poemas de un autor de origen turco
Drink all your passion,
and be a disgrace.
Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.
Open your hands,
if you want to be held.
Sit down in this circle.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!
Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?
Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence
The children follow,
not knowing the taste of wine, or how
his drunkness feels. All people on this planet
are children, except for a very few.
No one is grown up except those free of desire.
If you haven’t left child’s play,
how can you be an adult?
Without purity of spirit,
if you are still in the middle of lust and greed
and other wantings, you’re like children
playing at sexual intercourse.
and rub together, but it’s not sex!
The same with the fightings of mankind.
It’s a squabble with play-swords.
No purpose, totally futile.
Your actions mean nothing, the sex and war that you do.
Experience that breathing.
>From books and words come fantasy,
and sometimes, from fantasy comes union.
Gone, inner and outer,
no moon, no ground or sky.
The wine we really drink is our own blood.
Our bodies ferment in these barrels.
We give everything for a glass of this.
We give our minds for a sip.
There are thousands of wines
that can take over our minds.
Don’t think all ecstasies
are the same!
Every object, every being,
is a jar full of delight.
Be a connoisseur,
and taste with caution.
Any wine will get you high.
Judge like a king, and choose the purest.
Thirst drove me down to the water
where I drank the moon’s reflection.
First, when I was apart from you,
this world did not exist,
nor any other.
Second, whatever I was looking for
was always you.
Third, why did I ever learn to count to three?
This is the sema of slavery and mastery
dancing together. This is not being.
Neither words, nor any natural fact
can express this.
and computation become absurd.
Late, by myself, in the boat of myself,
no light and no land anywhere,
cloudcover thick. I try to stay
just above the surface, yet I’m already under
and living within the ocean.
Be melting snow.
Wash yourself of yourself.
The body is a device to calculate
the astronomy of the spirit.
Look through that astrolabe
and become oceanic.
You kiss a beautiful mouth, and a key
turns the lock of your fear.
The friend comes into my body
looking for the center, unable
to find it, draws a blade,
Do you know what I’m doing?
That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself?
As much as a pen knows what it’s writing,
or the ball can guess where it’s going next.
“Since I was cut from the reedbed,
I have made this crying sound.
Anyone apart from someone he loves
understands what I say.
Anyone pulled from a source
longs to go back.
At any gathering I am there,
mingling in the laughing and grieving,
a friend to each, but few
will hear the secrets hidden
within the notes. No ears for that.
Body flowing out of spirit,
spirit up from body: no concealing
that mixing. But it’s not given us
to see the soul. The reed flute
is fire, not wind. Be that empty.”
I have a thirsty fish in me
that can never find enough
of what it’s thirsty for!
What hurts you, blesses you.
Darkness is your candle.
Your boundaries are your quest.
I can explain this, but it would break
the glass cover on your heart,
and there’s no fixing that.
Are these enough words,
or shall I squeeze more juice from this?
Who am I, my friend?
For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.
Then one swoop, one swing of the arm,
that work is over.
Free of who I was, free of presence, free of
dangerous fear, hope,
free of mountainous wanting.
The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece
blown off into emptiness.
The mother and father are your attachment
to beliefs and bloodties
and desires and comforting habits.
Don’t listen to them!
They seem to protect,
but they imprison.
They are your worst enemies.
They make you afraid
of living in emptiness.
When you are with everyone but me,
you’re with no one.
When you are with no one but me,
you’re with everyone
Instead of being bound up with everyone,
When you become that many, you’re nothing.
A lover’s food is the love of bread,
not the bread. No one who really loves,
To an Egyptian, the Nile looks bloody.
To an Israelite, clear.
What is a highway to one is a disaster to the other
Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu,
Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion
or cultural system. I am not from the East
or the West, not out of the ocean or up
from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
composed of elements at all. I do not exist,
am not an entity in this world or the next,
did not descend from Adam and Eve or any
origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
of the traceless. Neither body or soul.
I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
worlds as one and that one call to and know,
first, last, outer, inner, only that
breath breathing human being.
Come to the orchid in Spring.
There is light and wine, and sweethearts
in the pomegranate flowers.
If you do not come, these do not matter.
If you do come, these do not matter.
Who comes to a spring thirsty
and sees the moon reflected in it?
The rest of this poem is too blurry
for them to read.
What is form in the presence of reality?
Very feeble. Reality keeps the sky turned over
like a cup above us, revolving. Who turns
the sky wheel? The universal intelligence.
Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy,
absentminded. Someone sober
will worry about things going badly.
Let the lover be.
A night full of talking that hurts,
my worst held-back secrets. Everything
has to do with loving and not loving.
This night will pass.
Then we have work to do.
Let yourself be silently drawn
by the stronger pull of what you really love.
How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.
How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.
pale the wall.
Love moves away.
The light changes.
I need more grace
than I thought.
We must drown, away from heroism,
and descriptions of heroism.
The mystery does not get clearer by repeating the question,
nor is it bought with going to amazing places.
Until you’ve kept your eyes
and your wanting still for fifty years,
you don’t begin to cross over from confusion.
What the sayer of praise is really praising is
himself, by saying implicitly,
“My eyes are clear.”
Likewise, someone who criticizes is criticizing
himself, saying implicitly, “I can’t see very well
with my eyes so inflamed.”
Don’t ever feel sorry for someone
who wants to be the sun, that other son,
the one that makes rotten things fresh.
And don’t ever envy someone
who wants to be this world.
Just because you can’t drink all that falls
doesn’t mean you give up taking sips
of rainwater. If the nut
of the mystery can’t be held,
at least let me touch the shell.
The rooster of lust, the peacock of wanting
to be famous, the crow of ownership, and the duck
of urgency, kill them and revive them
in another form, changed and harmless.
A true person is more calm and deliberate.
He or she doesn’t worry about interruptions.
There’s a hidden sweetness in the stomach’s emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less. If the sound box
is stuffed full of anything, no music.
If the brain and the belly are burning clean
with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears, and the new energy makes you
run up the steps in front of you.
When you’re full of food and drink, an ugly metal
statue sits where your spirit should. When you fast,
good habits gather like friends who want to help.
You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up
in the dark with eyes closed.
Listen to the answer.
There is no “other world.”
I only know what I’ve experienced.
You must be hallucinating.
“Just as you can’t come close,
I can’t go out!”
This is how animal energy becomes monstrous
and ruins your life’s freshness and beauty.
That’s why you see things in two ways.
Sometimes you look at a person
and see a cynical snake.
Someone else sees a joyful lover,
and you are both right!
Everyone is half and half,
like the black and white ox.
Do you pay regular visits to yourself?
Don’t argue or answer rationally.
Let us die,
and dying, reply.
Do you know
what you are to me? During the day,
you’re my energy for working. At night,
you’re my deepest sleep.
“Would you like one piece of silver now,
O Lord of my spirit, or three at breakfast
The Sufi answered,
“I love the half a coin already in my hand
from yesterday more than the promise of a whole one
today, or the promise of a hundred tomorrow.
A sufi is the child of this moment.”
A hand shifts our birdcages around.
Some are brought closer. Some move apart.
Do not try to reason it out. Be conscious
of who draws you and who not.
Be tough, and strength will come.
I’m through. Read the rest of this poem
in the dark tonight.
A certain person came to the Friend’s door
The Friend answered, “Go away. There’s no place
for raw meat at this table.”
The individual went wandering for a year.
Nothing but the fire of separation
can change hypocrisy and ego. The person returned
walked up and down in front of the Friend’s house,
“Who is it?”
Please come in, my self,
there’s no place in this house for two.
The doubled end of the thread is not what goes through
the eye of the needle.
It is a single-pointed, fined-down, thread end,
not a big ego-beast with baggage.”
Every holy person seems to have a different doctrine
and practice, but there’s really only one work.
“The one who keeps me in here is the one
who keeps you out there.
The same who will not let you in will not let me out.”
Then suddenly he leaned and whispered something
in the second king’s ear, and that second, that
second king became a wanderer too.
They walked out of town hand in hand.
No royal belts, no thrones.
This is what love does and continues to do.
So they wandered around China like birds
pecking at bits of grain. They rarely spoke
because of the dangerous seriousness
of the secret they knew.
All that world-power wants, really,
is this weakness.
So the kings talked in low tones,
and carefully. Only God knows what they said.
They used unsayable words. Bird language.
But some people have imitated them, learned
a few birdcalls, and gotten prestigious.
You are every image, and yet
I’m homesick for you.
Who sees inside from outside?
Who finds hundreds of mysteries
even where minds are deranged?
See through his eyes what he sees.
Who then is looking out from his eyes?
Touch my skin so I can be myself.
Most people guard against going into the fire,
and so end up in it.
Listen to presences inside poems,
Let them take you where they will.
Follow those private hints,
and never leave the premises.
Submit to a daily practice.
Your loyalty to that
is a ring on the door.
Keep knocking, and the joy inside
will eventually open a window
and look out to see who’s there.
Come back, my friend! The form of our love
is not created form.
Nothing can help me but that beauty.
There was a dawn I remember
when my soul heard something
from your soul. I drank water
from your spring and felt
the current take me.
Advice doesn’t help lovers!
They’re not the kind of mountain stream
you can build a dam across.
An intellectual doesn’t know
what the drunk is feeling!
Don’t try to figure
what those lost inside love
will do next!
I saw you and became empty.
This emptiness, more beautiful than existence,
it obliterates existence, and yet when it comes,
existence thrives and creates more existence!
To praise is to praise
how one surrenders
to the emptiness.
We rarely hear the inward music,
but we’re all dancing to it nevertheless,
When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute
of eternity. We are pain
and what cures pain, both. We are
the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
I want to hold you close like a lute,
so we can cry out with loving.
Love is vanishing into the sky. The mind,
for learning what men have done and tried to do.
Mysteries are not to be solved. The eye goes blind
when it only wants to see why.
If the drinker
has a deep gentleness in him,
he will show that,
But if he has hidden anger and arrogance,
and since most people do,
wine is forbidden to everyone.
On Resurrection Day your body testifies against you.
Your hand says, “I stole money.”
Your lips, “I said meanness.”
Your feet, “I went where I shouldn’t.”
Your genitals, “Me too.”
This place is a dream.
Only a sleeper considers it real.
Then death comes like dawn,
and you wake up laughing
at what you thought was your grief.
as a mineral. We emerged into plant life
and into the animal state, and then into being human,
and always we have forgotten our former states,
except in early spring when we slightly recall
being green again.
Your bodily soul wants comforting.
The severe father wants spiritual clarity.
He scolds but eventually
leads you into the open.
Pray for a tough instructor
to hear and act and stay with you.
In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest,
where no one sees you,
but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.
When the ocean surges,
don’t let me just hear it.
Let it splash inside my chest!
I am filled with you.
Skin, blood, bone, brain, soul.
There’s no room for lack of trust, or trust.
Nothing in this existence but that existence.
Give the beautiful ones mirrors,
and let them fall in love with themselves.
That way they polish their souls
and kindle remembering in others.
There is nothing worse
than thinking you are well enough.
More than anything, self-complacency
blocks the workmanship.
You’ve seen a herd of goats
going down to the water.
The lame and dreamy goat
brings up the rear.
There are worried faces about that one,
but now they’re laughing,
because look, as they return,
that goat is leading!
There are many different kinds of knowing.
The lame goat’s kind is a branch
that traces back to the roots of presence.
Learn from the lame goat,
and lead the herd home.
Your intelligence is always with you,
overseeing your body, even though
you may not be aware of its work.
If you start doing something against
your health, your intelligence
will eventually scold you.
The movement of your finger
is not separate from your finger.
Give your weakness
to the one who helps.
It’s not me that’s glorified in acts of worship.
It’s the worshippers! I don’t hear the words
they say. I look inside at the humility.
If the beloved is everywhere,
the lover is a veil,
but when living itself becomes
the Friend, lovers disappear.
A story is like a water
that you heat for your bath.
It takes messages between the fire
and your skin. It lets them meet,
and it cleans you!
There are two types on the path. Those who come
against their will, the blindly religious people, and those
who obey out of love. The former have ulterior motives.
They want the midwife near, because she gives them milk.
The others love the beauty of the nurse.
The former memorize the prooftexts of conformity,
and repeat them. The latter disappear
into whatever draws them to God.
Both are drawn from the source.
Any movings from the mover.
Any love from the beloved.
Friends are enemies sometimes,
and enemies friends.
There are two kinds of intelligence: one acquired,
as a child in school memorizes facts and concepts
from books and from what the teacher says,
collecting information from the traditional sciences
as well as the new sciences.
With such intelligence you rise in the world.
You get ranked ahead or behind others
in regard to your competence in retaining
information. You stroll with this intelligence
in and out of fields of knowledge, getting always more
marks on your preserving tablets.
There is another kind of tablet, one
already completed and preserved inside you.
A spring overflowing its springbox. A freshness
in the center of the chest. This other intelligence
does not turn yellow or stagnate. It’s fluid,
and it doesn’t move from outside to inside
through the conduits of plumbing-learning.
This second knowing is a fountainhead
from within you, moving out.
With great speed they joined each other.
When bodies blend in copulation,
spirits also merge.
Theologians mumble, rumble-dumble,
necessity and free will,
while lover and beloved
into each other.
Someone who has heard about ecstatic love,
but never tasted it, disrupts the banquet.
the way you make love is the way
God will be with you.
Tell her, one surrendering bow is sweeter
than a hundred empires, is itself a kingdom.
You could be moving in a circuit without wing,
nourished without eating, sovereign without a throne.
No longer subject to fortune, you could be luck itself,
if you would rise from sleep, leave
the market arguing, and learn that
your own essence is your wealth.
Gamble everything for love,
if you’re a true human being.
If not, leave
“Love of one’s country
is a part of the faith.”
But don’t take that literally!
Your real “country” is where you’re heading,
not where you are.
Don’t misread that hadith.
Don’t regret what’s happened. If it’s in the past,
let it go. Don’t even remember it!
The net, of course, finally closed
around him, and as he lay in the terrible
frying-pan bed, he thought,
“If I get out of this,
I’ll never live again in the limits of a lake.
Next time, the ocean! I’ll make
the infinite my home.”
Inside me a hundred beings
are putting their fingers to their lips and saying,
“That’s enough for now. Shhhhh.” Silence
is an ocean. Speech is a river
All our lives we’ve looked
into each other’s faces.
That was the case today too.
How do we keep our love-secret?
We speak from brow to brow
and hear with our eyes.
I will search for the Friend with all my passion
and all my energy, until I learn
that I don’t need to search.
But knowing depends
on the time spent looking!
You fear losing some eminent position.
You hope to gain something from that, but it comes
from elsewhere. Existence does this switching trick,
giving you hope from one source, then
satisfaction from another.
It keeps you bewildered
and wondering, and lets your trust in the unseen grow.
Those who inherit
wealth don’t know what work it took to get it.
Nightingales are put in cages
because their songs give pleasure.
Whoever heard of keeping a crow?
When light returns to its source,
it takes nothing
of what it has illuminated.
The wine God loves
is human honesty.
“Dalqak, say what it is!”
“I was far from the court when I heard
that you needed a courier, someone who could go
to Samarcand and come back in five days.”
“I hurried here to tell you
that I will not be able to do it.”
“I don’t have the stamina or the agility.
Don’t expect me to be the one.”
With deceptive people, cover the jar, and shield it.
But be calm with those in duality.
Speak sweetly and reasonably.
Patience polishes and purifies.
The snake is your animal-soul. When you bring it
into the hot air of your wanting-energy, warmed
by that and by the prospect of power and wealth,
it does massive damage.
Leave it in the snow mountains.
Don’t expect to oppose it with quietness
and sweetness and wishing.
I am a cow, or thistles for camels
to browse on. People who insult me
are only polishing the mirror.
Learn from Ali how to fight
without your ego participating.
God’s lion did nothing
that didn’t originate
from his deep center.
Once in a battle he got the best of a certain night
and quickly drew his swords. The man,
helpless on the ground, spat
in Ali’s face. Ali dropped his sword,
relaxed, and helped the man to his feet.
“Why have you spared me?”
How has lightning contracted back
into its cloud? Speak, my prince,
so that my soul can begin to stir
in me like an embryo.”
Ali was quiet and then finally answered,
“I am God’s Lion, not the lion of passion.
The sun is my lord. I have no longing
except for the One.
When a wind of personal reaction comes,
I do not go along with it.
There are many winds full of anger,
and lust and greed. They move the rubbish
around, but the solid mountain of our true nature
stays where it’s always been.
There is nothing now
except the divine qualities.
Come through the opening in me.
Your impudence was better than any reverence,
because in this moment I am you and you are me.
I give you this opened heart as God gives gifts:
the poison of your spit has become
the honey of friendship.”
Earth-love, spirit-love, any love
looks into that yonder, and whatever I try to say
explaining love is embarrassing!
clarifies, but with love silence is clearer.
A pen went scribbling along, but when it tried
to write love, it broke.
If you want to expound on love,
take your intellect out and let it lie down
in the mud. It’s no help.
Any love based on physical beauty
is not love.
When someone does not feel grateful
to that, the forms appear to be as he feels.
They mirror his anger, his greed, and his fear.
Make peace with the universe. Take joy in it.
Your intellect is in fragments, like bits of gold
scattered over many matters. You must scrape them
together, so the royal stamp can be pressed into you.
“Water! There! There!” It’s that There!
that keeps him asleep. In the future, in the distance,
those are illusions. Taste the here and the now of God.
This present thirst is your real intelligence,
not the back-and-forth, merciful brightness.
Discursiveness dies and gets put in the grave.
This contemplative joy does not.
Scholarly knowledge is a vertigo,
an exhausted famousness.
Listening is better.
What goes comes back. Come back.
We never left each other.
With company you quicken you ascent.
You may be happy enough going along,
but with others you’ll get farther, faster.
Stay together, friends
Don’t scatter and sleep.
Our friendship is made
of being awake.
Much of our thought is of the past, or the future.
They’re free of those. Before a mine is dug,
they judge coins. Before vineyards,
they know the excitements to come.
In July they feel December.
The Prophet Muhammad said,
“There is no better companion
on this way than what you do. Your actions will be
your best friend, or if you are cruel and selfish,
your actions will be a poisonous snake
that lives in your grave.”
But tell me,
can you do the good work without a teacher?
Can you even know what it is without the presence
of a Master? Notice how the lowest livelihood
requires some instruction.
First comes knowledge,
then the doing of the job. And much later,
perhaps after you’re dead, something grows
from what you’ve done.
Look for help and guidance
in whatever craft you’re learning. Look for a generous
teacher, one who has absorbed the tradition he’s in.
Don’t feed both sides of yourself equally.
The spirit and the body carry different loads
and require different attentions.
we put saddlebags on Jesus and let the donkey
run loose in the pasture.
Don’t make the body do
what the spirit does best, and don’t put a big load
on the spirit that the body could carry easily.
Look how the caravan of civilization
has been ambushed.
Fools are everywhere in charge.
Do not practice solitude like Jesus. Be in
and take charge of it.
Deliberation is one of the qualities of God.
Throw a dog a bit of something.
He sniffs to see if he wants it.
Be that careful.
Sniff with your wisdom-nose.
Get clear. Then decide.
We are the night ocean filled
with glints of light. We are the space
between the fish and the moon,
while we sit here together.
Which is worth more, a crowd of thousands,
or your own genuine solitude?
Freedom, or power over an entire nation?
A little while alone in your room
will prove more valuable than anything else
that could ever be given to you.
This we have now
is not imagination.
This is not
grief or joy.
Not a judging state,
or an elation,
This is the presence
that we are now
created the body, cell by cell,
like bees building a honeycomb.
The human body and the universe
grew from this, not this
from the universe and human body.
I walk into a huge pasture.
I nurse the milk of millennia.
Everyone does this in different ways.
Knowing that conscious decisions
and personal memory
are much too small place to live,
every human being streams at night
in the loving nowhere, or during the day,
in some absorbing work.
A secret turning in us
makes the universe turn.
Head unaware of feet,
and feet head. Neither cares.
They keep turning.
Walk to the well.
Turn as the earth and the moon turn,
circling what they love.
Whatever circles comes from the center.
No better love than love with no object,
no more satisfying work than work with no purpose.
If you could give up tricks and cleverness,
that would be the cleverest trick!
Real value comes with madness,
matzub below, scientist above.
Whoever finds love
beneath hurt and grief
disappears in to emptiness
with a thousand new disguises.
Dance, when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you’re perfectly free.