Monthly Archives: December 2013

Essential Rumi Sunday

Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Balkhī (Persian: جلال‌الدین محمد بلخى‎), also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī (جلال‌الدین محمد رومی), and more popularly in the English-speaking world simply as Rumi (30 September 1207 – 17 December 1273), was a 13th-century Persian[1][6] poet, jurist, theologian, and Sufi mystic.[7] IraniansTurksAfghansTajiks, and other Central Asian Muslims as well as the Muslims of South Asia have greatly appreciated his spiritual legacy in the past seven centuries.[8] Rumi’s importance is considered to transcend national and ethnic borders. His poems have been widely translated into many of the world’s languages and transposed into various formats. In 2007, he was described as the “most popular poet in America.”[9]

 

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A Community of the Spirit

There is a community of the spirit.

Join it, and feel the delight

of walking in the noisy street,

and being the noise.

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.

Quit acting like a wolf, and feel

the shepherd’s love filling you.

At night, your beloved wanders.

Don’t accept consolations.

Close your mouth against food.

Taste the lover’s mouth in yours.

You moan, “She left me.” “He left me.”

Twenty more will come.

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.

Flow down and down in always

widening rings of being.

There’s a strange frenzy in my head,

of birds flying,

each particle circulating on its own.

Is the one I love everywhere?

Drunks fear the police,

but the police are drunk too.

People in this town love them both

like different chess pieces.

 

Poem from the book The Essential Rumi: Translations by Coleman Barks

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Iniquity

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Why do you inflict hurt and pain,

Those of you who care not to know

my name or who I am.

Battered and bruised is the game

you like to play,

Why do you choose violent and

malicious moves.

What is it you are trying to win,

preying on the weak and innocent souls

who are trying to be who they are.

Where is your heart,

is it truly blacked out with inhumane

and unjust treatment?

Is your conscience not awake,

does it not have a voice?

You do have a choice,

so why is it hate and destruction.

Stop beating down your fellow

brothers and sisters.

We are all here to live our days

in peace and harmony,

not iniquity.

 

Poetry by Tammy More @ 2013

The World through Henry David Thoreau’s Eyes

Epitaph On The World

Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
An iron age drew on at last;
‘Tis vain its character to tell,
The several fates which it befell,
What year it died, when ’twill arise,
We only know that here it lies.

Henry David Thoreau

Free Reign

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Freedom-what does it mean?

How free are we, you and me?

For now, we have the right to choose,

but how long will that last.

Slowly slipping to the times of the past.

Rights we think we have,

will be a lost memory.

Won’t really matter

who or where you are.

Freedom to watch and do

whatever we please,

but remember they can see

you from high above the trees.

They tell us we have certain

rights and freedoms,

but what’s really in the fine print?

We listen to their fake testimony,

and believe every word

they spew from that open orifice.

Their words become lies-

a nation of disappointment

and regret.

What ARE these freedoms

we hold to be self-evident-

I ask you Mr. President,

what IS the next step?

Poetry by Tammy More @ 2013

Tribute to Nelson Mandela

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This is a Poem ‘Invictus’ (Unconquered, Undefeated) by William Henley. Great South African Leader Nelson Mandela (Madiba)  was inspired by the poem, and had it written on a scrap of paper on his prison cell while he was incarcerated for 27 years on Robben Island.

I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

 

Inspiration from Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry.  If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.   From a letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson

Although Emily Dickinson lived a secluded and outwardly uneventful life, a spinster in the family homestead at Amherst, Massachusetts, her poems are evidence of the extraordinary range and intensity of her inner life.  Virtually unpublished (through her own preference) in her lifetime, she was a truly original voice in poetry, both in her metrical innovations and in her ability to fuse word, image, and thought with marvelous compression and economy.

Hope is the Thing with Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

 

Fallen

 

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There are times I find it hard to breathe,

thinking of the love I really need.

Feeling unworthy of that special

someone to hold.

Dancing with strangers

has become too familiar,

disguising the real person inside.

Tripping over myself,

trying to mend the pieces

of a broken soul.

Waiting for that  one man

to pick me up in his arms.

My life like scenes in a movie,

not intended for innocent eyes.

Performing with a  smile while inside

my heart is ripping apart.

Take me now before its too late,

for I’m not sure how much

more of this life I can tolerate.

 

Poetry by Tammy More @ 2013