I am a mystic through and through. Poetry was never for me an artistic endeavour but a spiritual one. It was my way to go beyond myself, into myself, and touch something of the Eternal that manifests itself through us and through every form that comes into existence, as the movement of existence itself. I am a mystic, a poet of the heart, I am one who listens.
Tag: Mysticism
The Poet & God
Poetry…
exchanging words
for a moment with God;
but, by then, words
are no longer words
but something else,
words emptied of themselves
and filled with silence,
words as vessels for the spirit,
words as boats
that carry one over
on wings of spirit
to that other realm,
which is in this realm,
inside.
But the poet is not a priest,
no, he is a messenger,
and for that he pays
the utmost price;
he feels himself torn
as he approaches the moment,
present and open to the utmost,
ready, burning for revelation,
aching to become nothing else
than his face seen in the face of God;
his face, as such, is a mirror
in which the inner light
of the world reflects,
and which tears him constantly
in an eternal act of becoming;
he is the river
that knows no beginning or end,
and he ends as he begins,
in God.
What the priest knows from the outside
the poet lives,
his confirmation is his life;
the poet as a mirror
for the invisible
for which he gladly pays
with his life.
Wandering Thought # 71
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.
Letter October 28, 2014
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.
The Hidden Face
Softly
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
Wandering Thought # 20
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.
Rooted in Love 