The Diamond Cutter and the Tasawwuf

Tonight
the tip of my pen
has become
a fish hook
pulling toward me
my last supper.

You see...
last night
I heard
another call
from the desert.

I was hesitant to go.

I stepped lightly
toward the void
for I knew
whatever is said out there
means change.

The frosty chill on my neck
nearly caused me
to turn back,
but the promise of fire
and a chance
to gaze
once again
into the eyes of my teacher
drove me forward.

She has been a Diamond-Cutter.

I have been a raw diamond

destined for an ego-cutting knife hilt.

As I journeyed
through the darkness,
I realized
qawwali songs were guiding me.

Ecstatic.
Mourning.
Longing.
Welcoming.

Somehow stitched to my DNA.

I arrived and saw that my teacher was not alone.

A man
in a cobalt turban,
and a shawl as white as snow,
smiled.

Somehow familiar, he gave me wine.

Symbols and sigils
of every tradition
were tattooed into his skin.

They glowed.
He glowed.
The fire glowed.

I had the sense
he was just in
from a long trek.

I had the sense
I was about to go
on a long trek myself.

He told me he would be like a rock;

that it was time

to learn

the refined art

of making life

a work of art.

He pointed East

and said: "Remember!"

You never
come back
from the desert
the same.

___________________________

from Agape: Poems from the Desert of the Mind
(c) 2008 - 2009 / Frank Owen

Posted in: poems,poezii,sufism