All poems I pluck,
Ripe fruits of my toil, waiting
For your lips and bite.
Haiku # 22
All poems I pluck,
All poems I pluck,
Ripe fruits of my toil, waiting
For your lips and bite.
Waters of my heart
Flow and merge, one great river
Bursting in your womb.
My poems like autumn leaves
Sail in her dark eyes;
Washed ashore they fall,
Tears on her cheeks,
Dewdrops on the breasts of night.
A foretaste of musk and fire’s hot dew
Against my dry lips brushing as she blew
A red ripple of autumn curls in flight,
A wet breath sighing through the heart of night.
O savage lips and unbridled passion!
I offer my body, pray and summon
Your river of flame to surge over me,
Kiss and drink – consume, burning poetry!
It is only the excess of desire in a man’s heart for his woman that keeps him from giving her all that he can give now — thus, day after day, his desire grows, and, being rich enough, tomorrow he gives her what he today withholds, and so the day after it with regards to the day before, and so unto the beautiful garden of old age.
كربيع يزهر في فمي،
كزهر وردي يتفتح
بين شفتاي لينساب
كالنبيذ، دافىء قرمزي،
كأفعى جلدها أحمر
أتلقفك في فمي
كما البحر يتلقف الشمس
وسويا نلتحف بليل
نكون فيه القمر والنجوم
وكل همس وعشق
وكل حبيبين يتضاجعان
في بحر من الشغف والعشق والجنون.
Sifting the moonlight,
Dapples of leaf and flower
Kissing her bare skin.
Soaked into my lips,
Your kisses awoke and dawn
Blooming like flowers.
In life and love she tosses her white pearls
Out onto the shore where a huntsman whirls
And dances overjoyed, the precious find!
To be dazed as he tries to take and bind.
A wave rushes in stealing heart’s desire
Back to her ocean where all waves conspire
Frothing as they weave endless masks and veils
To lure the dancer in, birth wondrous tales.
Filled with a sudden passion and hot flame
The huntsman jumps in without thought, one aim
Moving up ahead on currents unseen,
Shining ever beautiful, ah, what sheen!
And soon, and soon, the whole world becomes past,
Fading memories in this ocean vast
Where wine churns wine at the heart of a dance
Spinning forever where no eye can glance.
Sweet kisses exchanged and hearts flung open
Pour a boundless love, a music drunken
Yet sober and clear, flowing with soft ease,
Laden with sighs that the whole world appease.
Her wings, lush and strong
Come over me as her lips,
Entering my heart,
Kiss and feed, through my petals
Spreading a tender fire.
Sliding through the curves on each other’s backs
Our fingers chase the warm stories like tracks
Of autumn leaves leading down to the deep
Where letters like wine through our fingers creep
To enter the streams of murmuring blood
Wet sighs of voices and visions that flood
Every breath and beat of heart to cry
Through our skin a fire, gentle and sly
Slowly rising, acquiring warmth and heat
Spreading an ecstasy in zeal replete
And flushing our cheeks, pure tears in our eyes,
In this love, bound, this sweetest of all sighs.
Like the flower at dawn is bathed in light
My arms shall cradle you, loving and tight,
My ribs I will string for your earth and sky
Where your dreams shall travel and your hopes fly,
With my hot tears I’ll water your white cheeks
Untangle your hair, snows melting in creeks,
Your wildness I’ll stir, waters in your womb
Frothing as they churn and in your eyes bloom,
Your salt and nectar in my cup I’ll reap
Fermenting wine and honey, saps of deep
Perfumes and colours burning with your seeds,
Ink for my verse, over your body bleeds.
Over my face,
Sleep washes in white waves
Of infinite softness,
A beloved’s fingers caressing
Ever so gently
While her voice,
A full moon above the shore,
Slides to sink between my ribs,
A white womb deep within
Birthing sweet dreams
Of love and ecstasy.
By truth we understand a right to give something back — whether it be an action, or a feeling, or a way of life. Thus, depriving us of our truth is akin to depriving us of breath and life.
On this bright morn into your face I gaze,
Ah! Changed you are my soul, free of dim haze.
Winds so heavy and laden with longing
Finally broke out of your chest thronging
And from this high cliff unto the far sea
In endless gray flocks scattered as the glee
Of your future and call from your veins glowed
Shining the light that bespeaks your abode.
Ah! How changed is your world, your hopes now speak
With a triumphant air, not mild or meek,
Your muscles I feel flexing as your limbs
Tighten and squeeze at your desires and whims.
Below and ahead the sea and the sky,
Ah! On this breath of wind, a forceful cry
Binds your heart to climb, for the time is right
To rise to your heights, a new flame ignite.
Ever since I started writing I felt a battle raging within me between the philosopher and the poet. That, as it turned out, had its own good resources and meanings which would only reveal themselves on the pathway of my becoming.
In my mind and experience, one of the functions I assigned to poetry was that of mysticism. I had always felt a deep need within me to link up both the poetic and the mystical experiences. Now, in retrospect, I realize that what fueled this impulse was a deep seated depression and tiredness gnawing in the darkness at the root of my soul. My will was sick, uneasy with itself and with the world and the easiest way to cure it was simply by surrendering it to some force outside itself thus remedying the problem at the root and without ever actually doing anything. On the experiential realm this meant thriving off the discharge — the poetic, the mystic — as often as possible and extending it, if could be, into eternity itself, into an all encompassing stillness. Ah, the mischievousness and deception of the will! The mischievousness of life!
Of course, there was a catch. The pesky philosopher within wouldn’t let me have my way. With his unwavering honesty and seriousness he kept uncovering and unmasking what I toiled and toiled to keep hidden even from myself. I wanted to drown, and reason was the only thing keeping my head above the waves. Reason had to be willed to provide an ultimate transcendence into an eternal where all searching, all seeking, all growing, all thinking, all changing could be stilled and be ridden of once and for all! The world could finally be made perfect and I could just rot in my place. To he who has not experienced the bewitching force of this feeling no words can relate it.
But all the time the philosopher, in his deep wisdom, was aware of what it is that was going on in my soul, and he understood quite well that this had to be experienced, that this road has to be walked all the way to its end so that I could clean its dust off my feet once and for all. And so it happened, a couple of weeks ago it happened. I suddenly woke up like someone who had been in a coma. Utterly bewildered and perplexed I began asking myself and trying to remember just where exactly I had been and what had happened. This was, up to now, my life’s strangest experiences.
I almost remember the exact moment of epiphany. I had read BGE’s preface and first couple aphorisms before going to sleep, thinking. Thinking about how strange the place is in which I’m now living. Here I was dwelling in the Truth when all my life’s seeking and understanding was built brick by brick upon thinking, perspectives, change, decay, growth, etc. And yet although I grasped this, although I knew it, I didn’t really know it. My soul was so numb that I couldn’t really feel and experience what my mind was telling me. Here were remnants of experiences and feelings and memories fighting a losing battle against an all encompassing, eternal present and nothingness and death. And yet, the next day as I walked to my car it happened. I felt the wind breezing all around me, rustling through the trees and whispering strange voices. With the wind I felt things moving around me, a great many things, an infinity of things moving. And suddenly I felt myself moving again in the midst of all these things! Behold, the world came to life again and bloomed in full colour and all of this in the split of a second. The feeling that came over me, remembering it now I cry; it flowed over me with such power, a power I had never in my life experienced or thought possible, it utterly transfigured me and in one stroke cut all decaying roots, broke all withered branches, and made me bloom again. All in one stroke!
Now I realize, it had been waiting to happen for a long time, and what then seemed a single stroke was a lifetime of dedication, thinking, experiencing, and growing. What happened was continuous with a deeper subterranean dynamic. Behold, the child became a man. And this, for me, in what it imparted to me, is the kernel of spirituality and manhood. For here I stood in the midst of the world, not against or outside it anymore.
The philosopher vanquished, and perhaps only now I can begin to write some poetry. And philosophy! How I missed philosophy!
Towards a new economy of being.
Vertigo of passion,
All around wings of fire,
Whirling, with each stroke burning,
Melting through my flesh.
Coursing the curves of each other’s backs
Our cold fingers read the warm stories rising from the depths,
Letters like wine through our fingers rushing
To enter the stream of our blood,
Wet sighs of voices and images and dreams
Reach way down, way deep
To the heart of our heart and fill us
With the silent ecstasy
That binds us in knowing
And flushes our cheeks red.
As the butterflies
From flower to flower fly,
Heartbeats in her eyes.