Inside, the boiling summer day,
That same day outside wanes cool, fading.
Let the horizon be lined with golden leaves.
We have a diamond mine between us.
The worlds begun,
families and schools, nothing yet
in a barren, pointless void.
Stranger, our distance is this:
any time you grip your hand, know me
in the yielding around you.
How is it with this hate,
You feel the world, but not theirs?
Read of the absence in poems,
Bring it to bear on yourself.
Rest in that common ground,
and always search beyond.
.^._.^.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
Inside, the boiling summer day,
That same day outside wanes cool, fading.
Let the horizon be lined with golden leaves.
We have a diamond mine between us.
The worlds begun,
families and schools, nothing yet
in a barren, pointless void.
Stranger, our distance is this:
any time you grip your hand, know me
in the yielding around you.
How is it with this hate,
You feel the world, but not theirs?
Read of the absence in poems,
Bring it to bear on yourself.
Rest in that common ground,
and always search beyond.
.^._.^.
written in the style of "The Tent," by Jalaluddin Rumi, having fun attempting to mirror and echo his poem without contradicting or simply repeating its message:
Outside, the freezing desert night,
This other night inside grows warm, kindling.
Let the landscape be covered with thorny crust.
We have a soft garden in here.
The continents blasted,
cities and little towns, everything
become a scorched, blackened ball.
Friend, our closeness is this:
anywhere you put your foot, feel me
in the firmness under you.
How is it with this love,
I see your world and not you?
Listen to presences inside poems,
Let them take you where they will.
Follow those private hints,
and never leave the premises.
