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.

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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.

Lost in the Wild

Away from the world,
I long to live in a little cabin
lost in the wild,
there to listen
to the heartbeat of the world,
to wait for the sunset and the dawn,
to be found by the forest,
to read and to write
not as a hermit,
but as a man who has come
to the essence of things.

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

Haiku # 710

Winter moon…
his silence mocking
the busyness of our days

قمرُ الشِتاء
بِصَمتِهِ الساخِر يمرّ
فوقَ تفاهة أيامٍنا

~

After a busy day
a moment to stop
and look at the moon

~

Winter evening…
flashing through the mist
the years gone by

~

Poetry…
exchanging words
for a moment with God

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.

Haiku # 709

Brume d’automne…
sur la page blanche tombent
les feuilles de l’oubli

~

Passing by my old school
the boy I once was
smiling at me

ماراً بمدرستي القديمة
الصبيُ الذي كنتُهُ يوماً
مبتسماً لي

Wandering Thought # 121

Although the poet is no free man, always under the compulsion to wait for his muse and court her in the most intimate ways, the poem, her kiss, must be freely given, cannot be coerced or tricked, and must be received with the utmost gratitude and grace.

Tanka # 214

كالنجمة الوحيدة
بقي الشعر في داخلي
،كل هذه السنين
أتبعه لأمضي
.على دربي الوحيد

This poetry within me
a lone star shining
through the passing years;
following its light I go
on my solitary path.

Haiku # 708

At work all day
birds of poetry
keep visiting my cell

في العمل طوال النهار
وحدها طيور الشعر
تزور زنزانتي

~

Autumn evening…
my heart a candle lit
by the longing of the years

~

Her silent face
a window open
on the vastness of space