Heart of mine

Heart of mine  

Heart of mine, be a dark rose

pleasing in scent and shade;

an anchor around which

my puttering boat circles;

a house left to seed, wisteria

growing through every crack;

the fruit of a cactus,

a beast of burden, caked with sweat and dust;

a banked fire under soil and snow,

a valley floor below the mountain ridges;

heart of mine, become a flame 

to devour this crumbling dream of self.

O child of God, you belong to the Beloved,

Who will shape your heart as He pleases.

Three garlands

Three garlands                                                                            
 
Each morning now I climb the Hill; offering
three strings of rose-scented prayers,
 
standing just northeast of Infinity
with a view of Your lying-down darshan;
 
lift my eyes to wonder at the vaulted structure
under which I pray –
 
the muscular, veined roof
of the cavern of my heart;
 
Your sun, also, rising over my shoulder,
my heart's walls turning translucent,
 
thinner and thinner like beaten gold
to one day burst and flood
 
the parched valley below.
Each morning I awaken in Maya,
 
climb this Hill, wherever I am,
garlands pressed to my chest,
 
delivering to the stone divan
of Your lying-down darshan,
 
three garlands – the rose-scented passages
of Your everyday, holy prayers.
 
O child of God, you dream of India.
The Samadhi's path begins at the doorsteps
      of your own heart's abode.

 

A gold coin

A gold coin

You asked me to follow You.
Like Jonah, there were places I'd rather be.

The belly of a fish can be made comfortable
if the foreign shore holds enough dread --

darkness can be soothing to the eyes;
that constant stench can carry

the solace of familiarity.
You said, 'Get naked.'  When I didn't

shed my clothes quickly enough,
You took matters into Your own hands.

These days, I go about repeating Your name
like hammering nails into a coffin.

Make me a gold coin, Lord, glittering in the sunlight,
when You finally slit the fish's belly.

O child of God, the Beloved is pointing out,
with His graceful fingers, the land of milk and honey.

Another empty cloak

Another empty cloak                                                                            

Gool Rukh, where did you go?
Gool Rukh, rose-cheeked princess
 
buried in the sands of Rawalpindi,
reappearing as One-with-God;
 
a nightingale serenading the Beloved,
until your feathers turned into rose petals.
 
Grown in your Poona garden – the Heavenly Rose,
brow-kissed, christened by Tajuddin,
 
seated on Narayan’s throne; the Sacred Rose,
tossed at Sai’s feet, bruised by the stone of Upasni.
 
Gool Rukh, where did you go?
Yielding to God, to snow-haired Babajan,
 
showing Merwan the secret place
to yield his life to the great Rasool.
 
Merwan joined you there, Gool Rukh,
another broken cup, another empty cloak.
 
O child of God, when you find that place,
who you once were will be no more.

A chain of islands

A chain of islands                                                                       

For years, I’ve searched, inside and out,
for the mighty bird of Love.
 
All I’ve found is a feather, here and there,
from its brilliant plumage.
 
My concern for the world has been reduced
to a chain of islands
 
with my name and the names
of my loved ones on them.
 
O Beloved, let this fist of my heart
loosen its grip, open and stretch. 
 
The gesture for love takes two hands –
Your heart and mine in perfect unison.
 
There are other gestures we could make.
You could dig my grave here in the soft sand
 
or I could sail from this island out into the Ocean –
spread Your name to the New World.
 
O child of God, even half-hearted gestures are preferable
to the bitter clench of fear and faithlessness. 

House of mirrors

House of mirrors                                                                                  

There’s a door at the back of my heart
opening upon a heaven-lit garden –
 
the moon:  the shining bow of a ship
plowing a star-glittered sea.
 
I stumble upon that door occasionally –
(an exit from this house of mirrors)
 
linger at the threshold.   
Your flute-music is on a breeze
 
scented with jasmine and neem.
When the music pauses, I hear a Voice
          calling my name.
 
But, always, always, I turn back
into the depths of my heart
 
where mirror upon mirror reflects
the image of the one I most love.
 
O child of God, how long will this enchantment last?
Find that door again and escape this house of mirrors.

Floating

Floating

You taught Peter to walk on the water --
until fear turned his feet to lead.

Now, You're urging me to float
this concrete body

upon a plane so insubstantial,
not grabbing or flailing;

not reaching back upon the empty
mechanics of swimming,

but lying gently
in the shape of a cross,

drifting towards infinity,
feeling at my neck's nape,

and the small of my back,
Your fingertips ...

until they, too,
dissolve into Ocean.

O child of God, trust the Sea.
Roll with the waves.