Words come from a Divine Source, as far as I am concerned. since my writing (as if does for other wordsmiths) ‘writes me’.  It flows through me and not from me. There are times when I have looked back at journal entries or articles I have penned over the years and think “Who wrote this?  I don’t remember writing this.” There are times when writing feels like prayer; devotional and primal. It is like worshiping at the altar of creativity.

Part of what feeds my soul are the words of those referred to as ‘ecstatic poets’; Rumi and Hafiz. Much of what they write can be construed as sensual and outright seductive. They can also be viewed as love poems to God. The book entitled The Gift that contains golden nuggets from Hafiz was indeed a gift from a lover. We used to read to each other from what became dog-eared pages. I have treasured memories of the man who remains a dear friend.

Here are some of my favorites for your reading pleasure:

 

It Felt Love

How

Did the rose

Ever open its heart

And give to this world

All its

Beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light

Against its

Being,

Otherwise,

We all remain

Too

Frightened.

 

 

 

These Beautiful Love Games

Young lovers wisely say,

“Let’s try it from this angle,

Maybe something marvelous will happen,

Maybe three suns and two moons

Will roll out

From a hiding place in the body

Our passion has yet to ignite.”

Old lovers say,

“We can do it one more time,

How about from this longitude

And latitude –

Swinging from a rope tied to the ceiling,

Maybe a part of God

Is still hiding in a corner of your heart

Our devotion has yet to reveal.”

Bottom line:

Do not stop playing

These beautiful

Love

Games.

The Seed Cracked Open

‘It used to be

That when I would wake in the morning

I could with confidence say,

”What am ‘I’ going to

Do?”

That was before the seed

Cracked open.

Now Hafiz is certain:

There are two of us housed

In this body,

Doing the shopping together in the market and

Tickling each other

While fixing the evening’s food.

Now when I awake

All the internal instruments play the same music:

”God, what love-mischief can ‘We’ do

For the world

Today?”

 

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

 

— Jelaluddin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks

 

LOVE IS THE MASTER

Love is the One who masters 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.