It’s almost February. A twelfth of my year has gone by, and that makes me a little bit sad. Does it make you sad?
I decided not to write what I started writing, because I know, I know I know that poetry saves me more than once. So again, I turn to this metaphor. I turn to this word or phrase to save my mind.
Here’s some Rumi for your Saturday morning.
This world of two gardens, both so beautiful.
This world, a street where a funeral is passing.
Let us rise together and leave this world,
as water goes bowing down itself to sea.
From gardens to the gardener,
from grieving to a wedding feast.
We tremble like leaves about to let go.
There is no avoiding pain,
or feeling exiled, or the taste of dust.
But also we have a green-winged longing
for the sweetness of the friend.
These forms are evidence of what cannot be shown.
Here is how it is to go into that:
Rain that has been leaking into the house
decides to use the downspout.
The bent bowstring straining at our throats
releases and becomes the arrow.
Mice quivering in fear of the housecat
suddenly change to half-grown lion cubs,
afraid of nothing.
So let us begin the journey home,
with love and compassion for guides,
and grace protecting.
Let your soul turn into an empty mirror
that passionately wants to reflect Joseph.
Hand him your present.
Now let silence speak.
As that begins, we will start out.
You know, for a person that is not very sure of themselves, I am very sure of things like this. Their ability to change your train of thought and predisposition of mind. You are no longer biased towards awkwardness and desolation and giving up. You are reborn with every word. Your thoughts take shape all around you when you read this. Like some sort of high-tech new fangled 3D contraption of poetry. I saw this digital design project from some student that attempted to chart poems in 5 dimensions or so. It was the magnum opus of some graduating student, and it was pretty cool but it didn’t have nearly enough depth that it should have.
I guess what I have to say for today, January 30, 2010 is that I need to backtrack a little to pick some things up. I have forgotten pieces of myself all over this world and it shows, to him it shows, and I know it shows to my family. If anyone is to love others, they must love themselves. And I am wracked by self-doubt every minute. It’s like, awesome, but really not.
I guess I just don’t know what I’m capable of.
But yeah, poetry is good.
So, so good.