The Mystery of Presence

The mystery of presence

will not arrive through the mind,

but do some physical work, and it comes clear.

An intellectual gets bound and wrapped

in complicated nets of connectedness.

Whereas the Friend rides the intelligence

that is creating genius at the center.

The mind is husk, and the appetites love coverings.

They look for them everywhere.

That which loves the kernel and the oil

inside the nut has no interest in shells.

Mind carries reams of reasons into court,

but universal awareness does not move a step

without some definite intuition.

One covers volumes of pages.

The other fills the horizon with light and color.

The value of scrip resides in gold

stored somewhere else. The value of a body

stems from the soul. The value of soul

derives from presence. Soul cannot live

without a connection there.

Gnostic Donkeys (2)

You have a wonderful view,

but no way into the prospect.

I have no wings, you mutter, depressed,

but this looking outside the senses

is a fire that kindles the body.

Small sticks and dry grasses catch

to a burning light, and here

is an odd bit: Even if not on fire

and shining, the sticks are still light.

To those who will come after, I say,

Life is not for waiting.

Do not postpone.

Love is bringing everyone by the ear

to a place where reason cannot go,

where Muhammed's eyes close in sleep,

and the night grows quiet.

Truth does not sleep. Sunlight does not go away.

The stars are suns. Shams is everywhere.

Gnostic Donkeys (1)

I am a cup in the Friend's hand.

Look in my eyes. The one who holds me

is none of this, but this that is so filled

with images belongs to that one who is without form,

who knows what is best for a sandgrain

or a drop of water, who opens

and closes our ability to love.

We are being taught like a donkey.

A donkey thinks whoever brings hay is God.

In the same way, we are gnostics,

each with a unique experience

of what binds and what releases us.

We hear the voice of that and our ears

twitch like the donkey who hears his trainer.

Oats may be coming, and water!

What have you been given that is like that?

Confinement, you complain. Stick your head out.

That is all that will fit through

the five-sense opening.

The Polisher

As everything changes overnight,

I praise the breaking of promises.

Whatever love wants, it gets,

not next year, now.

I swear by the one who never says tomorrow,

as the circle of the moon never agrees

to sell installments of light.

It gives all it has.

How do stories end?

Who shall explain them?

Every story is us. That is who we are,

from the beginning to no-matter-how-it-come-out.

Those who know the taste of a meal

are those who sit at a table and eat.

Lover and friend are one being,

and separate beings too,

as the polisher melts in the mirror's face.

The Circle

Nothing is better than selling figs

to the fig seller. That's how this is.

Making a profit is not why we're here,

nor pleasure, nor even joy.

When someone is a goldsmith,

wherever he goes he asks for the goldsmith.

Wheat stays wheat right through the threshing.

How would the soul feel

in the beloved's river?

Like fish washed free and clear of fear.

You drive us away,

but we return like pigeons.

Shahabuddin Osmond joins the circle.

We will say this poem again

so he can play.

There is no end to anything round.

Light Building in the Pupil

Eye, by Krisjanis Mezulis

Birdcatcher, the birds you want are thirsty,

so you open the wine vat and let the fragrance draw us.

This is the wine the magi brought as a gift,

and the wine musk that led them.

There are certain night-wanderers

that you especially want. Not the drunkards,

and not the ones who just carry cups to others.

This is how it is to come near you.

A wave of light builds in the black pupil

of the eye. The old become young.

The opening lines of the Qur'an open still more.

Inside every human chest is a hand, but it has nothing

to write with. Love moves further in where

language turns to fresh cream on the tongue.

Every accident, and the essence of every being,

is a bud, a blanket

tucked into a cradle, a closed mouth.

All these buds will blossom.

In that moment you will know what your grief was,

and how the seed you planted has been miraculously growing.

Our Caravan Bell

Do you hear what the violin says

about longing? The same as the stick.

I was once a green branch in the wind.

We are all far from home.

Language is our caravan bell.

Do not stop anywhere.

The moment you are attracted to a place,

you grow bored with it.

Think of the big moves you have already made,

from a single cell to a human being.

Stay light-footed and keep moving.

Turkish, Arabic, Greek, any tongue

is a wind that was formerly water.

As a breeze carries the ocean inside it,

so within every sentence is,

Return to the source.

A moth does not avoid flame.

The king lives in the city.