I can only admit to a divinity that takes pleasure in heightening the individual and affirming difference, one that does not seek to dissolve him in oneness but understands him as an expression of that oneness. The individual grows in power and distinction the more his heart is open to the divine, the more he becomes its channel. He is its unique expression though he already lives in its heart.
Your dark hair, beloved—is it a river flowing amid the banks of eternity, carrying, in its surge, all the stars towards some hidden shore? Or is it an ocean of mist, a womb deeper than the night, one from whose invisible flesh all the stars are born? Which is it, I cannot decide. Yet by its surge I am carried; in the flick of its wind, born. And this, each minute, each second, right into the timeless sphere that binds me to your core; binds me as a ray of sunlight issues from the source.
Her hand touches
the pure, clear water
and lo! as though it were lit
by a fire from within
its clarity becomes iridescent,
crystalline transparency glowing
with the effulgence of a thousand suns
as in the burning deeps forms
the face of the Beloved.
“Where is it that you hid, Beloved, and left me to lament?” St. John of the Cross
To truly read a poem is to be ridden with the uncanny sense that in some ambiguous place, inside, outside, something is happening, a hidden force is at work, shifting, as it were, transposing masses of matter or energy. To read a poem is to enter a docile shock, to spin with the stars as, one by one, they fall doused over the surface of the endless desert until, after a while, nothing remains but the endless, ineffable silence. It is only then, perhaps, that the poem finally unveils her face. But what we see leaves us tongue-tied, and when we awaken the poem is once more in the arms of eternity.