Become the sought

Become the sought                                                                                               

Fool that I am, I have searched for You all these years –

the One Who is everywhere and in everything.

I’m not sure of what I’m seeking

but You’ve given it a name:  Meher Baba.  

I suppose I’m nearer the goal after all this time.

I’ve no way to gauge the distance.

You didn’t come to teach

and I’ve learned nothing of consequence.

Either I am You or Your creature

or somehow both and I’ll end up with You

some lifetime or another – or not.

You might never be mine

but just the same I belong to You.

I may be a fool but I’m Your fool,

hoping to die

with Your name on my lips.

O child of God, Meher said stop seeking

and become the sought.

My trembling fingers

My trembling fingers                                                                                  

I’ve never come near to humility

but I’ve admired it from afar.

I was raised neck-deep in it,

a down-to-earth natural position

where the power and grace of God

was an evident firsthand everyday experience

yet my own humility early on gave way

to shame and pride and then a lifelong duplicity.

 

Baba would sometimes ask (as a test)

a would-be disciple to walk the streets naked.

My mind explores the possibility

but my trembling fingers

can’t unfasten and remove my clothing.

It was humility lost long ago in the Garden  

(the essence of innocence) and it is shame to this day

that keeps God’s children hidden among the leaves.

O child of God, humility is the nakedness

required to learn at last who you really are.

A rumor of Union

A rumor of Union

Someone is knocking at the heart’s door.  No one’s home.

Why do I wander ever outside myself?

When will I answer that knocking?

Not with words, but with my whole being?

O child of God, dip into His silence –

and let the streams run clear.

If you must speak, recite poetry for the lovelorn.

Or learn a few Tavern songs.

Lifetimes of searching; the elusive One just beyond my fingers.

Love is a homesickness scented with neem trees.

As a child, I wondered where all the trains were going.

They ended up in Ahmednagar, roaring past the Tomb

          of my Beloved.

Passengers have bought tickets for various destinations.

But they’re in God’s territory now.

O child of God, for many years you’ve chased the rumor of Union.

With ruined heart, surrender now and graciously accept defeat.

The One calling you

The One calling you                                                                                    

Enticed by the promise of annihilation,

dust as the goal instead of paradise,

chances are you never were

much enamored of yourself.

Perhaps some sort of epiphany

has shaken the reasonableness from your bones

or the unexpected purity and sincerity

of the One who offers the barter

has overcome your fear of death.

Ask for nothing, the Master says, and you might

have always believed nothing is what you deserve.

Still, a proposal of renunciation and servitude,

ending with annihilation is an odd enticement.

Maybe you have considered all along

yourself a mistake –

that there needs to be a correction.

You’ve known it deep down forever

and longed for your lonely light

to be extinguished or outshone –

made extraneous by the eternal light of its Maker.

O child of God, the One calling you

is the One you have been awaiting for ages.

Where is the gamble?

Where is the gamble?                                                                                  

Certitude is not required to start down this path,

just the lifelong lack of a workable alternative.

What’s at stake here?  A few more years

of inadequacy, fraught with dread and sorrow?

Garbed in the world, I become its infinitesimal center.

I’m not cut out to be a Qutub! –

the ill-shaped cogs and wheels, bolts and gears

screech and grind, sparking in their turn.

Not certitude but a verification comes

in the quiet fluidity of my daily practice.

When I wrap myself in the Beloved’s sadra,

I begin to disappear in His eternal Presence

as does also this tainted world to which

I do not (and never once did) belong.

O child of God, if the Beloved does it all

and does it with love, where is the gamble?

The lost Book

The lost Book

You have in your possession a valuable manuscript.

Why study scriptures, charts and stars?

Try your own wisdom.

O lover of Meher, you are the lost Book.

Your Beloved never tires of love songs

lamenting your separation –

though union is but one desire

and very near the bottom of your list.

On His porch steps night and day,

trading stories, sipping chai.

Why not go inside the house? 

He left the key under the mat.

Your cup is empty.  More chai?  Don’t be afraid to ask.

Nothing’s more beautiful than a Father pouring tea for His son.

You’ve collected buttons and posters; expensive paintings.

He smiles from every corner of the house.

How is it you don’t recognize Him

when you pass in the street?

O child of God, look for His face among the clouds;

          the glimmer of His sadra.

Sweeten this dream of existence with dreams

of your Eternal Beloved.

                                      (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)

Of birdsong caliber

Of birdsong caliber                                                                                     

If ever this poetry could touch the dulcet chirruping of birdsong,

each word’s import would become superfluous to its charm.

Nonsense syllables would be at its heart,

the gist of a riddle giving everyone a good laugh; 

each poem an ornament hung from the neck, 

a stud in the lobe of an ear, a beauty that speaks for itself

rather than this old hair shirt cut to fit, dutifully gilding

the dissonance and duplicity of both words and thought.

This birdsong poetry would then take flight

and I would follow, no longer grounded

by my inarticulacy, ignorance and desire.

Truth and beauty would appear together onstage,

in pure harmony singing the story of existence –

a love song without meaning beyond the telling of the tale,

the love that creates and sustains it

and the love of which it is constructed.

O child of God, if ever you are able to write poems

of birdsong caliber, you will have no need for words.

A life edgeways

A life edgeways                                                                                          

I’ve never had much to do with today

(where You say all the action is)

always barreling through to tomorrow

or sifting through yesterday’s ashes.

So when have I ever had time

to fit in a life edgeways?

Never had much to do with

where You say the opportunity is,

too unsettled to function easily within it. 

You keep calling me back, though, to explore

the here-and-now God and let go of everything else –

even the components of my present moments,

staring at the puzzle before my eyes until I make out

the one Reality You say is hidden among the extraneous;

extricate God and myself from the very idea

of Him and me and just who in the world we really are.

O child of God, when you look for God

(said Rumi), God is in the look of your eyes.

Your silence is the sound

Your silence is the sound

Your silence is the sound of the heart’s surrender,

the dissolution of the ego structure,

the speechless wonder of the mind

when God steps through the door.

It is the sound of a lover’s deep gaze,

a tear sliding down the cheek;

the silence of a pilgrim sinking to his knees,

after so long a journey, before the Tomb of his Lord.

O Beloved, Your sound is the silence of the Tomb itself,

          closed for the night;

the silence of the painted images on its holy, stone walls.

O child of God, why speak of silence?

The Beloved speaks eternally within the human heart.

                                      (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)

The symphony of Existence

The symphony of Existence                                                                       

When everything is attuned, settled

and still, there can be no music.

Required is an adversarial arrangement,

artfully constructed – the bow across the neck –

a violation of the once quiescent strings;

the air trembling into a carefully shaped emptiness

and music is formed from components

which alone and inert make no sound.

And if everything is infinitely One,

perfect, absolute, attuned and quiescent,

it takes an illusory breach, tension and division

to draw the bow and quiver the strings,

to create the moment to moment performance

of the singular symphony of Existence.

O child of God, have faith in the utter necessity

of every aspect of God’s composition.

Devoted inquiry

Devoted inquiry                                                                                          

All we have is His name.  And mindful remembrance

to draw nearer to Him.  And perhaps, devoted inquiry –

not from any acuity we might possess, but perhaps

useful in articulating our latent heart’s desire,

a personal extension of God’s inquiry – Who am I? 

The setting aside of earthly concerns,

the turning and narrowing of our will
from egocentric survival

to a God-centered exploration
of the One Eternal Source and Goal –

the only possible true purpose

(if there is one) of our existence.  

O child of God, outside the realm of duality,

inquiry is grace – another gift from God.

Jasmine and roses

Jasmine and roses

The garlands that adorned Your neck have taken root

          and grown a garden.

Now every breeze is scented with jasmine and roses.

A bucket drops into a well, strikes water, cold and clear.

That water quenches every thirst.

The birdsong in Your garden intoxicates.

There is a silence there, also, made of birdsong,

jasmine and rose scent;

a bucket’s splash in a well.

In that silence, the drumbeat of my heart can be heard,

drawing me nearer to You.

Meher’s garden, this sanctuary, is inside me.

I carry it wherever I go.

O child of God, the kingdom of heaven is within.
Explore the rough terrain of your own heart.

                         (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)

The Sole Doer

The Sole Doer                                                                                             

Attribute everything to Me, said Meher Baba.

Have the full and firm faith of Baba as the sole doer.

I look around at God and listen to Him.

I smell, touch and taste God.

I study Him in my head and body;

trace His movements in my heart.

I attempt the faith of experiencing Him

as being everywhere and doing everything,

praying one day by grace to realize

the truth of my faith and disappear

within the everything of God.

A method and meditation divinely sent our way,

seemingly patterned on a sixth plane pilgrim

who we are told sees God everywhere

until he knows Himself to also be God,

the Sole Doer, the One without a second.

O child of God, how to search for your Self

when God alone exists?

Gather your people

Gather your people                                                                                    

The story of Noah and the Ark –

those who believe it are labeled literalists,

often deemed silly, deluded people of faith –

treated much like Noah himself.

But those who mock them,

are they not literalists, also?

Dismissing the story out of hand,

its origin and development

without an attempt to explain

how and why it has survived millenniums,

nor appraise its import and value

concerning our relationship with God.  

God and Noah walked stem to stern

inspecting the constructed ark. 

God approved of Noah’s effort and care,

his obedience, loyalty and rock-ribbed faith. 

He said, Gather your people aboard. 

You are all safe now – whether it rains or not.

O child of God, the value of faith in our lives

goes far beyond the obvious and the literal.

O sweet Grace

O sweet Grace

You removed Your God-sandals and entered my lonely heart!

Broke the lock.  Unlatched the hooks and chains.

Rain-soaked, You appeared at the door of my room;

whispered my name –

the one You first knew me by.

I heard You with all my heart.

O sweet Grace, just an inkling of Your bounty

and my shallow vessel overflows!

You know well my heart, Lord.

You’ve been there before –

the light that follows You

flooding its dark chambers with beauty.

O child of God, on the threshold, look:  His holy sandals!

Search your barren house for the long-awaited Beloved One.

                                          (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)

Another poem

Another poem                                                                                            

If you have any complaints, take it up with management.

God welcomes our grievances if we lay them at His feet.

He knows (apparently) even our deepest grief,

our direst travails, somehow will be

of little consequence in the light of Truth.

So it returns to faith.  I’ve run away from faith

all my life, demanding proof but proof is evidently,

in every circumstance, well, circumstantial.

And certitude is the great Illusion.

Funny thing is, after all these years

refusing to embrace faith, faith has begun

to embrace me, obliquely

and at the most unexpected moments,

revealing my hidden prejudices and presumptions,

errors in logic, offering me one or more alternatives

to every shred of damning evidence I uncover.

O child of God, your faith is strongest when the Beloved

gives you another poem to write.

The beast in the parlor

The beast in the parlor                                                                               

The elephant in the dark is the elephant in the room.

So dominant is its presence, its size and strength,

that we grab on early to a nearby part,

shape ourselves grotesquely around it,

settle as best we might

into our fixed and jostled, adversarial lives.

It’s not really there (we’ve been told by mystics of every stripe).

Done with shadows, suggestion, smoke and mirrors.

But almost no one ever hears nor fathoms what they hear. 

The Avatar has come to lead us away –

to disbelieve the beast in the parlor,

the evident and the obvious

and believe instead in Him, abandoning

forever (almost entirely upon faith)

the readily apparent elephant, our twisted response

and the dark house of our enchantment.

O child of God, the truth is explored when the seeker

becomes vastly indifferent to the obvious charade.

A scarlet bird

A scarlet bird

O Beloved, my heart is a scarlet bird,

pinioned and trembling in my chest.

You unlatched the cage – my heart soared

above that wine-soaked valley;

sang for You along the tree-lined path.

Returned by Your hands, neem-scented and breathless,

it built a nest among the tangled briers.

Perched now and singing from my chest,

it awaits the second coming.

O Beloved, my heart is a scarlet bird,

aflame and trembling in my chest . . . .

O child of God, your heart is a mystery –

deep as the silence of the Lord Himself, Meher Baba.

                                   (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)

The remote promise

The remote promise                                                                                    

It doesn’t take much to become dust.

I mean, it’s not like you start out a hero.

You have not to yield anything of real value.

Not a sacrifice really but the overseeing of a collapse.

It takes obstinacy, mind you, an obsessive vigilance;

persistence through constant failure;

a disheartening familiarity

with your own depthless inadequacy;

faith in the remote promise of a distant victory

constructed upon utter defeat.      

But what else is there to do when your Beloved

rouses in you the first inchoate stirrings of humility?

When He speaks of love and you discover your poverty,

your heart aloof and non-comprehending?  

What else to do with the shame from a lifetime

of duplicity, mistrust and a dearth of pity?

What else to do when your effort might bring

a brief smile, a nod of the head from your Lord

while you both wait for the one miracle

He promised He has come to perform?

O child of God, what else on God’s green earth

has more value than the dust gathered at Meher’s feet?

A God-glimpse

God-glimpse                                                                                               

An infinite Being has no place to hide.

No room or reason to sidestep. 

Is obvious and Self-evident, 

negating the need for a search. 

Like a deranged soul racing the asylum grounds

trying to run down his hallucinations,

there is nowhere in infinite illusion

to leave where God is not

nor escape to where God is more

attainable and tangible than He is

at the moment, wherever it is we happen to be.

Only a clear-eyed, unadorned God-glimpse

is the difference between here and there,

perhaps mercifully to be granted at appointed times,

whenever we turn up vigilant and avid,

of the One eternal, all-inclusive Reality.

O child of God, step away from duality by thinking

no longer in terms of movement, time and place.

A Bob Brown melody

A Bob Brown melody

The plane descends into a wet Maharashtrian night.

God help me, I’m in Your territory again.

How lovely to embrace old friends

and garland the stones of the ones gone on.

The earth is a lighter place, spinning faster,

since those pure doves took flight.

Tonight, my heart’s fire rages;

is that You, Beloved, dancing among the flames?

Intoxicated by Your voice,

I’ll praise You with Your own words.

My words are beginning to slur.

Maybe I should just hum an old Bob Brown melody.

O child of God, when words fail, praise Him with your eyes,

          your improbable dancing body;

allow your heart an improvisation on His silent, holy hymn.

                                      (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)

In transition

In transition                                                                                                         

I’m not a pilgrim, apparently.

I’m a jewel encased in stone.

Not in transit, but in attrition

from accoutrements to essence.  

There are no way stations, only stages,

the destination under my bulk.

Nowhere to go but to the Lord

Who is everywhere and already with me.

Nothing to do but do as I’m told,

not in words but by circumstance.

My life has only the meaning I give it

and when I reach the truth I apparently am,

my life will have no meaning at all – like God,

which is Who I am and all of this, too.

O child of God, keep trying to put it into words –

the impossible task your Beloved has granted you.

Wallflower peace

Wallflower peace                                                                                        

I’ve got this song stuck in my head.

It’s got a good beat.  I give it a 95.

When will I cease dancing to its tune?

Get caught up instead in the silence of my Lord?

 

Trade in these irksome gyrations

for the wallflower peace

of obeisance and remembrance;

quit the cotillion irrevocably

for my Lord’s chamber. 

Have us there a marathon

here-and-now heart to heart,

me folded up securely at His feet,

silent and rapt, enchanted

by His ancient song of love.

O child of God, do not absent yourself

for a moment, advised Hafiz.

This Hill

This Hill

Enjoy the Samadhi’s path, its gentle shadows.

Baba’s here, too – partway up.

‘Why ever leave this Hill?’ Mansari asked.

‘Where to go from here?’

She left only to keep an appointment with God,

flying to His arms, reciting Kabir.

It was monsoon season.  I was drenched to the bone –

and flooding this valley:  a red river of wine.

Out of the Tavern, stumbling drunk,

I heard Your laughter –

though when You served that wine,

Your eyes were grave with compassion.

How did I get here, o Lord, so far from home?

And who is this stranger staring from the bottom of my cup?

O child of God, drunks lead a short, but happy life.

They teeter on the holy edge, before falling into a sea of fire.

                                       (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)

Barakoti

Barakoti                                                                                                     

Twelve Coats danced for joy

when he stood before his Beloved

yet he would not remove his coats.

Threadbare and ragged, odious with filth,

he had not the faith to part with

that which routinely embraced him,

sheltered and insulated him from the world.

Baba’s Presence enlivened the old man

but not enough to let him slip out from under

a lifetime of accumulated concealment and buffer, 

shed his superstitions (with their dubious protection)

and grant him the courage to dance naked before his Lord.

O child of God, you know almost nothing about Barakoti;

maybe just enough to use him innocuously as a metaphor.

Know it all

Know it all                                                                                                  

Lying on the beach, eyes closed;

enjoying the heat of the sun,

a soft wind, the roar of the waves.

An old man ambles up. 

Wagging his finger, he says,

‘You’re responsible for this – the sun, the sky,

the sea, the beach have all come out of you’.

I nod and tell him they’re probably

looking for him back at the nursing home.

He wanders off down the beach.

I roll over to get some sun on my back

and wake up in my bed in the middle of the night.

O child of God, when you become certain

of just one thing, you will know it all.

Outrageous love

Outrageous love

The teabag has broken.  How will the scattered bits

of leaves ever be returned to the bag?

After I let You into my heart, You produced a key

to long-locked door.  It led to a cellar filled with wine.

O Lord, those are my teardrops on those dusty bottles!

My tongue is too drunk to speak properly

but I will moan for You.

Moonlight pours through a small window just above the street.

Let’s drink to Hafiz – to his outrageous love.

And what of Rumi – his poetic, methodical breaking down

of the barriers between lover and God.

O Beloved, my heart seems so spacious when You are there,

sweeping through the house in Your flowing gown;

Your arms fluid and graceful, Your birdlike hands

making gestures for love, grace, forgiveness, mercy.

On Your head, Your hands form a crown – the gesture for a king.

You are the King of my heart, establish Your throne there.

O child of God, prepare your heart for the day

King Meher arrives in full regalia never again to leave. 

Ashes and dust

Ashes and dust                                                                                           

To deny the self is to invest in the concept of self.

To practice non-attachment is to be attached to a practice. 

Lovers should instead fasten themselves,

(as per Meher) like dust to the Beloved’s damaan –

one attachment to burn away all others;

the self reduced to ashes and dust.

Ashes and dust on His skirt, His feet and sandals,

outside His threshold lying quietly

until He briefly enters or departs, 

His lovers then stirred up in His wake,

whirling like dervishes in their insubstantiality.

O lovers, true non-attachment comes

from seizing roughly the hem of His garment

and holding on for dear life.

O child of God, make Meher your world

and He will become your sole attachment.

Wordplay

Wordplay                                                                                                   

Perhaps, the promise of eternal bliss

is merely a bright carrot

for those of us stuck in mortal fear,

a vague but appealing image

in our imperfect capacity and experience, 

leading us farther along the journey.

The Avatar is limited by language,

flesh and circumstance,

by the inviolate laws of the Game itself

and, within those parameters,

incapable of describing the indescribable,

explaining the inexplicable or delivering precisely

the workings of the One infinite and eternal God.

Meher declared Himself free of all promises

and emphasized He did not come to teach.

What He seems to have done is brought down God

to dwell among us and touch each of our lives

in a host of unfathomable and incommunicable ways.

O child of God, rely not on promise nor wordplay

but on the here and now presence of His divine Love.

                             

Honeymoon

Honeymoon

In the garden with You, everything still

but the unfolding flower of my heart.

I wanted words.  You’d rather hold hands.

We take a stroll through the heart-country

where at the first tavern, You buy the wine.

From the balcony, soft music;

dancers holding each other;

the candle glow in your eyes.

When I first fell for You – o Beloved,

the tricks You pulled to get me in Your lair.

O child of God, lover and Beloved share many a night

          of romantic splendor.

But honeymoons don’t last forever.

                                    (from The Garden of Surrender, 2004)