Posted on May 3rd, 2007
by 
Metta
I am not water or breath
but air and fire rose from my limbs.
I am not the three mothers
but I am one.
Somewhere in between here and there,
Eternity rises. I sing its song out of tune.
The Infinite is always happy to hear the singer.
There are so many songs
and only the one Listener.
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Posted on May 10th, 2007
by Metta
I think it was,
"I feel that full feeling, again,"
that Coleman said.
Like a flowering of a thousand birds,
letters - kisses
each curving vowel - Neruda.
Yesterday evening you saw the swallows
and the way the rhododendrons peered
like children's faces -
watching your watching walk.
How the trees knew your name,
sang it with strange caresses.
Like the weight on your chest, wonderful,
when Neruda says,
"I want to look back and see you in the branches,"
He speaks for Coleman; He speaks for me.
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Posted on May 13th, 2007
by Metta
You've passed this way a hundred times
but suddenly every bush is burning.
The little mound of land you stand upon
becomes Sinai
and every living creature sings:
i am that I Am.
He has covered us all in make believe
and says nothing is magic;
nothing is miracle.
Yet when we look with these new eyes
we all burn
and never get burnt
and the miracle in seeing
is the water we've all been begging for.
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Posted on May 20th, 2007
by Metta
returning from Vrindavan again
leaving your green eyes for brown,
the bending boughs with morning rain
the lovers curves, the mounds, the rounds
for pavement, dark and wet
and there are so many places you could call home
here in the city there is so much promise,
the newly ruby sprouting pears
hanging on also dripping limbs at the teacher's house
where there is music - Indian drum -
and the memory of how sweet the fruit was
just last year
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Posted on May 22nd, 2007
by Metta
Tonight everything is breathing:
evening sunlight eating sunlight,
drinking breath.
Who knows the secret of this wind?
Who knows the name to make it rise?
Who knows the one who circles the house,
walks grooves around its awnings?
I've seen him a thousand times now.
He looks up to the bedroom window, begging entrance,
calling the wind with his own name.
But tonight he's eating sunlight
drinking breath outside in the garden.
Yet still he begs his entrance.
Do let him in.
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Posted on May 24th, 2007
by Metta
is that your eye, lord, that twinkles
your lips that kiss
your hand that moves over me like warm water
you are the wine of my drunkeness
you are his voice that dives deeply
you are the backward walk I take
when it gets too much
even with all these grasping hands
it is always yours that I am reaching for
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Posted on May 28th, 2007
by Metta
Oh, David, master of Malkhut,
you dance, you teach me how to sing praise.
You sit with me under a tree and speak fire.
Oh, David, would you love me
my bare breasts gleaming from the bath?
Would you spare this earthly husband
but still make yourself mine?
I would not come as Sheba before Solomon;
I have no gold to give, only the bare breasts of a mother,
only my arms, perfumed with this longing.
Only my song, sung from this separation.
You are David, God's Beloved
working the way of this earth in penance and praise.
You are David, my beloved -
merge me into the words of your psalms.
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Tagged with:
poetry,
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seifrot,
malkhut,
king david,
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penance,
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