I am anxious these days–maybe anxious is not the proper term–I feel like moving, but am being held back by things lingering beyond their supposed lifetimes. I could just run, and tough it up when things snap; or I could hold on for a few more days…

Earlier today, I leafed through my mental notes for the one I kept to inspire steadfastness when needed, and I found it faithfully carrying this* Rumi ghazal, The Promise,

When pain arrives side by side with your love
I promise not to flee
When you ask me for my life
I promise not to fight

I am holding a cup in my hand
By God if you do not come
Till the end of time
I promise not to pour out the wine
Nor to drink a sip

Your bright face is my day
Your dark curls bring the night
If you do not let me near you
I promise not go to sleep…nor rise

Your magnificence has made me a wonder
Your charm has taught me the way of love
I am the progeny of Abraham
I’ll find my way through fire

Please, let me drink water from the jug
This love is not a short-lived fancy
It is the daily prayer, the year-after-year fast
I live it, like an act of worship, till the end of my life

But then, a tree
Blessed not with fruits of your bounty
Will be dry wood for fire
Even if it drinks the ocean

On the wings of the Friend, fly o my heart!
Fly and look upward
For high on the peak of presence
Earthlings like you will not be let in

Others praise God at the time of affliction
You stay awake day and night
Steady, watchful like the wheel of the firmament

Time to stop speaking of the Friend
Jealousy won’t let me scatter the perfume to the wind

* translation from Rumi’s Divan by Fatemeh Keshavarz.

I thoroughly enjoyed these short interviews, part of the NewsHour Poetry Series. (via Rockslinga)

GHASSAN ZAQTAN: But you have to start from the details.

JEFFREY BROWN: So, where do the details come from in — for your poetry?

GHASSAN ZAQTAN: Memory.

JEFFREY BROWN: Memory?

GHASSAN ZAQTAN: Memory is very important.

JEFFREY BROWN: As always on our trip, we were offered coffee. Here, it turned out to be a good way into talking about poetry.

GHASSAN ZAQTAN: For this uncertain place, for uncertain life, which we have in this area, we have to — to protect our personal history.

and

TAHA MUHAMMAD ALI: I thought that, if I want to express myself, I have to know what is poetry and what is good poetry. And this went together, reading and trying to write.

JEFFREY BROWN: In one short poem translated as “Where,” he writes that poetry hides.

So, poetry hides. How do you find it?

TAHA MUHAMMAD ALI: You have to take the pen and to take a paper, and to be ready to wait for him. Otherwise, he will come and you are not there. As a writer, you have to train yourself to write. Write anything, but every day.

often it is the only

thing

between you and

impossibility.

no drink,

no woman’s love,

no wealth

can

match it.

nothing can save

you

except

writing.

it keeps the walls

from

falling.

the hordes from

closing in.

it blasts the

darkness.

writing is the

ultimate

psychiatrist,

the kindliest

god of all the

gods.

writing stalks

death.

it knows no

quit.

and writing

laughs

at itself,

at pain.

it is the last

expectation,

the last

explanation.

that’s

what it

is.

by Charles Bukowski
from blank gun silencer - 1991

“I” am a dam
holding up great waters–
I would’ve blown myself up
years ago,
but I am inhibited
by an irrational fear
of floods.
عجبى

اقلع غماك يا تور و ارفض تلف
اكسر تروس الساقيه و اشتم و تف
قال :بس خطوه كمان…خطوه كمان
يا اوصل نهاية السكه يا البير يجف
عجبى

Some … glorious day,
I’m going to write … a
poem about the night … I
stayed up,
tracing the smile on your face as you slept.
And it’s going to be
beautiful
and serene!

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

from Ash Wednesday, by T. S. Eliot

Nuestro español bosteza.
Es hambre? Sueño? Hastío?
Doctor, tendrá el estómago vacío?
El vacío es más bien en la cabeza.

(*This is an adaptation of a translation of Antonio Machado’s poem–#50 from Proverbs and Songs–the original talks about Spaniards.)

This is not criticism–vaccuum in the head doesn’t imply brainless, just as hunger doesn’t imply no-stomach. Rather, this is a diagnosis. In that sense, the doctor’s presensce is appropriate (if not called for.) You surely don’t need a doctor to tell you if a stomach is empty or not, but you need one to diagnose the ailment causing the symptoms–hunger, daydreaming, and boredom. The ailment is, as Machado explains: underfed brains. The medicine?

I wish
–in a moment of transcendence–
to close my eyes,
my ears,
and my brain;
to write with the spine on my back
a poem
about you:
pure feeling,
sincere,
uninterrupted.
Full of spelling mistakes,
unchecked,
as it may be.
I wish I had it in me!

I wish I had it in me,
to wish you back,
to wish me back.
But even if I did,
I can’t go back…

And my control over the future
is like a baby’s control over his limbs;
nerve spasms from his back
seemingly signaling
precise movements.
But we, adults, see
the jagged attempts
and smile,
because we understand.
Or worry and cry,
because we don’t.

I wish
–in a moment of understanding–
to close my eyes,
my ears,
and my brain,
and float;
in a moment of now;
like a buddhist monk
in a state of meditation,
sitting silently
with a straight back;
waiting for the waves of life
to come back
–with the tide–
one by one,
carrying secrets.

And only with a straight back
would I withstand,
would I understand,
life in all its glory.
And I would stand
back,
and watch the secrets unfold…
And I would think of you…
And I would wish you
back.

(click to enlarge)

(via NoraYounis)