Friday, September 18, 2009

The Burning Poem of Intention: Your Plays

(my first Sikhi poem...draft. Hope I don't say anything offensive.)


The Burning Poem of Intention: Your Plays


My mind has been mortgaged to illusions:

I have put chandeliers into a borrowed house of straw.

A hearth in a house of ice.


Blown with flies and dust. I decorate myself with string, with blood, with death itself.


In this dark there is a rainbow reflected. You

Like a diamond gleam in everything, even the sparkle

Of the ice as it melts, the honeyed straw. 


They will fall away.


But you… are the sweetest of scents. You permeate

every thing every space every living breath every inter-space

with grace.


Originating everywhere, never fading, constant, clean. Perfect.


Though it sweeps under leaves and over roofs, into lungs and cells, out noses.

Though it folds itself between the pages of books, and mixes with the mortar of bricks.

Though it makes up the blinding lights of stars themselves, we will not smell it.


We ignore this beauty.


We can see nothing, unless we breathe deep the depths of you.



Your plays have, in this way, bewitched me.



I will set this house on fire and step out of its door with love for you.

My bare soul feet clean of the melting “I”.


It will fall away.


The companion that grew with me, inside and without me,

You, are tear and smile. Foolishly,

I had thought you were far away.


This partner, this friend that consumes me with a holy fire

My soul burned towards the stars.

And who makes it cool with no other desire.


You who could drop a match into my very being, snuff and strangle.

You who enter into the deepest recesses of my body without a sound.

You who put me in motion with the grace of your natural moves.


Your plays have, in this way, bewitched me.


I see you sometimes:


You in the cell of a leaf,

in the atom swinging,

in the cold breeze of a derelict room,

in a warm heartbeat,

in a rug on the floor,

a sudden storm,

the sky at night,

the everything.


We cannot describe the gifts.

How then the giver? And

How the giver who is:             giver,                         gift             &            hand held out.


Every clotted sigh,

every line of every letter on this page,

my fingers, my thoughts: this is all you.


Your plays have, in this way, bewitched me.


Lover who makes me, sister who breaks me: I am lost.


I know that I shall be called into the dark, kicking over a lamp.


I will set this house on fire and step out of its door with love for you.

My bare soul feet clean of the weary, melting “I”.


Cinders and ash will fly up, blue and final


With nothing


The fire will light my road to you.


Sunday, April 19, 2009

Ghazal 4 (stone radif, for Hitesh)

We sharpen, we wane, we pound and crush, we do not move to stand alone as stone

We are altars and baths, garlanded, smoothed, worn with blood, milk and love as stone.


In this house so solid and so cool I listen to songs of solitude but you

Lean against the wall, collapsing like a reggae king: rock-stone.


These are the built foundations of Jah-law and Jah-love.

Our kisses set lips as lime between the stones of this fortress.


Your body, smooth and tight, a seam of gold in a dark, hot mine-

A candle set inside a fist of salt, glowing through that solid stone.


You light my way: your feet cast golden angles like an open door. We lean in, become The acute kissed source of talk-talent, as echoes fly like prayers inside of our stone-love.


But because the firmament is not firm, and the heavens are not fixed, the meaning

Sun will glint between us on a given day when, breath-stirred, the stars align to stone.


We are eternal, yet we wear to dust under the soft touch of children. Our forms reborn, our memories burnished away. We yield to innocence, for time will also visit stone.


Love changes form, as waves carve caves from solid rock and sculpted forms run smooth

But light from light refracts, gold cleaved from gold is gold alone, and stone is always stone.