‘She who reconciles the ill-matched threads of life, and weaves them gratefully into a single cloth –
it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall and clears it for a different celebration
where the one guest is you.
In the softness of the evening
it’s you she receives.
You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.’
1,17 The Book of a Monastic Life
Today I split myself in half
– then pieced myself back together
I handed over my heart and body
– then accepted them straight back again
The richest man would have nothing but a map
of where the fuck he was headed
but the rest of us will walk straight into walls
self immolate, with a smile
– perhaps recognising what we’ve done, at around the half-way points.
There’s something in that, even if it doesn’t have a name, nor usually any fans.
I can feel fire, I can touch colours, I can see love, I can look down
and there’s nothing left –
but my Self
I hear fireworks.
I hear fireworks.
I can hear some white noise, but I think there’s something else too –
a heartbeat beside my own,
or is it? There’s not a lot I’m certain of,
other than my longing for certainty.
When I was younger I had a pond I’d clean out every so often
I’d transport my fish friends to temporary bucket homes
by sticking my bare hands out and feeling around in the cold unknown
It’d happen so fast, you never knew when
there’d be a split second defying space, time and the laws of fish (which at age seven, are really all one knows).
For a second I’d expand beyond the possible,
and my heart would stop with theirs.
There’s not a lot I’m certain of,
but I knew that was love
and I know you are too.
sat behind me
paint the place that’s in your head
with nothing else
‘When love beckons to you, follow him,
though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
Think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.’
– The Prophet
Paint us with a curved, soft brush,
you will notice that we glow.
Created whole, indeed enough,
that our love does overflow.
Dip your brush, and trace my thigh
next, map your way to my breast.
The ocean, a refuge,
we’re both power and heaven’s rest.