The absence of metaphor
Poets love words because
they can push them around
(in an affectionate way), gather and hoard,
winnow and cull, shape them as they will,
split them into several, simultaneous meanings.
A stone in the hands of a mason
is merely a stone, to be employed
or rejected. In a poet's hands
a stone ... might be a human heart,
a biting grief, a planet, a tomb.
Poets have a hard time with God.
With God, a stone has no meaning.
With God, a stone is simply THAT,
as God is THAT, as each moment is THAT,
as a lifetime, an age, an aeon is THAT.
It's the absence of metaphor, of signification,
the absence of meaning combined
with the utter, inviolable truth of everything with God
that leaves the poets ultimately inert and mute ...
that halts their poetry at the threshold of the divine.
O child of God, Meher Baba awaits
with the Word which has no meaning.