Category: Books & Reading

Wandering Thought # 94

June 6, 2020 Pierre MhannaLeave a comment

Words, they are the geological forces of the soul, pushing against the toughest and most deeply imbedded boundaries and structures, with great patience eroding, stretching, pulling, transforming, and giving us the tools to control ourselves, to rise above ourselves and overcome ourselves, and shape our own destinies.

Posted in Books & Reading, PhilosophyTagged books, Change, control, my thoughts, Philosophy, reading, thinking, words

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Freydoon Rassouli, Fountain of Grace

Wells of Inspiration

A Quiet Soliloquy
Art of Haiku
Colleen Kelley
David Whyte – Many Rivers
Hermitary
Ibn 'Arabi
La voie du coeur – Way of the heart
No Mind's Land
Odilon Redon
Peaceful Rivers
Philosophical Society
Rassouli's Women
Rumi's Masnavi
Wasted Beauty
White Lotus

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By your grace | in winter's heart | flowers grow

Your painterly eyes... | the world a canvas | born of your sight, | a fluid river | of shadows and light.

Core of mystery, | Firebirds gliding along the inmost sky, | Secrets from radiant eyes weeping, | Living waters washing over the living heart.

From each set of eyes | a world of colour pours. | From each beating heart | the divine music of love.

Moonlit warrior | slicing through the air, | shards of silence.

Itinerant heart | In the source of now, sinking, | Rising a full moon.

Drinking the light of your face, | the fountain of my soul, | a lover's song bubbling with grace.

Born into colour, |The flower in spring’s white palm | Kissed by The One.

Flowers of chaos, | A wild tumult of colours | Vying for The One.

Full moon on the pond, | light breaking on cold water, | night, a silent breath.

Love, | let me cradle you | as the sun cradles the earth, | heart, an infinite fountain | of joy and warmth.

What is my heart if not your home | where the sun itself | unfurls from your womb.

His Poem

Like furrows of stars | his words ploughed through her skin, | fevered kisses along her curves | condensed into burning ink

Beauty has her face for a name.

Cradled in love's embryonic water.

Blossoming | the tree transfigures the garden | as you, in my heart, | birth me as pure light.

Submerged in this flow, | The waters of his river | Carrying her home.

Love's exuberance - | Our tangled bodies the seat | Where the sun unfolds.

Brimming with devotion | He planted his heart, | A kiss in her womb.

Flying to the moon, | Twilight birds drunk | On your silent call.

As the sky holds the earth | he held her into him, | his kiss into her forehead melting | a vaporous stream of wine.

Moonflow melting | into the bay of dawn, | her face.

She, plume of shadow, | And he the nocturnal ink | Burning in her veins.

Macerated in silence, | my poem a white moon | sailing her blue dawn.

In his touch | she longed to become, | poetry...

Entwined at the roots, | a bond taking them | beyond life and death.

A raindrop | hanging from the leaf, | falling, not falling.

Cheek to cheek | silently kissing, | a world born of love.

In the flowing stream | the light of the moon | is ever the same

Cradle of passion, | our soldered bodies melting, | house of flame and love.

This kiss – | Our open hearts | A single flame burning, | Subsumed into the living core, The heart of the One.

On the branch of dawn we swayed, | two birds lost in the silence | of our open hearts.

In the autumn wind | the howl | of lost voices

My poem I lit like a candle, | all night long she kept vigil | into the darkness casting | the firebirds of your name.

Inviolable | in the solitude of her soul | she stood, | the world like an endless poem | below her feet stretched.

Against the winter sky | bare branches stirring | the dust of memories

On her face | the flame flickered | a sea of memories

Shades of dawn – | the moon’s silent ache | sinking in the sea

Through the silent pines | the sun’s fading rays, | my heart | another bird | returning home.

Famished poem... | in the moonlight | her almond-flower skin | skyward heaving | a breathless sigh

In the glow of sunset | my heart alone travels | a ship without sails

Where am I? | In the whiff of your fragrance | Like a moth inside a flame | All sense of direction is lost, | And place is placelessness.

Quick to fade... | in the grey of dawn | the sigh of dewdrops

Silent joy of now… | a full moon whirling, | dervish in the sky

Moon | over the hill | wax in my dreams

My breaths... | shipwrecked poems | stranded in her skin, | stars burning | in a moonless night.

Perfume of passion... | in the twilight air | the fragrance of her hair, | a mystic voice calling | night from its lair.

How music is made... | bodies entwined | like crescent moons, | their light quivering | the soul of the night.

His touch bathes her in a sea of light

Moon through the window… | a sea of poetry | aglow in her skin

Sobbing with desire | light in tender waves | relishing her skin, | Eros vanquishing | the absurdity of night.

Searing her skin | his night of poetry

The length of her back | a roaring sea, | a canvas of dark waves | in each shaded breath screaming... | poetry

Amid the shadows | I flourish… | moon in the sky

Light along her skin | erotica in sultry curves | exuding clouds of incense, | a softness that melts | the heart to poetry.

The exquisite pain of fire | curling along her fragile neck, | the unbearable gentleness | that brings each poem to tears.

From the nooks of her neck | my poem draws its breath, | a bird inhaling | the expanse of the sky.

Envisioning her womb, | the timeless mandala | where the seasons turn, | the timeless wheel of life | dancing its dance.

In the deeps of darkness | your voice was the starlight | leading me home

Free to walk the earth as a rain drop dissolved in the ocean of the beloved

Autumn’s playground… | the peel of lost voices | blowing in the air

Shared whispers | on the branch of dusk... | the promise of forever

Stranger to the world… | behind far hills the | cold moon sinking

In the fire of your eyes | poetry sheds her veils | and enters wordless, | its one desire to live | rooted in your heart.

A cup of tea | warming my hands… | moon over the snow

I see her and fill with ache, burn to merge with her in a totality of being that leaves no space between our bodies.

A poet's life... | from a branch in the mist | a bird calling

Dusk over the woods… | amid the rustling leaves | a world of shadows

Year after year | My green tea | Darker and more bitter, | Growing old | With my books.

Miniature fig tree | In the shadow of your leaves | Garden poetry

Haiku Pond

Haiku pond | the shadow of a bird | passing at dusk

The crow's black caw | a dagger stabbing | the heart of the moon

الشمس على عري جسدها | كل أغصان الربيع | تترنح ثملة

Come join me | a cup for two | filled with spring’s | holy nectar

In the fog | the limbs of cut trees | wailing

When I knew the highs of your kiss | I no longer drank, | I no longer prayed, | and all my poetry was writ | with the salve of your lips.

Le soir jette | son manteau noir ; | dans la mer de sa peau | mon cœur bat | en fleurs-étoiles.

Agé de dix mille ans | le haïku fleurit… | lune dans la rivière

Wild the dream | the moon's whirling skirt | a sufi in the sky

A ship longing | for its lost harbor… | her breath at dawn

Faded blue | waiting for a letter… | the mailbox of love

Red and luscious | it hangs from your bough, | the last of my poems, | the summer of my hopes.

Her warming flow of wine | in the early morning chill, | the areolas of her breasts | flowering starlike | amid my thirsty lips.

In dawn’s still hush | the breath of poetry | rubs against her cheeks; | full of sighs the wind | pours with dew.

Moon in the river | alone crossing | the banks of autumn

In my teacup | steeping | the white leaves of the moon

Clad in fog we vanished | into the mystic mountain of union, | inseparable we rose again | breathing open | wide as the sky.

In my book of love | and so long as I can remember I| ’ve been writing you | a poem each day.

My poem, a solitude on a journey of no return sailing ever deeper into you.

Her body she offers, | a sea to be crafted | by the ink of his fire, | exalted on the altar | of lust and poetry.

Love was between us | and she was a tailoress, | fitting my poems | to the curves of her skin, | the sinews of her breath.

The anchor of your breath | once fell into me, | now my skin is all rust | from the salt of your sea.

Shriveled kisses | in the midst of winter… | figs clinging still | to the promise of the sky

Locked in exile | until a word comes from you; | word after word | I chronicle my exile and imprisonment, | my hidden journey with you.

منسلاً عند الفجر | القمر فوق السطوح مداعبا | عري جسدها

The fountain of life's water, | the birthplace of the moon.

Lune sur mer… | mon cœur un piège | de vent nomade

God painting the world dipped his brush in the inkwell of her body

Clothed by his poem, | every word etched | with the ink of a fire | that burned for ages | on the altar of his heart.

Listening intently to the music interweaving the waters of their souls.

Unknown Artist, Somewhere in France

On the trail of leaves | I lost my mind | gazing at the moon...

From the empty chairs | her silhouette still watching | the dark rolling sea

Hazmieh, February 2018

Even an ugly city | can be beautiful… | falling rain

Things half whispered… | between us | a candle-light world | merging the sighs | of our aching souls

Sans un frémissement | d'avoir longtemps bu le ciel | la feuille tombe

Tangled | until nothing remains | but a moment in God

Douma, Lebanon, May 27, 2018 Again and again | what I lost came back to me... | a traveler on the road.

I always sit | with the shadow of you, | something impalpable | yet somehow bigger | than the earth and sky.

More than I could gather | in a lifetime of work… | moonlight in a drop of dew

Terre natale… | dans sa peau à miel de lune | la fleur de la rosée

Moon at dawn... | today I choose | to surrender to your light

Silence takes me down | to the roots of poetry | and I find them rising | from the sea of your heart

If you really listen | you can hear it... | the silence of the sky

Through the window | of my longing | the first light of the year

Like freshly fallen snow, its immaculate whiteness keeping track of the slightest movement of animals, trees, and wind, her skin holds the traces of my words as they drip from my pen, as they stir in my soul.

Children of a day | the flower that blooms at dawn | at dusk falls away

Vêtue d’amour | la rosée de son souffle | choyant ses joues / Clothed by love | the dewdrops of his breath | caressing her cheeks

From a crack in the wall | a weed sprouts... | the flower of street art

As the hills slept | the city awakened, | its little fires | scattered like stardust | over the breasts of the earth.

Weaved into my ribs | this longing is a window | filled with her light

Through the withered grass | a winding path… | the journey itself is home

To an unheard music | waltzing at dusk… | the pine tree and the moon

Autumn crossroads… | my heart a bird, | my soul a cloud

Filled with longing | my heart cracked open, | its many jeweled chambers | crimson with the fire | of my beloved's lips.

قلبي وما بقي منه | طيور تهاجر | في قمر الخريف

Winter moon | in your light I weave | my dreams of a warm summer

Winter twilight… | in the light of sunset | my dissolving years

My touch in her skin | a wave at dawn unfurling | a white frothing sea

Spring twilight | I sip my tea and gaze | at the rising moon

A part of me will always be that shy, lonely boy, standing by the edge of the wood and with deep eyes looking at the mystery of the world. Photograph by Massao Yamamoto

Relished slowly | with yearning lips | the wine I poured | into the hollows | of her collarbones

The old village wall... | I pass my fingers | over its stones and ask them | what they remember

هذا الشِعر – رحيقُ الضَوء وهوَ يرتَدّ عَن بَشَرَتِها

Everyone have left | the road of my life | deepens into the sunset

I look at it, this world,
and in my eyes the last ray
of a setting sun

	Pierre Mhanna on Wandering Thought # 347
	Daniela on Wandering Thought # 347
	Frank J. Tassone on Haiku # 729
	Reaseaorg on Writing as Worship
	Pierre Mhanna on Writing as Worship