and Rumi’s poetry, are reminders of experience,
larger and deeper ways we readers and listeners might live.
The words describe a taste of grandeur and love, and as they keep
telling us, you cannot do that: it’s impossible to describe such
wonders. The great winetasters may come as close as one
can get. But try to tell me, really, about a pistachio,
or something you have never tasted. Say what
you want, eventually we have
to taste to know.
commentary on The Drowned Book
You disciples and apostles,
you all do the same work, yet you try
to determine who’s above and who’s below.
Each of you thinks you’re special, and in that
vanity you irritate each other mightily.
You think there will not be enough,
so you fight for your portion
like dogs in the street.
Being in harmony
is the true way, not this itch
of greed, this constricted stall where
you and other donkeys get beaten with a stick.
Move instead to the praise-place, inside the
mystery, where prayer is unlimited,
and you feel the delight of
giving homage.