walking,
the feeling of having lost something.
my most essential part.
where to find it?
you open a book, the chapter reads 'on separation',
you read:
SOMETIMES I FORGET COMPLETELY
Sometimes I forget completely
what companionship is.
Unconscious and insane, I spill sad
energy everywhere. My story
gets told in various ways: a romance,
a dirty joke, a war, a vacancy.
Divide up my forgetfulness to any number,
it will go around.
These dark suggestions that I follow,
are they part of some plan?
Friends, be careful. Don’t come near me
out of curiosity, or sympathy.
-
The poet is Rumi, the words
eight hundred years old,
but brand new
reading what you lost,
somehow
the loss is less
- but still, don't come near me
you keep reading
MY WORST HABIT
My worst habit is I get so tired of winter
I become a torture to those I’m with.
If you’re not here, nothing grows.
I lack clarity. My words
tangle and knot up.
How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.
How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.
When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools,
dig a way out through the bottom
to the ocean. There is a secret medicine
given only to those who hurt so hard
they can’t hope.
The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.
Look as long as you can at the friend you love,
no matter whether that friend is moving away from you
or coming back toward you.
-
I started looking,
less loss,
but the friend I love seems to be moving away.
no matter.
keep looking
keep reading:
AN EMPTY GARLIC
You miss the garden,
because you want a small fig from a random tree
You don’t meet the beautiful woman.
You’re joking with an old crone.
(...)
Let yourself be silently drawn
by the stronger pull of what you really love.
-
yes, yes, this loss is my loss
this garden is my garden.
a dear friend once sent me this poem
of a garden untended:
THE WIND, ONE BRILLIANT DAY
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
'Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.'
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?'
Below, a beautiful reading of the poem:
-
how to water your garden?
find a well
and dive in
is it bad water?
send it to the river
does it get caught in habitual whirlpools?
dig a way out through the bottom
to the ocean
and
walk
and
listen
listen with ears opened
otherwise it's just sound
how to open your ears?
i don't know
- let go
it happened
I listened
and
I heard
this song:
I listen
not just sounds,
also words,
Open on all channels
Ready to receive
Cause we're not at the mercy
Of your chimeras and spells
Your chimeras and spells
...
We are of the earth
To her we do return
...
(One day at a time)
One day at a time
...
The numbers don't decide
The system is a lie
A river running dry
...
We'll take back what is ours
Take back what is ours
One day at a time
-
Open, ready to receive,
one day at a time.
That's all it ever is, ever can be.
my eyes see a bit more
my ears hear a bit more
there is a bit more
the loss is less
slowly, returning
back into the world
through the well
always
through the well
(no shortcuts)
‘Let yourself be silently drawn
by the stronger pull of what you really love.’
