For Mevlana (I)

(March 1977, Boulder)

 

The lover knows why he is born:
When pierced for blood
   milk flows from the heart of the lover,
   nourishing even the one who adminsters the wound;
      that one is blessed by the lover,
      who now holds the dagger
         firmly rooted in his heart,
         withdrawing it and replanting it

            again and again,

        as a constant reminder.
The lover carries no fear
   for he carries his manhood in his heart.
       Therefore he is tender like a petal,
           while protected like the pomegranite.
He is veiled and allows himself to be unveiled
   when in the presence of the beloved.
       The lover may be shattered


           over and over again,


       but his pieces will always fall scattered
   to the soil to regenerate as an army of lovers!
Only the lover knows the meaning of constancy.

                 Love has made a fanatic of me;
                 and to the Source of all this
                 I gladly offer my head
                 again and again.
                 Pain rends the veil
                 which hid the cup of ecstasy.


                 Friend, cover yourself
                 with the mantle of secrecy
                 and go naked into the night.
                 There you will find a brilliance
                 which no eye can perceive.

Without the cup of sobriety,
how shall I contain this ecstasy?


It runs over the edge anyway,
and spills on the one whose lips
parted to taste.

                 Beloved Mother, teach me
                 the secret of the spring rain,
                 how it nourishes the earth
                 and makes all life fertile with its weeping.

My heart is with the Brotherhood,
the lovers whose eyes are brilliant with desire
   to serve the One who made them feel this.


   Their feet never leave the ground
   until the Turn is complete.
Their pride is in the One who causes this Turning,
their dignity is testimony of their surrender. 

For Mevlana (III)

(or, Love, Harmony and Beauty)

Words, like bears, must hibernate under a wintry blanket

     so they can emerge ready and strong 

                      in the springtime of their revelation

                               and strike squarely on the first blow.

Beauty, the most described thing of all,

    can no more be described than can truth -

           for like truth it is no thing,

                            but living.

In every face I greet my Self,

          for beauty is realized in the strangest ways . . .

                          if I love women

               it is only because they are women;

          if I love men it is only because I am one.

And if pondering my own face I find only beauty,

                 then I am in love with the Friend.

                     It cannot be otherwise.

Inside beauty there is love and harmony,

inside each are found its two companions.

             Without intimate knowledge

             the names we've given them are stale -

                    and within that intimacy

                     names are not needed.

Convention kills, behind every word

        is self-conscious thought.

          Then scrape the words off the page

              and see beauty face to face,

                     describing itself . . .

         Beauty, like silence, meditates on you,

                       restoring joy;

                  you break it in song

                        irresistable

              because you are human.

        And I love this human being.

S. Inayat-Chisti, Berlin, Oct. 1994