Sublime Generosity (1)

I was dead, then alive.

Weeping, then laughing.

The power of love came into me,

and I became fierce like a lion,

then tender like the evening star.

He said, You are not mad enough.

You don't belong in this house.

I went wild and had to be tied up.

He said, Still not wild enough to stay with us.

I broke through another layer into joyfulness.

He said, It is not enough. I died.

He said, You are a clever little man

full of fantasy and doubting.

I plucked out my feathers and became a fool.

He said, Now you are the candle for this assembly.

But I'm no candle. Look. I'm scattered smoke.

Only the Best

Agony, by Arshile Gorky

In the slaughterhouse of love

they kill only the best,

none of the weak or deformed.

Do not run away from this dying.

Whoever is not killed for love is dead meat.

For Us This Day

My soul keeps whispering, Quickly,

be a wandering dervish,

a salamander sitting in its homefire.

Walk about watching the burning

turn to roses. As this love-secret

we are both blasphemy and the core of Islam.

Do not wait. The open plain is better

than any closing door. Ravens love ruins

and cemetery trees. They cannot help but fly there.

But for us this day is friends sitting together

with silence shining in our faces.

Dance

La danse, Henri Matisse

Dance, when you're broken open.

Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.

Dance in the middle of the fighting.

Dance in your blood.

Dance, when you are perfectly free.

The Origin of the World

Human beings seem to derive

from this planet, but essentially

we are the origin of the world.

A tiny gnat's outward form

flies about in pain and wanting,

while the gnat's inward nature

includes the entire galactic

whirling of the universe.

No Better Love

Andromeda, Eugene Delacroix

No better love than love with no object.

No more satisfying work

than work with no purpose.

If you could give up tricks and cleverness,

that would be the cleverist trick.

Hunt Music

Musk and amber remind us

of the air at sunrise,

when any small motion feels part

of some elaborate making.

The body's harp gets handed

to the soul to play.

The strings: rage, jealousy,

all the wantings mix their energy-music.

Who tuned this instrument?

Where wind is a string

and also Shams' eyes

reflecting a gazelle as it turns

to stalk the hunting lioness.