I mention in my sidebar that Rumi is my favorite poet. I wrote a number of poems in tribute to his longing for the Beloved.
“Present under the tree”
Scent of fir, can one who is blind still smell? What then of my
heart… as it beats, slowly in time to the Word scattered.
Scattered on backdrop of jet, pure white letters, they
are writ in the night sky. By day hidden, hidden from
us and withheld in a fringed purse of softest blue.
How then can I see? When resplendent beams dazzle my
eyes and confuse me?
So much commerce, such a din. How
can you taste God when the feast is so wretched?
You… you there… you have touched me. You have, you cannot deny. Cannot
turn your face from I… I have seen your glory and hope.
I have seen.
of late, I am weary…
am weary of the present… it seems interminable.
What am I to do?
This soul is part of you, but if I could not see, or hear, or taste, or touch
or smell you,
would then my soul, our souls still be? Illiterate… and unknowing, do
words, our words capture? Or are we
Shadows in the Universe we are, boastful and cruel. How can this be?
What made us this way? Can I not touch? How so, if I cannot touch self?
To be present… at my birth… what a wonderful moment that will be!
No more words, but sweet life, gulping breaths of the headiest draught
when I am free of cares and desires, when I… no longer am I…
You, who wait for all.