The Wanting-Creature Inside Me

 

 I said to the wanting-creature inside me:

What is this river you want to cross?

There are no travelers on the river-road, and no road.

Do you see anyone moving about on that bank, or resting?

There is no river at all, and no boat, and no boatman.

There is no tow rope either, and no one to pull it.

There is no ground, no sky, no time, no bank, no ford!

And there is no body, and no mind!

Do you believe there is some place that will make the

soul less thirsty?

In that great absence you will find nothing.

Be strong then, and enter into your own body;

there you have a solid place for your feet.

Think about it carefully!

Don't go off somewhere else!

Kabir says this: just throw away all thoughts of

imaginary things,

and stand firm in that which you are.

KABIR

in, The Mystical Poems of Kabir

Ode 2180

 

Anika Salsera

From these depths depart towards heaven;

may your soul be happy, journey joyfully.

You have escaped from the city full of fear and trembling;

happily become a resident of the Abode of Security4 .

If the body’s image has gone, await the image-maker; if the

body is utterly ruined, become all soul.

If your face has become saffron pale through death, become a

dweller among tulip beds and Judas trees.

If the doors of repose have been barred to you, come, depart

by way of the roof and the ladder.

If you are alone from Friends and companions, by the help of

God become a saheb-qeran5 [lord of happy circumstance].

If you have been secluded from water and bread, like bread

become the food of the souls, and so become

...

This is love: to fly to heaven, every moment to rend a hundred veils;

At first instance, to break away from breath — first step, to renounce feet;

To disregard this world, to see only that which you yourself have seen6 .

I said, “Heart, congratulations on entering the circle of lovers,

“On gazing beyond the range of the eye, on running into the alley of the breasts.”

Whence came this breath, O heart? Whence came this throbbing, O heart?

Bird, speak the tongue of birds: I can heed your cipher!

The heart said, “I was in the factory whilst the home of water and clay was abaking.

“I was flying from the workshop whilst the workshop was being created.

“When I could no more resist, they dragged me; how shall I

tell the manner of that dragging?”

...

Sweetly parading you go my soul of soul, go not without me;

life of your friends, enter not the garden without me.

Sky, revolve not without me; moon, shine not without me;

earth travel not without me, and time, go not without me.

With you this world is joyous, and with you that world is joyous;

in this world dwell not without me, and to that world depart not without me.

Vision, know not without me, and tongue, recite not without

me; glance behold not without me, and soul, go not without me.

The night through the moon’s light sees its face white; I am

light, you are my moon, go not to heaven without me.

The thorn is secure from the fire in the shelter of the roses

face: you are the rose, I your thorn; go not into the rose garden without me.

I run in the curve of your mallet when your eye is with me;

even so gaze upon me, drive not without me, go not without me.

When, joy, you are companion of the king, drink not without

me; when, watchman, you go to the kings roof, go not without me.

Alas for him who goes on this road without your sign; since

you, O signless one, are my sign, go not without me.

Alas for him who goes on the road without my knowledge;

you are the knowledge of the road for me; O road-knower, go not without me.

Others call you love, I call you the king of love; O you who are

higher than the imagination of this and that, go not without me.

RUMI

in, “Mystical Poems of Rumi 2” 

Golpe de Teatro

  

Daz Smith

Deu-se um golpe de teatro, a vida, 

afinal, tinha outras coisas para mostrar. 

Estava tudo quieto (não falávamos) 

e quanto mais a burocracia dos dias 

se eternizava nos próprios dias, 

mais socos desferíamos no amor, 

outrora fatal. Foste a correr dar 

um mergulho no rio da boa vontade, 

de boa vontade regressaste, cãozinho 

amestrado de circo a saltar de um 

banco para outro, e depois a grande 

sensação, por dentro de um aro 

de fogo. O golpe de teatro foi voltares 

ao mesmo, só que a tua vida 

passou a ser uma violência prática, 

como as funerárias junto aos hospitais.

Helder Moura Pereira

in, Golpe de Teatro

Confissão do fugitivo

 

Jon Shireman

Só sou feliz partindo.

Não entre quatro paredes, à mercê das espadas,

mas entre aqui e ali, uma e outra casa,

ambas de preferência alheias.

Já não posso, nem quero, estar quieto.

Nem agora nem depois. Nem aqui nem ali.

Em todo caso aí, onde tu estás,

seja tu quem fores, põe o teu nome

nos meus lábios sedentos, insaciáveis.

Eu não sou eu nem posso ter casa.

Não digo já porque foi sempre assim,

nunca a tive, sempre fui estrangeiro

dentro e fora de mim. Sou o que sou:

o mendigo que dorme debaixo da ponte

que une as minhas duas margens e que cruzo

dia e noite sem poder deter-me.

Escrevo porque procuro, porque espero.

Mas já não sei o quê, perdeu-se na memória.

Espero que escrevendo

acabe por lembrar-me. Insisto na intempérie.

Sobrevivo entre parêntesis

no espaço vivo e no tempo morto

da espera de que, entre dois aquis.

Nunca em mas entre. sai de mim,

sejas quem fores, deixa-me em paz

ou acaba já comigo e com o mel

amargo de estar só a falar só.

Decidi que a minha pátria seja

não decidir, não estar em nenhum sítio

mas de passagem, pontes, naves, comboios,

onde eu seja só o passageiro

que sei que sou, sentindo

que me inquieta a paz,

que a quietude me assusta,

que a segurança não me interessa,

que só sou feliz quando me sei fugaz.

Juan Vicente Piqueras