in one glimmer of nothing, and how easy
—you see—to vanish, to sink in the same
darkness, illogic, as generations before.
no one knows you in your shadowing:
not devil nor demons nor angels nor men
(who wrote you off, and how long ago?)
—but will it be now, at mud’s deep
that you instinctively reach an arm out
to swim, that the air takes your lungs
with all the force of forgiveness?
Resonating with today’s Hafiz read, “To Make You Perfect,” translated by Daniel Ladinsky
if our lives became a line
graph: how we grow closer
intersect, grow farther again
or those overlapping circles:
same, not same in definition
dreams, religion, kids—
so we smooth, repair, strengthen
this thread, spin it out stretching
holding over miles and years
stunned, chained—where is this cog in the great machine,
this puzzling piece in the grand design? is my part beauty,
remembering, simple love? how does beauty stand
against a landslide? how does memory shine
in a millennium’s weight of darkness? how does love open
one fist, finger by finger by finger, and then the next?
can the chain be fingers clasped, my one hand holding yours
or the children I give, having built them of love?
Inspired by Hafiz, “The Heart’s Coronation,” translated by Daniel Ladinsky.
“The pawn always sits stunned, chained,
there is nothing but divine movement
in this world.”
squinting into golden blue
to ponder a shape—
dream of a shape—
(you said: does God not know
how to grow a tree?)
one ladder-rung at a time
wondering, clip and toss
seeking bee-bloom, wasp-fruit
or just lean here in the quiet hum
of the trunk’s slender warmth
this periwinkle faith
through sunless seasons
what of your pleading attempts
to will it into being?
now green so clear it hurts
stretching sunward on nothing more
than instinct and half-forgotten roots
not to be pressed in a book
or plucked to judge its shape
but let it spring lush where it will, overspill
your stone-built walls, all in a night
when no one is looking
hatch this ink-run, butterfly plan—
test the limits of your inner shape
the moment stood
and faced the sea; we called it
faith-breaker, the hiss
of sand’s what god? where?
we held our freedom in both hands
shook it out: to walk slowly on
wave-wise; to curl in again
with mountain-root song
Thanks and apologies to Kerfe, because I stole from her poem.