remember you are inside the presence

 

Whatever state you’re in,

remember you are inside the presence.

Out looking for pleasure, there especially —

I have found no delight better than the mix of touch

with love. That taste is the sweetest. When you are tranced

in that, recall who gave you these pleasurable forms and

inclinations. Even when having a brain seizure,

remember how earthquake energy pries

apart mountains and zigzags a stone

wall. Let that core-energy break

your convulsion.

 

When you’re afraid

of a certain man in power, of some

authority binding you, in these anxieties,

as well as in prostration prayer,

taste the presence.

 

Bahauddin, father of Rumi

The Drowned Book

let the lover be crazy


 

A certain

young man was asking

around.  “I need to find a wise person.

I have a problem.” A bystander said, “There’s

no one with intelligence in our town except that man

over there playing with the children, the one riding

the stick-horse. He has keen, fiery insight and

vast dignity like the night sky, but he

conceals it in the madness of

child’s play.” 

 

The young

seeker approached the

children. “Dear father, you who

have become as a child,

tell me a secret.”

 

“Go away.

This is not a day for

secrets.” “But please! Ride your

horse this way, just for a minute.” The sheikh

play-galloped over. “Speak quickly. I can’t hold this one

still for long. Whoops. Don’t let him kick you. This is a wild

one!” The young man felt he couldn’t ask his serious

question in the crazy atmosphere, so he

joked, “I need to get married. Is

there someone suitable on

this street?”

 

“There are

three kinds of women

in the world. Two are griefs, and

one is a treasure in the world. The first,

when you marry her, is all yours. The second

is half-yours, and the third is not yours at all. Now get

out of here, before this horse kicks you in the head!

Easy now!” The sheikh rode off among the

children. The young man shouted,

“Tell me more about

the kinds of

women!”

 

The sheikh,

on his cane horsey,

came closer, “The virgin of

your first love is all yours. She will

make you feel happy and free. A childless widow

is the second, she will be half yours. The third, who is

nothing to you, is a married woman with a child. By her first

husband she had a child, and all her love goes into that child.

She will have no connection with you. Now watch out.

Back away. I’m going to turn this rascal around!”

He gave a loud whoop and rode back,

calling the children

around him.

 

“One

more question, Master!”

The sheikh circled, “What is it? Quickly!

That rider over there needs me. I think I’m

in love.” “What is this playing that

you do? Why do you hide

your intelligence

so?”

 

“The people

here want to put me

in charge. They want me to be

judge, magistrate, and interpreter of all the texts.

The knowing I have doesn’t want that. It wants to enjoy

itself. I am a plantation of sugarcane, and at the same time

I’m eating the sweetness.” Knowledge that is acquired is not like

this. Those who have it worry if audiences like it or not. It’s a

bait for popularity. Disputational knowing wants customers.

It has no soul. Robust and energetic before a responsive

crowd, it slumps when no one is there. The only

real customer is God. Chew quietly your

sweet sugarcane God-love, and stay

playfully childish. Your face  will

turn rosy with illumination

like the red bud

flowers.

 

Let the lover

be disgraceful, crazy,

absent minded. Someone sober

will worry about things going

badly. Let the lover

be.

 

All day

and night, music,

a quiet, bright reed song.

If it fades, we

fade.

 

Jalal al-din Rumi

translated by coleman barks

 

don’t die

geoff mcfetridge

 

After the birthing of bombs of forks and fear
the frantic automatic weapons unleashed,
the spray of bullets into a crowd holding hands,
that brute sky opening in a slate metal maw
that swallows only the unsayable in each of us, what’s
left? Even the hidden nowhere river is poisoned
orange and acidic by a coal mine. How can
you not fear humanity, want to lick the creek
bottom dry, to suck the deadly water up into
your own lungs, like venom? Reader, I want to
say: Don’t die. Even when silvery fish after fish
comes back belly up, and the country plummets
into a crepitating crater of hatred, isn’t there still
something singing? The truth is: I don’t know.
But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing
like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move
my living limbs into the world without too much
pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight
toward the pickup trucks break-necking down
the road, because she thinks she loves them,
because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud
roaring things will love her back, her soft small self
alive with desire to share her goddamn enthusiasm,
until I yank the leash back to save her because
I want her to survive forever. Don’t die, I say,
and we decide to walk for a bit longer, starlings
high and fevered above us, winter coming to lay
her cold corpse down upon this little plot of earth.
Perhaps we are always hurtling our body towards
the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love
from the speeding passage of time, and so maybe,
like the dog obedient at my heels, we can walk together
peacefully, at least until the next truck comes.

 

24th Poet Laureate of the United States