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LOVE IS THE MASTER
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Sufism  Love is the masters of all things; I am mastered totally by Love. By my passion of love for Love I have ground sweet as sugar. O furious Wind, I am only a straw before you; How could I know where I will be blown next? Whoever claims to have made a pact with Destiny Reveals himself a liar and a fool; What is any of us but a straw in a storm? How could anyone make a pact with a hurricane? God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection; How can we pretend to act on our own? In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack; Sometimes Love hoists me into the air, Sometimes Love flings me into the air, Love swings me round and round His head; I have no peace, in this world or any other. The lovers of God have fallen in a furious river; They have surrendered themselves to Love's commands. Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night, Constantly turning and turning, and crying out |
Pardon my haste,
the credit on the the above
translation of Kabir's poem
belongs to Robert Bly.
Kabir [poem 1]
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
nesting?
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 sold 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.
These are the flames where Moths
come feed and dreams become light Ghost.
Brilliant gel coated lines and flames
written by the hands of Love and she
The writer of songs the "Phonix" maker.
From moth to ash to Ghost to air
The maker comes and with spent breath
populate anothers flesh with decorated bones
till then again the Ghost find wings
to rise toward another brilliant fire.
Douse me with this, with dew, with liqeur
with words, for I am drunk already.
For here, lives the words from which the meek
have fled but I in drunken fury go
towards the flames which lights the way to paradise.
Is there a difference between fragrance and the pines
The honey and the bees the forest and the trees
the season and the color of the rose
the dancer is he too not the dance
and the dreamer is he too not the dream?
When words as beautiful as these
bestir a quite storm there are no answers
only questions upon questions and challenges
to which on earth there is yet no know resolve.
MY GOD - THIS IS BEAUTIFUL!
WHO ARE YOU?
Forgive me but this poem turns
in me like the Great Wheel itself
and you remain like the words
a beautiful mystery.