Poem

I am a boy thief stealing from Attar I am suspicious of the poems that dont write themselves, Though they may be inspired? Why the hesitation? What is wrong with them The longing for the absolute seems to linger about and haunt the mystic. Something has to be done. As if nothing is any good unless seen from way above. Nothing is good enough Everything should be better if it is to be right. Then it would just have to be left on the fire to smolder. How high must the flames go to burn up the self Every day I start fires hoping to burn up all of the noise. In the long search for quiet, to become the motionless man. It is a strange world we live in, everywhere everyone is in motion, but the goal of life is to be motionless. Or is that just my perception? Embers and ambers falling out of the fire and popping and crackling. noise even from the fire. Rumi says: Light up a fire within your soul Burn up these thoughts and words From head to toe (m2:1763) To light the fire you need the fire wood of persian words. I lock down my brain in urdu, persian and punjabi. Stumbling on one word at a time I fall into a dream It only takes a single line to trip that's the beauty of the hemistich In four beats, followed by two, then three, then two and two, I fall off the earth. 4, 2, 3, 2,2 I cross five rivers and then swim in a lake. The waves of the ocean roar in my ear. A song is being sung. Why generate thoughts when you could generate notes. Crazy Beethoven was a note generator. So crazy he even scared the oxen with his notes and caused trouble on the farm. Slow airs with grace notes on every note, tell a tale of Love. Rumi says: Listen as this reed pipes its plaint Unfolds its tale of separations: Cut from my reedy bed, my crying ever since makes men and women weep I like to keep my breast carved with loss to convey the pain of longing- Once severed from the root, thirst for union with the source endures I raise my plaint in any kind of crowd in front of both the blessed and the bad For what they think they hear me say, they love me - None gaze in me my secrets to discern My secret is not separate from my cry But ears and eyes lack light to see it. Not soul from flesh nor flesh from soul are veiled, yet none is granted leave to see the soul. Fire, not breath, makes music through that pipe.- Let all who lack that fire be blown away. It is love's fire that inspires the reed It's love's ferment that bubbles in the wine The reed, soother to all sundered lovers - its piercing modes reveal our hidden pain: (What's like the reed, both poison and physic, Soothing as it pines and yearns away?) The reed tells the tale of a blood-stained quest singing legends of love's mad obsessions Only the swooning know such awareness only the ear can comprehend the tongue In our sadness time slides listlessly by the days searing inside us as they pass. But so what if the days may slip away? so long as you, Uniquely Pure, abide. The Reed Song Beshnow in nay chun shekayat mikonad ME 1:1-34 Mysteriously enough, the opening lines to the Masnavi tells the whole tale of the entire Masnavi The Masters words worth repeating give a purpose to the iphone. Where was i when Rumi came into the picture, now i am lost again. All is lost and continues to shrink soon I will be gigantic and wear a huge turban. Walking on Gigantic Gaps in time In these gigantic gaps time is stopped and our emergence from these stop gaps is a rebirth. With 300 sikh swordsmen I guard the pass, with almost continuous battle. Every thought passing though is chopped visciously to pieces Thus peace is acheived. After becoming masters of long time, we can become fit to see the King. It is ecstacy that stirs the pot and creates bubbles. To heal the body be gone from it. It likes you to be gone. Even the donkey needs a rest. All the world is in need of rest. I once was a sad fisher boy but when the King rode by all my sadness went away. Now i am a boy thief stealing from Attar, Rumi and any other rich person. In the future, I will mull over my poems until they are perfect. But what is perfect? I thought everything was perfect. Thus, I am confused. But, I need not worry about it, because when Darshan sits, on the Throne, my verses line up like willing slaves. DS Poem June 15, 2014 Mystic Poem