Fog

As fog rising off the sea

covers the sea,

so it is noble work to build

coherent philosophical discourses,

but they block the sun of truth.

See God's qualities as an ocean

and this world as foam

on the purity of that ocean.

Here is the mystery.

This intricate, astonishing world

is proof of God's existence,

even as it covers the beauty.

One flake from the wall of a goldmine

does not give much idea

what it is like

when the sun shines in

and turns the air

and the workers golden.

An Evolving Course

We began as a mineral.

We emerged into plant life and into

the animal state, and then to being human.

And always we have forgotten our former states,

except in early spring,

when we dimly recall being green again.

That is how a young person turns

toward a teacher, how a baby leans

toward the breast, without knowing

the secret of its desire,

yet turning instinctively.

So humankind is a being led along

an evolving course through this migration 

of intelligences, and though we seem

to be sleeping, there is an inner wakefulness

that directs the dream.

It will eventually startle us back

to the truth of who we are.

An Egypt That Does Not Exist

I want to say words that flame

as I say them, but I keep quiet

and don't try to make both worlds

fit in one mouthful.

I keep secret in myself

an Egypt that does not exist.

Is that good or bad? I don't know.

For years I gave away sexual love

with my eyes. Now I don't.

I am not in any one place.

I do not have a name for what I give away.

Whatever Shams gave,

that you can have from me.

Be Your Note

Remember the lips where wind-breath

originated, and let your note be clear.

Don't try to end it.

Be your note.

I'll show you how it's enough.

Go up on the roof at night

in this city of the soul.

Let everyone climb on their roofs

and sing their notes.

Sing loud!

Burnt Kabob

Last year I admired wines.

This year I am wandering inside the red world.

Last year I gazed at the fire.

This year I am burnt kabob.

Thirst drove me down to the water,

where I drank the moon's reflection.

Now I am a lion staring up

totally lost in love with the thing itself.

Do not ask questions about longing.

Look in my face.

Soul-drunk, body-ruined, these two

sit helpless in a wrecked wagon.

Neither knows how to fix it.

And my heart, I would say it is more

like a donkey sunk in a mudhole,

strugglings and miring deeper.

But listen to me. For one moment

quit being sad. Hear blessings

dropping their blossoms

around you. God.

Let Yourself Be Drawn

You miss the garden,

because you want a small fig from a random tree.

You do not meet the beautiful woman.

You are joking with an old crone.

It makes me cry how she detains you,

stinking-mouthed with a hundred talons,

putting her head over the roof edge to call down,

tasteless fig, fold over fold, empty

as a dry-rotten garlic.

She has you tight by the belt,

even though there is no flower

and no milk inside her body.

Death will open your eyes

to what her face is: leather spine

of a black lizard. No more advice.

Let yourself be silently drawn

by the stronger pull of what you really love.

Childsplay

There is no one with intelligence

in our town except that man over there

playing with the children.

He has keen, fiery insight

and vast dignity like the nightsky,

but he conceals it in childsplay.

[Today I have been married to that man 32 years. ~ Ruth]