As I hold my pen her skin under my fingers stretches into a landscape, each word I write spins a little vortex, a turning Sufi, a small flower, all spreading across her skin, spreading like a fire, dripping into her soul and coursing deep down, filling her with more love than she can understand, with unbearable gentleness opening her wide, opening her to God, opening her to the sky.
One by one I kiss the flowers of her skin, then look into her eyes.
We do not know each other yet the poem has always connected us; in a world of change this poetry ebbing and flowing between our hearts is the only constant, carrying secret messages between our souls.
You and me we’ve always had this conversation, wordless and mystical, formless and flowing with pure essence; without beginning or end we’ve always been wrapped around each other, and this pain that wounds our souls is the evidence of the place where we enter each other.
Now, in silence, I send you this word to travel on the wind and find your lips.
Faith is not a belief in a fixed state or ideal; it is an open ended question that transforms the believer through the grace of love. Faith attains no finalities nor does it attach itself to any absolute security; it is a state of becoming; its altar is the world; its medium is love.
What is an ideology?—it is a thing propelled by an absolute faith in its own prerogatives; in other words, its blind spot forbids it from seeing itself for what it is, and this is essential for it to go on preaching its faith.
Everything begins as I utter your name, yet it is a name that cannot be pronounced as it is not made of letters – it is an inner name, one that dwells inside the prayer, the music, the art, it is an inner vessel, to utter it is to feel an opening in the heart too immense to contain, a sky and a sea blooming inside.
Like wine in a cellar this art of touching her is something that has brewed for a lifetime within me; now and then it comes out as poetry, now and then when it cannot be contained and its flashes flood through my veins and its wave carries me to the wood where we always met in the deepest recesses of my memory.
I remember to come back to the future where we are and I complete the circle as I write to you know this love that is within me.
Contemplation has always had to battle against the values of the market, but in no age did these values reign absolute as they do today. They are upheld religiously — and therefore, invisibly — and have sneaked in to transform every institution and discipline, including that of philosophy, from the ground up. In addition to having made the life of man uninteresting and small, they have also made him increasingly stupid. Soon he will have to relearn his most basic skills — seeing, hearing, reading, thinking. They never allow him a moment’s rest as he is constantly pushed to perform and produce. They are the ultimate tyranny, seen by none, upheld by all.
When you remember, which comes first, the image or the feeling? I venture to say that it is the feeling that calls out the image and frames it, giving it its depth, hue and texture — it sears it, as though in fog. Many feelings remain after being uncoupled from their original images, and so they create images of their own. This is well known to all poets and artists.
What I find deeply disconcerting about science is its will to reduce everything it touches into the realm of knowledge — i.e. utilitarian — thus dispelling existence of every shade of mystery. In such an atmosphere that is deeply antagonistic to poetry I find myself suffocating and unable to tolerate life. The good news is that this endeavour of science is futile, in that it is impossible to reduce everything into the realm of knowledge; the unknown remains, and the shade of mystery cannot be dispelled; poetry cannot be vanquished. The bad news is that science may well destroy life and the world before coming to this conclusion and admitting its childish aspirations. The link between poetry, mystery, and ecology is unmistakable. It is what we hope will one day bring science to its senses, making it aware of its own limitations. Hopefully that day won’t be too long in the future.
The phrases of the book like twigs twist and turn in every direction, and soon I am walking a thick forest with no thought of return, to find a cabin in a sunlit clearing and live in it for a while.
But the book ends as every journey must, yet, leaving its forest, I carry it with me, feeling its sap of words flowing through my veins, and growing, silently, for many months and years new leaves of meaning.
We all coexist with the idea that the people we love might disappear at any moment, though this idea, in the every day life, only occupies the fringes of our minds. But when someone you love has cancer, the idea becomes central, and it moves to occupy the entire space. Managing your emotions while going through this is one of the hardest things a human being has to do.