I write to you
the way a bird
feels the wind
gliding under his wings,
the way the fire crackles
with passionate heat
to consume ever wildly,
the way a root
with infinite patience
descends into the dark;
I write to you
the way the rain
kisses the earth
after a long summer,
the way a monk
prays to God
in the solitude of his cell;
I write to you the way
wine ferments in darkness
and wheat grows gold
in the summer sun,
the way dawn fills the heart
with the still clarity of its light.
I write to you because I love you
and you have turned my life
into a journey of love.
Tag: a passionate wanderer
Writing as Worship
I spill my soul
into the poem
and it takes the shape
of her body,
shines with the light
of her face.
My poem is a journey
winding amid the white hills
of her grace.
I write as if to glimpse
beyond the veil that hides
her endless mystery.
I write because writing
is a form of worship.
Wandering Thought # 246
Myth is not dead if we still feel in our hearts something of the magic of a year that ends and one that begins, of a cycle returning, beginning again, filled with the power of renewal. This eternal recurrence is the essence of the most ancient myths; that the world has been ordained by divinity to return again and again as an emulation of the divine, and this to eternity.
Wandering Thought # 244
A thinker is one who rides his solitude on lofty wings that take him up over and beyond mountains and cities, giving him eyes to see things those who dwell in society never dream of seeing. For that reason, when he speaks no one understands him, and when he comes back to society he must use the mask to be intelligible. If is both a curse and a blessing to go through the world in such a way, unseen, hidden.
The hyper sensitive will feel guilty for things they did not even do, they are always ripe for submission.
We can never be rid of the mystical impulse because science can never exhaust the mystery of life.
Without love even beauty becomes tiring and ultimately a burden.
This solitude, I cultivated it all my life so that it could, one day, be large enough to contain your presence.
Solitude, my sole companion, the only candle lighting the corners of my heart.
Poetry is the translation of the heat between our bodies, the gravity that pulls even stars from their orbit.
لا شعر يوفيها حقها فلغزها أعمق من كل شعر.
صوفيُّ القلبِ والهوى.
The Poet’s Life
A poet lives a lonely life
that he may shape birds
out of his own heart
that he sends flying
into the deepest forests
and over the highest mountains
to enliven the mist of the world
with the warmth of his song
Tanka # 215
This poetry
I gather it inside of me
like a promise,
and each time I utter it
it says your name.
Things Invisible
There are things invisible
whose presence is known only
by the way they affect others
such as the wind passing through
or kindness for no reason given
or the way your beauty
makes light glow around your skin
or the way my love bends the world
in a hymn song for you
Kissing Her Neck
Like fresh morning dew
my kisses sink into her neck,
from her chin down
to the hollow above her chest,
going around to her collarbones,
then to her nape at the back
as I lift her dark hair,
falling slowly to the expanse
between her shoulder blades…
…my kisses circle her neck
like a Sufi turns
ecstatic and feverish,
lost in prayer
as with each turn
he falls deeper
lost in God.
Wandering Thought # 139
You will feel happy to work less only if you feel that your work is imposed on you, that it is a bane. But in a world where work is a source of joy, where it is beneficial for yourself and the community, it is nonsensical to work less or more, for work, then, is an expression of your being, and is at one with life, it is a passion. As it now stands, we suffer work as an affliction, and as something that separates us from life and from true community. We are ridden with feelings of guilt if we do not perform and submit to the norms, and to perform we feel that we need to sacrifice ourselves, burning ourselves on the altar of the work-god.
Haiku # 721
قصيدةٌ غيرُ مُنتَهية…
مرتجِفاً كورقة خريف
سأتركُ هذا العالم
حرُّ الصيف
لا يدفئ عظامي
التي تتوقُ اليكِ
This life is a dream…
opening our eyes
the fog dissipates
into an endless white
الحياةُ حلم
نفتح عينينا ليتبدد الضباب
على نورٍ لامتناهي
هذهِ الكلمات
قصيدةٌ صداها
يعودُ إليَّ فقط
Haiku # 720
القمرُ في النافذة
ضوءهُ يُعيدُني
إلى بيتِ الطفولة
À l’abri du monde
mon cœur est un bourgeon
sa fleur un poème
من نافذةِ المكتب
أُراقبُ عصافير الحقل
كم هي حرّة وسعيدة
المعبدِ القديم
أحجارهُ أزهارَ لوزٍ
تناثرت في الريح
وحيداً عند المساء
منصتاً للصمت
الذي يلفُّ أيامي
صمتُ الظهيرة
أستمعُ لزيزِ الصيف
وأنتظٍرُ الخريف
حرٌّ لاهب
أُحاول أن أقرأ
وأنا أمسح عرقي
في صومعتي
أقرأ وأكتب
منتظراً ظهور القمر
الأيامُ التي مرّت
وتساقطت كأوراق الخريف
ما زالت تلمعُ أحياناً
تحتَ ضوءِ القمر
قلبيَ الضائع
عصفورٌ أرسلتهُ
إليكِ
مهما فعلت بك الحياة
لا تهمل قلبكَ
وتنسى أنكَ شاعر
Another Way of Being
As though life
is a fog,
a fading dream,
vanishing as we reach
to touch it,
images shivering in the water,
flowing away, already gone
when barely seen.
We live in the afterglow
of things that were,
eclipsed before being
fully embodied,
things filled with decay
even as they flourished,
things that are always leaving
only to lead us on and on
to a nowhere that exists
only in our hearts.
The heaviest love
is weightless and impotent.
The strongest attachments
are thin as the wind.
In this vast, endless
openness,
I pray, teach me
surrender,
let me become love. The only journey is the one within,
all else is illusory.
Haiku # 677
Chemin de poésie
seul je vagabonde
sous un ciel gris
~
The infinite universe
no bigger than the wonder
in the human heart
Wandering Thought# 91
What is a poet?—a poem that plays hide and seek with itself; a poem that needs long walks in the sun and rain for it to find itself; a poem that takes a great deal of time to decipher the light in its darkness; a poem that is wasteful with much of its life for it to experience a few precious moments; a poem akin to an open wound, aching and pouring. A poet is a man without a face, standing in the crowd, in his heart feeling and recording everything. A poet is a sky buried in a man, filled with endless distances. A poet is a failed attempt. A poet is an unreachable man. A poet is not ink but life made invisible. A poet is no one. A poet is.
Haiku # 639
From a crack in the wall,
a weed sprouts…
the flower of street art
Haiku # 546
Sans destination
je prends la barque…
cette vie de poésie
~
With no destination
I take the boat…
this life of poetry
Rooted in Love 