Way

“Christian, Jew, Muslim, Shaman, Zoroastrian, stone, ground, mountain, river, each has a secret way of being with the mystery, unique and not to be judged”― Jalal ad-Din Rumi

 

Like imagination is to the poet
This, this, is in the centre of my heart.
You bathe my wounds with words, ointment, kisses
You have the key to the door that is always closed
You want me to stick to simple stories but I cannot
It is not fair to God. You show me a bridge, the bridge
Over the vortex of doubt: the bridge of sighs,
You are dumb in the sun.
The river passed into dawn when I took your hair shade
To accompany me to war - I was tired and broken
I do not want to die at night
I prefer to drink wine and think

Do not forget the resurrection of the heart.
You broke from your mother's  shelter
Until death.
Now, this solitary stranger is too tired to think.
So, dukkha-taṇhā:
Suffering and desire
Twist the unbidden tears:
Pumping hearts, shaking hands
Human life conducted in the dark
The hidden fears
The inconsolable grief
Many fear-filled years.
Craving permanence
The enduring stillness
Of the Sea of Galilee.
But let’s walk instead
To the tomb of Maimonides:
Oh! Why do the wicked prosper?
Why oh! why do the righteous die?
Answer came there none –
Except the Song of Solomon –
The season of singing has begun.
Gehinnom, citadel of souls,
Shines behind the sun,
We do not know of the world to come,
Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed
Taught us not to ask for whom the bell tolls
For it tolls for me….

 

 

 

Zoroastrian Art | Fine Art America

 

 

 

 

◄ Now we rise, and we are eveywhere

An August midnight ►

Comments

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John Marks

Sun 9th Aug 2020 12:32

Thank you, as ever, Keith and Cathy and Paul. Keith, I hope it makes more sense as you read it again. TS Eliot said: "Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood." Also close thanks are due to: Jennifer, Anmolpreet, Stephen and Tom.

“Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.” — Carl Sandburg, from The Atlantic, March 1923.

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Paul Sayer

Sat 8th Aug 2020 18:07

It was over 120 degrees, 39 Celsius, 312 kelvin in my Zen garden yesterday, seeking vibhava-taṇhā was put off until much later in the day.

I still find it hard to not be me.

John, I find your poetic prowess second to none.

The video and image are perfect accompaniments to this masterwork

Paul

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Vautaw

Sat 8th Aug 2020 00:46

Your poems always make me want to learn more, read more, be more. Thank you for sharing your beautiful gift. ❤️🔥🌟

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keith jeffries

Sat 8th Aug 2020 00:08

John,

the opening stanza ignites my imagination but then I feel somewhat adrift. I shall read this again several times as it merits further study as there is good deal to absorb.

Thank you for this

Keith

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