Bewilderment and Delight

Peace, one and all…

Bewilderment and Delight 

You have no form
and no image by which
I might hold You in my hands
to draw You close to my breast.

And so,
all forms are Yours
and my every image is as a mirage,
like mist before the rising Sun.

You are bewilderment and delight,
and beneath all these things
You are love’s unfolding mystery:
sorrow and joy, separation and reunion.

Thus, a fool have I become.
Aye, my Beloved!
And for all my mistakes,
I am happy that it should be so.

Abdur Rahman, 2nd August 2008

What is Poetry?

Peace, one and all…

Poetry is the fragile art of description
and the gentle science of building
the heart’s temple anew each morn.

Poetry is the art of diving
into the deep seas of meaning
without thought of escape or of rescue.

Poetry is the art of sitting in stillness,
beside a door already opened,
waiting for One Who knocks from inside.

A Slow Tear of Failure

Peace, one and all…

There is a passing moment of sadness
as each poem ends,
as the limitless possibilities of forever
fall softly towards this earth of here and now.

Perhaps then, the joy of poetry
comes not from the descent of words,
but from the ascent of the soul
to realms of light beyond the last horizon.

Poetry is a slow tear of failure,
the collected waters of a heart in need
and yet, Beloved, this is the essence
of what it means to be human

An Unfolding Moment of Sanctity

Peace, one and all…

You are a feeling in the heart,
and a newly drawn breath
from the living air
of a most sacred realm.

You are a light in the eyes,
and an unfolding moment of sanctity,
like a fleeting vision
seen but all too briefly.

You are a moving forth into infinity,
a forever-leap into love’s unknown domain,
dancing in joy beneath a light
that lived before Sun and Moon.

You are a hundred thousand open hands
reaching out towards me,
and I do but reach out as best I can,
though my eyes are run all to flame and silver-glass.

Take Your Soul to the Court of Lions

Peace, one and all…

Take your face to the very floor of yourself,
and bathe a while
in the silver waters
of a pool that has no name.

Take your soul to the court of lions,
where poetry is roared like the sceptre of a king,
and where all who are weary
may rest at the King’s high table.

Take your heart to the very centre of the Sun,
that it may be consumed by flame
and that it may be returned to you,
a burning ember to set a world ablaze.

This Skin of Mine

Peace, one and all…

This skin of mine,
which bears the weight of the sun’s flame
and the storm’s water-borne fury,
is in truth a gateway between worlds.

It is the living earth of this outward realm,
made from the very bones of Gaia
ground to dust
and joined in hope with the spirit’s fire.

It is a curtain of night
drawn across the vault of my inward skies,
as all that arises from within
reaches out in hope towards its source.

 

All That I May Yet Become

Peace, one and all…

All That I May Yet Become

You are the light of stars
shining into this benighted forest
of wayward thoughts and deeds.

You are a moon of hope.
Pearls of grace fall into these waiting hands
as tears of heaven into this earth-bound cave.

You are the warmth of hands,
holding in loving trust
all that I may yet become.

Abdur Rahman, 6th June 2008