The Mystery of Your Ways

By the jasmine tree,
under the moon at dawn
I am waiting for you,
your silence since long
arrived before you
but only now
have I begun to hear
the whisper of your voice,
your silence since long
announced your presence
but only now
am I beginning to feel
the freshness of your breath,
and as I walk away at last,
as I walk away
into the rising day
a strange power carries me on
almost like a wave,
imperceptible, unexplainable,
asking me to let go,
to trust and surrender
to the mystery of your ways.

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On the Cusp of Spring

Her falling dress
a breath of fog and dew
lacing the forest,
naked she then wades
the blue water of dawn,
in the kiss of her skin
the morning sun rising.

In countless streamlets
the fire of her fragrance
replenishes my inkwell,
out of the hardness of stone
coaxing my will to rise
and face the world again,
shape the world anew
out of the depth
of my love and passion,
the maturity of my manhood,
the rejuvenating vigor of her presence
flowering in my heart,
pervading my being
with the light of eternity.

الله في جسدها

لفح عطرها
لم يبق من قلبي
الا وهج نار متقدة
على مذبح العشق

وها نار حبها
في شراييني تمددت
حتى لم يبق مني
الا تأوه الأزهار
مع انبلاج الفجر

الريح تأتي
والريح تذهب
وأنا ههنا أحترق
في ماء عطرها

أضلعي ودمائي وحياتي
عني في حبها ذابت
ذوبان الصلاة
في فم الخمر

الله في جسدها
وجسدها في الله
في ضوءها عرش الوجود
ومصدر الخلق

A Promise Fulfilled

The old faith,
that most beautiful
legacy of youth,
came back to me,
and again
there was joy in my heart,
again, inside,
dawn hushed white
and the sky breathed out,
and in the silence
I heard a voice
like a wave
coming over me,
coming out from me,
in the silence
I heard a voice
telling me to live my life
free of care,
that in the darkest
and most isolated corner
I am seen,
I am living in reciprocity
with life in its entirety,
telling me to unfold
my own myth,
be who I am
by embracing my becoming.

The old faith
came back to me
and again
I found my face,
a flower among flowers
blooming silently,
a star among stars
shining silently,
again I found my face
and there was joy in my heart,
a fulfilling of the promise
that love once made to me.

From the Soul of the Philosopher and Poet

What are you searching for?
For a reason, for a way to believe,
For a ruse to trick reason
And reach the realm of faith and certainty
While remaining under his good grace.

What are you willing to pay?
I am willing to sacrifice reason itself,
Only reason and my sense of honesty
Do not allow this weakness and betrayal to prevail,
So I remain caught in the middle,
Cut in half in no man’s land,
And as a result I feel myself
Poor, impoverished, and lacking a center,
As if empty or hollow,
Glancing back and unable to go back,
Looking high but unable to fly upwards,
So I pay my life and time as a result
And linger begging for a crumb of bread,
I whose inheritance and right
Is the banquet of heaven itself.

All the way to the end

When I am not with you
I grow morose
and no longer recognize myself.

But there was that night
that I discovered a hole in my heart,
and leapt into it.

The hole was deep and dark
and it felt as though
all the pain and emptiness
that tore through me
came rushing out of it.

I was afraid,
shivering to my bones,
and I stayed there for a long time
wondering if I should return or not
until I finally gathered my strength and jumped in,
and it was as if I was blind my whole life.

My eyes were opened
as if for the first time
and I realized that I was blind,
for I saw you everywhere
and wherever I went
I carried you with me.

I discovered that
when it comes to you
blood and bones and heart
are not fit enough metaphors
to describe your depth,
even the womb
that birthed time and the stars
is not deep enough
to give an intuition of your depth.

Whatever I will say about you
will not sound reasonable.
I am often amazed by it
let alone someone else.

Yet there you are
smiling at me and my foolishness,
at my trying to write a poem about you
and being clumsy at it.

I smile back and tell you
that my poetry is my way
of giving my life to over you,
celebrating a little of your beauty,
but you say that my life
is not mine for the giving,
that it has been forfeited long ago.

Now I sit before the setting sun
as the trees lose their leaves
and wonder –
what is a heartbeat without you?
Can a heartbeat be
without you at its source?
What is life if not a silken weave
in your hair?
What is life if not a dewdrop
rolling down your skin,
shaking as you walk
and fly and dance
and shaking us all with you,
shattering our world
in the unfolding of your beauty?

Now I understand
why love was so long denied to me
and why I had to beg and cry
for endless nights
and feel a pain so deep
and an isolation so harrowing.

You were there
and I had to live it and feel it
with a heart as open as can be.

Now I understand
and bless you
and kiss your hand,
and show for gratitude
my entire life,
the way it has been lived
and the way it will be.
A flower in your garden
all the way to the end.

A Poet’s Muse

She took her clothes off,
seated herself by the window
as the cascading moonlight
washed over her body,
then placed her fingers atop her breasts,
looked into my eyes,
and asked me to write her poetry.

My blood became ink that night
as my shivering fingertips
coursed to infinity
every nook and curve of her body,
and that night lasted
longer than I could remember,
stretched farther back
beyond my own conception,
and further than the dark tremors
of my own stony grave.

A poet is as great as is his muse. By glorifying his muse he himself is glorified. And to his muse he gives his whole life even to the point of annihilation and death.