More Range

 Gerhard Mantz, Rachsüchtiger Ansturm

We are friends with the one who kills us,

who gives us to the ocean waves.

We love this death. Only ignorance says,

Put it off a while, day after tomorrow.

Do not avoid the knife.

This friend only seems fierce,

bringing your soul more range,

perching your falcon on a cliff of the wind.

Jesus on his cross, Hallaj on his.

Those absurd executions hold a secret.

Cautious cynics claim they know

what they are doing every minute, and why.

Submit to love without thinking,

as the sun rose this morning

recklessly extinguishing

our star-candle minds.

The Arrow

There is a hand hidden in the pen's writing,

a rider invisible in a horse's dancing about.

We see the arrow's flight, but not the bow,

what is manifest, not the source.

But don't discard the arrow.

Notice the royal markings.

We are the confused polo ball

that does not see the bat's arc coming down.

A tailor tears out seams and sews again.

A blacksmith blows on the fire.

In one moment a saint forgets.

In another, a degenerate begins a forty-day fast.

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.