I See My Beauty in You

I see my beauty in you,

I become a mirror

that cannot close its eyes to your longing.

My eyes wet with yours in the early light.

My mind every moment giving birth,

always conceiving, always in the ninth month,

always the come-point.

How do I stand this?

We become these words we say,

a wailing sound moving out into the air.

These thousands of worlds that rise from nowhere,

how does your face contain them?

I am a fly in your honey, then closer,

a moth caught in the flame's allure,

then empty sky stretched out in homage.

An Elephant in the Dark

Elephant, by Julia Watkins

Some Hindus have an elephant to show.

No one here has ever seen an elephant.

They bring it at night to a dark room.

One by one, we go in the dark and come out

saying how we experience the animal.

One of us happens to touch the trunk.

A water-pipe kind of creature.

Another, the ear. A very strong, always moving

back and forth, fan-animal. Another, the leg.

I find it still, like a column on a temple.

Another touches the curved back.

A leathery throne. Another the cleverest,

feels the tusk. A rounded sword made of porcelain.

He is proud of his description.

Each of us touches one place

and understands the whole that way.

The palm and the fingers feeling in the dark

are how the senses explore the reality of the elephant.

If each of us held a candle there,

and if we went in together, we could see it.

How Minds Most Want to Be

You are the living marrow. The rest is hay.

Dead grass does not nourish a human being.

When you are not here, this desire we feel

has no traveling companion.

When the sun is gone, the soul's clarity fades.

There is nothing but idiocy and mistakes.

We are half-dead, inanimate, exhausted.

The way minds most want to be

is an ocean with a soul swimming in it.

No one can describe that.

My soul, you are a master, a Moses, a Jesus.

Why do I stay blind in your presence?

You are Joseph at the bottom of his well.

Constantly working, but you do not get paid,

because what you do seems trivial, like play.

Now silence. Unless these words fill

with nourishment from the unseen, they will stay empty.

Why would I serve my friends bowls

with no food in them?

Whatever Circles

Walk to the well.

Turn as the earth and the moon turn,

circling what they love.

Whatever circles come from the center.

An Edge of Foam

A dervish lover was told to turn

toward his own face,

and he did, saying, Lord, lord, for years

with no answer, no message back,

yet he was always there turning in silence,

with no music supporting him,

no tambourine rhythm.

A pigeon knows which roof to haunt.

Even if you drive it off,

it will circle and stay near.

This is the critical moment

when a swell of ocean turns

its edge to foam.

Every dervish has two mouths,

a crafted reed opening

and the lips of the flute player.

Lord, don't speak from there.

Held Like This

Mother and Child, by Henry Moore

Held like this, to draw in milk,

no will, tasting clouds of milk,

never so content.

Inside the Rose (2)

But there are those in bodies

who are pure soul. It can happen.

These messengers invite us to walk with them.

They say, You may feel happy enough where you are,

but we cannot do without you any longer. Please.

So we walk along inside the rose,

being pulled like the creeks and rivers are,

out from the town onto the plain.

My guide, my soul, your only sadness

is when I am not walking with you.

In deep silence, and with some exertion

to stay in your company,

I could save you a lot of trouble.