In Love Street there is the Church of the Sacred Vine
Where the master of ceremonies pours out wine,
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Misfortune is the ingredient in my food that nourishes;
And grief is the water round my song’s root, and my song flourishes.
Click here to read the full ghazal #74 and commentary.
I would never have troubled about love if love had not troubled me;
I would never be on this raft if I had not been chucked into the sea.
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I suppose my gallows-humor will not be much relished
By those who like the bare facts of love clothed and embellished.
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There are men and women. And there is the third sex who wear robes of saffron or black
Eunuchs, not for the kingdom of heaven’s sake, but for belly and treasure-stack.
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Think of all the desire-heated branding-irons of lips that sear
God-Man’s cheek. It makes small suffering of thorns, nails and spear.
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Instead of handouts wouldn’t it be better not to have any poor?
Instead of locks wouldn’t it be better not to have any door?
Click here to read the full ghazal #79 and commentary.
Last evening there was a crescent moon telling me
Of the time of fullness, of perfect poverty,
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The poverty which is wealth. The darkness full of light.
The mirror, itself nothing, contains love’s face so bright.
Click here to read the full ghazal #81 and commentary.