Too Happy, You Could Not Sleep Last Night

I am the slave who frees the master.

I teach the teacher.

I am essence born freshly every day.

I built the ancient civilizations.

I brush medicine on fading eyesight.

I relight intelligence.

In grief, I am pitchblack darkness.

On a feast day, the children's excitement.

I am the ground who fills the sky's brain

with fiery lightning-love, air, wind.

You could not sleep last night,

too happy with how I was remembering you.

No one is to blame that sometimes

I am a scandal, or obviously unfair.

The surface is rusting over.

I had better go into silence.

I am breathing too close

to this mirror's face.

Sheba's Hesitation

Imagine that you are Sheba trying to decide

whether or not to go to Solomon.

You are haggling about how much to pay

for shoeing a donkey, when you could be seated

with one who is always in union with God,

who carries a beautiful garden inside himself.

You could be moving in a great circuit

without wings, nourished without eating,

sovereign without a throne.

No longer subject to fortune,

you could be luck itself,

if you would rise from sleep,

leave the market-arguing, and learn

that your own essence is your wealth. 

Different Loads

Siesta, by Vincent van Gogh

Do not feed both sides of yourself equally.

The spirit and the body carry different loads

and require different attentions.

Too often we put saddlebags on Jesus,

and let the donkey run loose in the pasture.

Do not make the body do what the spirit does best,

and don't put a big load on the spirit

that the body could carry easily.

Sublime Generosity (2)

He said, You are the sheikh, the guide.

But I am not a teacher. I have no power.

He said, You already have wings.

I cannot give you wings.

But I wanted his wings.

I felt like some flightless chicken.

Then new events said to me,

Don't move. A sublime generosity

is coming toward you.

And old love said, Stay with me.

I said, I will.

You are the fountain of the sun's light.

I am a willow shadow on the ground.

You make my raggedness silky.

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.