Red Shirt

 

 Portrait of the Boy Eutyches

Egyptian, A.D. 100-150

Has anyone seen the boy who used to come here?

Round-faced troublemaker, quick to find a joke, slow

to be serious. Red shirt,

perfect coordination, sly,

strong muscles, with things always in his pocket.

Reed flute, ivory pick, polished

and ready for his talent.

You know that one.

Have you heard stories about him?

Pharoah and the whole Egyptian world

collapsed for such a Joseph.

I would gladly spend years getting word

of him, even third- or fourth-hand.

* * * 

This reading is poignant for me today,

partly because of the recent triumphs in Egypt.

Today is also the 15th anniversary of the day

my redheaded (not redshirted) brother passed away at age 47;
except for the flute, every word of the first stanza is true of him!

He visited the pyramids at Giza in 1969
and took some beautiful photographs of them and the Sphinx.
I wish I had one here to scan and show you.


Bennett Williams Hart
b. June 28, 1948 d. February 24, 1996 

When I Am with You

 The Moonrise, Mamaroneck, by Edward J. Steichen

When I am with you, we stay up all night.

When you are not here, I can't go to sleep.

Praise God for these two insomnias.

And the difference between them.

The Grasses

The same wind that uproots trees

makes the grasses shine.

The lordly wind loves the weakness

and the lowness of grasses.

The axe doesn't worry how thick the branches are.

It cuts them to pieces. But not the leaves.

It leaves the leaves alone.

The motion of the body, the inhaling-exhaling,

comes from the spirit, now angry, now peaceful.

Wind destroys, and wind protects.

There is no reality but God,

says the completely surrendered sheikh,

who is an ocean for all beings.

The levels of creation are straws in that ocean.

The movement of the straws comes from an agitation

in the water. When the ocean wants the straws calm,

it sends them close to shore. When it wants them

back in the deep surge, it does with them

as the wind does with the grasses.

Dark Sweetness

The ground turns green. A drum begins.

Commentaries on the heart arrive in seven volumes.

The pen puts its head down

to give a dark sweetness to the page.

Planets go wherever they want.

Venus sways near the North Star.

The moon holds on to Leo.

The host who has no self is here.

We look into each other's eyes.

A child is still a child

even after it has learned the alphabet.

Solomon lifts his morning cup to the mountains.

Sit down in this pavilion,

and don't listen to religious bickering.

Be silent as we absorb the spring.

Imagining Is Like

Imagining is like feeling around

in a dark lane, or washing

your eyes with blood.

You are the truth

from foot to brow. Now,

what else would you like to know?

Talking through the Door (2)

Sala de los Secretos, The Alhambra Palace
(Whispering Chamber)
Granada, Spain
Photo from Wiki Commons

Then you asked, Where have you been most comfortable?

In the palace.

What did you see there?

Amazing things.

Then why is it so desolate?

Because all that can be taken away in a second.

Who can do that?

This clear discernment.

Where can you live safely?

In surrender.

Is there no threat of disaster?

Only what comes in your street,

inside your love.

Now silence. If I tell you more of this conversation,

those listening would leave themselves.

There would be no more door,

no roof or windows either.

Talking through the Door (1)

Patio de los Arrayanes, The Alhambra
Granada, Spain
Photo from Wiki Commons


You said, Who's at the door?

I said, Your slave.

You said, What do you want?

To see you and bow.

We talked through the door. I claimed

a great love and that I had given up

what the world gives to be in that love.

You said, Such claims require a witness.

I said, This longing, these tears.

You said, Discredited witnesses.

I said, Surely not.

You said, Who did you come with?

This majestic imagination you gave me,

Why did you come?

The musk of your wine was in the air.

What is your intention?

Friendship.