so, so beautiful. "Say I am you". I love that line.
I'm going to post a poem by a poet who reminds me of Rumi in some ways.. spiritual, mystical themes. I think you'd like this poem:
"I grew from adolescence fearing Him. Now, as an old man, that's changed. Although from time to time I have flashbacks to my old fear and my unindividuated self. At this time in my life He is closer to me than my life vein as I jealously guard Him in me. Here is a poem about that."
Beloved
This dawn is multicolored, Beloved, yet the evening star hangs in my mind.
The sky is gridwork, every direction a straight line leading to your grace; boxed in by love I cannot barter the naked glory of your light.
I want to fear you, Beloved, yet in my flight, my spirit veers neither left nor right; this dawning, pinkening sky punctuates you: dance, drumsong, skybound birdsong, your brightest gifts this morning.
Dusk will come, its ghost amusing itself, drying the universe, leaving only the bright star to the sleepless.
Now, Beloved, I am my own leaven; my soul is still. The smell of morning seems almost eternal.
.....
Sigh. I wish I could write that way. You know? Where it's like every word makes something in my soul ring out. I love religious poetry.
I'm going to post a poem by a poet who reminds me of Rumi in some ways.. spiritual, mystical themes. I think you'd like this poem:
"I grew from adolescence fearing Him. Now, as an old man, that's
changed. Although from time to time I have flashbacks to my old fear and
my unindividuated self. At this time in my life He is closer to me than
my life vein as I jealously guard Him in me. Here is a poem about that."
Beloved
This dawn is multicolored,
Beloved, yet the evening star
hangs in my mind.
The sky is gridwork, every direction
a straight line leading to your grace;
boxed in by love I cannot
barter the naked glory of your light.
I want to fear you, Beloved, yet
in my flight, my spirit veers
neither left nor right; this dawning,
pinkening sky punctuates you:
dance, drumsong, skybound birdsong,
your brightest gifts this morning.
Dusk will come, its ghost
amusing itself, drying the universe,
leaving only the bright star to the sleepless.
Now, Beloved, I am my own leaven;
my soul is still. The smell
of morning seems almost eternal.
.....
Sigh. I wish I could write that way. You know? Where it's like every word makes something in my soul ring out. I love religious poetry.
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