching to become nothing else
than his face seen in the face of God;
his face, as such, is a mirror
in which the inner light
of the world reflects,
and which tears him constantly
in an eternal act of becoming;
he is the river
that knows no beginning or end,
and he ends as he begins,
in God.

What the priest knows from the outside
the poet lives,
his confirmation is his life;
the poet as a mirror
for the invisible
for which he gladly pays
with his life.

Wandering Thought # 120

When was the last time you felt your body as Eros incarnate, as though the fires of creation itself were leaping out of it and could not be contained? When did you last feel your existence entire as a divine fragment, filled with longing for something infinite, overflowing with an incomprehensible madness and an exquisite harmony? When was it you last felt all the stars in the universe pulsing in your single beat of heart, pulsing and pulsing with an irremediable fire that wants to create over and over the entire universe in the image of your love? A thousand lightning churning together through your body, yet deeply imbued with the stillness of dawn?—Ah listen, just wait and listen, the whole of life is within you, it was for you that the universe was created, it was to embrace you that love was born. It is time to open you heart and feel, and let go of the constraints of your mind. Feel, even if it tears you apart; feel this boundless joy that has been your fate since the beginning of time.

Love Desired

The passing years
knitted our lives
closer and closer
until we became
woven together
into a single fabric,
our beings emitting
a deeply harmonious music
as they merged over and over
with ever increasing intensity,
enlarging our love,
this world between us,
this infinitely warm nest,
to fill the whole sky,
mirroring each other
ever so truthfully,
ever so nakedly,
in the still water of our silence,
our shared and beating heart.

Free Verse # 457 (touch is sacred)

She sent me poems
of unrequited love,
I smiled at the irony –
I loved her
and she didn’t love me back.

~

تبلغ العلاقة حميميتها العميقة عندما يتراقص الجسدان على إيقاع الشعر، عندما يصبح الشعر المدى والعمق الذي يغلفهما، الذي فيه يتحركان، يتناغمان ويمتزجان.

~

وجهها، فيه ما يكفي لشاعر ان يكتب كل ايام حياته، دون أن ينتهي.

وجهك كتاب صلاة كلما غصت به وجدت نفسي أحترق كالبخور في حضرة الله.

~

Je t’aime, il lui ai dit,
chaque jour au lever du matin,
chaque jour au coucher du soleil.

أحبكِ، قالها لها،
كل يوم عند طلوع الضوء،
كل يوم عند مغيب الشمس.

~

What time does to a heart no one can tell.

~

Every year a new discovery, and a little less knowledge of the human heart.

~

To consume and be consumed;
to die of fire and become light.

~

Only he who speaks the language of your soul can understand your eyes.

~

Two bodies united
by a single rhythm
of the beating heart

~

Beauty fades, but love remains.

~

Touch is sacred
so I write poetry

~

Her name is full
of sky and wind;
to utter it is to fill
with endless distances.

~

You live in me as a secret I confess only in poetry.

~

What her veil of beauty hides he goes on after,
Shroud after shroud seeking the mystical center.

~

In the eye of time mountains are no more than splashing waves.