“The truth was a mirror in the hands of God. It fell, and broke into pieces. Everybody took a piece of it, and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.” ~ Rumi
As a poet I love Rumi,
I love the weight of his words,
of how the mirror breaks
and many different versions
of truth grow within the family.
Within ourselves too.
A liberated sheep in a post Shepherd world,
poetic landscape of the soul
is my version of truth.
From fifteen to fifty,
a life-changing metamorphosis
which I faithfully recorded.
At certain times of the year, mostly in times of battle,
two dry sticks rubbed together light the ancient pipe,
since this year’s suffering has nearly swept the board.
For even as peace burns all tribes are affected by war.
As smoke trails round, poetry turns my body full circle
onto dropped knees, until the door of my heart, sacred
shrine for the Creator, opens. The holy traveller enters,
seeking sanctuary and shelter for the light of the world.
In childhood I danced to another tune,
so odd, I thought the gypsies had left me.
At nine I awoke to the call of creativity,
for a golden hour or two. Up and down
the alphabet I travelled, eyeing up words,
never finding the same word-flute twice.
Being of two hearts I wanted to be liked,
but secretly I longed to be the real thing.
A is for alcohol not the ruddy red apple
I grasped, while watching in fear as booze
transformed my lonely, introverted father
into a wild, highly dramatic personality.
Elvis, all shook up, drunk on tramp juice.
Mute, I spoke only in hesitant sentences,
for I would rather heed the silences of life
than listen to the cruel vagaries of his ego.
I watch the giant egg crack,
I am holding my breath.
After twenty five years,
I cannot stop the tears,
I cannot stop the fear.
We have read each other’s words
on this our silver anniversary.
I wrote the word ‘We’
there has not been a ‘We’ for such a long time.