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
Tag: poets
Wandering Thought # 243
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.
Wandering Thought # 136
It was enough to drink poetry just once for its wine to seal my fate. Like seeing a light so strong that it burns itself in the consciousness of the soul. It is a truth one cannot unsee, but it’s not exactly a truth — what, then? It is a spaciousness in the heart; an understanding of the interconnectedness of everything in life, its full circle; it is the dwelling in the eternal, the absolute, and the viewing of linear time for what it is, an illusion; it is the revival of the old myths of perpetual creation – life, existence, and consciousness as being created every single moment, with every single breath, and the feeling of the sacred and the divine as inhabiting and channeled in this moment and breath; it is life with passion and intensity to the utmost, yet it is a simple life, a life of duration of simple yet deep feelings, a life lived close to the essence of things; it is a life that gives voice to things no one sees or cares about; it is a life that dares to shed off itself all the falsity and illusions of modern society, a life that dares to live by itself, a world contained and overflowing in its own solitude. Our fate chooses us and we earn it when we have the courage to choose it in return. So I choose, again and again, this life of poetry.
Wandering Thought # 123
Writing, when true and honest, is a path that leads us deeper and deeper into the forest of silence. In the end we become listening itself, vibration, tune, melody, the inner sound of the world and all its objects; we become, if it is possible, pure openness. We also become extremely solitary, as the distance around us grows and grows. It cannot be said that we lost ourselves, but that we traded one path for another. Of course, this choice cannot be recognized by the majority who are only familiar with noise and oblivious of their own soul.
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 # 121
Although the poet is no free man, always under the compulsion to wait for his muse and court her in the most intimate ways, the poem, her kiss, must be freely given, cannot be coerced or tricked, and must be received with the utmost gratitude and grace.
Haiku # 693
بنيتُ لكِ في قلبي
كنيسةً صغيرة
ملأى باسمِكِ
~
In my heart
I built a small chapel
filled with your name
~
Her deep eyes
a perfect day
to fall in love
~
ما أحبَّ الرجلُ امرأةً إلا ولمسَ الشعرُ قلبهُ.
~
أنظرُ في عينيها
ثمَ أقبلها واحدةً واحدة
أزهارُ بشَرتِها
Wandering Thought #98
All poets are fools; they love the world more than it deserves to be loved, and when it hurts them they bless it. All poets are fools; they inscribe their holy verse in a woman’s body, and turn her into mist and light. All poets are fools; they are meant to suffer, and enter a place of light. All poets are fools, they bless what hurts them, and love with a passion that rivals the sun. All poets are fools; blessed are the poets.
Haiku # 680
Drenched in mist
my heart is a landscape
of eternal longing
~
Long after we parted
her perfume lingered
on my trembling hand
~
Moon in the window
the sound of my heart
breaking before dawn
~
Still caught in my throat
the words I dared not say
at her funeral
~
Buddhas in the snow…
their bald heads wet
with dreams of summer
~
Thawing snow…
the Buddha’s head dripping
with dreams of summer
~
The high mountain…
climbing to a world
of wind and mist
~
All the women I loved
in my memory they bear
the image of your face
~
In my secret life
I find her beauty
in everything I see
~
…اسمها
حتى شعري لا يقوى
على كتابته
Wandering Thought # 92
Poets love intensely because they invent their love long before they live it. Their lover is an active fire that brews in the marrow of their soul. Their carnality is an animal ferocity softened, spiritualized and intensified by their imagination and longing. Poets are the animals of the soul.
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.
Self-Portrait
I
In his eyes
you can see it,
a wound reaching
deep down
into an abysmal place
that opens
to an infinite sky.
II
I was invisible
until she saw me,
the woman I erected
with words and shadows,
the woman whose eyes
are a luminescent ink,
woman, my double,
with a sly smile caressing my ache
only to ignite my longing for her –
her – an imaginary being
blessed by a suffering she sweetly calls –
poetry.
Wandering Thought # 90
A little poetic sensibility is enough for you to know that you do not inhabit the same world as that of men. They pass you by as if they were holograms projected from another dimension, barely aware of their immediate surroundings and the intricacy that holds everything together, sways and moves everything to the same rhythm; they pass you by as if they were humans that never completely materialized, remaining half-ghosts, not really aware of the currents and tides of their own bodies, and how these merge with and echo the infinite beauty and chaos of the world outside. A little poetic sensibility goes a long way. You open your eyes, and realize you’ve been blind. You hear, feel, smell and touch as if for the first time. The world is alive. The world, as it is, is spirit, is art, it is poetry.
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
William Blake
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
Sedoka # 2
Autumn night…
hovering over still water
the moon asks,
‘Who is poet enough
to be alive
in this world?’
Tanka # 195
Journeying through forests
and mountain trails,
the haikus I once wrote, I find,
pebbles on the ground,
leaves in the wind.
Haiku # 648
His words in her ears…
Seashells divulging
the secret of the sea
~
A la table du poète
devant l’encrier
songe le vieux papier
~
Ses cheveux noirs
maison aux eaux coulants
au fond de la terre
~
Matin brisé
par la brume…
Le souffle de la mer
~
A l’abri du silence
la chandelle fane
lentement la nuit
~
Peignant la nuit
le noir
de ses cheveux.
~
Notre amour
dans dix milles ans…
Etoile sur la mer
~
Eight to five job…
the bird at my window
teasing with his smile
~
Haiku pond
the shadow of a bird
passing at dusk
~
Fallen in love…
The changed color
of her eyes
Wandering Thought # 87
A poet is one who feels and intuits the infinite in the finite, and this from the deepest elevations of his spirit and soul.
***
Poets and people in whom the spirit is rich and abundant face the danger of feeling excluded and guilty on account of that which makes them rich and unique — because it also excludes them from the company of people and society, and makes the space around them so great that very few could hope or want to traverse it. Learning the usual social skills is doubly more difficult for such people, because, at first sight, it feels for them as though it is a betrayal of the spirit in them, of their uniqueness and idiosyncrasy. But that is necessary if they hope one day to become more than just poets and spiritually rich people — human beings who are full of light and mastery, conquerors of the inner realms and of their lives, a light unto humanity, and also, simply, genuinely and deeply happy people, people whose ability for joy and fulfillment is so much greater than their normal kin could ever fathom or understand.
Wandering Thought # 80
The poet’s ideal is the very reason for his suffering — he is unable to attain it in his life; oh, but what beauty, in its pursuit, does he make!
Tanka # 153
All this poetry
and no one
to touch me –
the invisible face
of a poet
A Little Rest and Idleness
A little rest and idleness
and I discover
that I am still the same man,
the one who writes
and longs to write
with the fire of your name
a world of poetry.
Now let each word sink
like a caress into your skin,
let it sleep there
like an exuberant seed
to wake up and find itself transformed
into a lush forest of flowers
and leaves blowing endlessly,
of lovers meeting
under the shadow of the night
to make love deeply and earnestly.
A little rest
and my heart rises back, buoyant,
and wafts mouthful
in the fragrance of your skin,
my feet, those of a pilgrim
wading word after word after word
to vanish in the world of stillness
sounding at the center of your soul.
A little rest and idleness
and your breath, beloved,
comes to cure me,
balm my wounds and nights of ache
with the refreshing touch of dew
born upon the dawn of your lips.
Rooted in Love 