Poem Of the Moment...

Subject: Poem Of the Moment...
From: Amos
Date: 26 Jul 01 - 01:06 AM

 
A Love Poem of
Rumi

                                                                      The springtime of Lovers has come,
                                                                      that this dust bowl may become a garden;
                                                                      the proclamation of heaven has come,
                                                                      that the bird of the soul may rise in flight.
                                                                      The sea becomes full of pearls,
                                                                      the salt marsh becomes sweet as kauthar,
                                                                      the stone becomes a ruby from the mine,
                                                                      the body becomes wholly soul.

Subject: RE: Poem Of the Moment...
From: katlaughing
Date: 26 Jul 01 - 02:48 AM

The summertime of Mudcat has come,

that this banjo may become a garden;

the proclamation of Woody has come,

that the song of the soul may rise in flight.

The air becomes full of music,

the threads weave sweet dulcimer strains,

the silence becomes a voice from on high,

the body becomes wholly song.

Love Rumi's poems! Thanks, Amos.

kat

Subject: RE: Poem Of the Moment...
From: GUEST,Faithful Departed
Date: 26 Jul 01 - 03:53 AM

By Des Walsh ... Reproduced in the sleeve notes of Paddy Keenan's Ná Keen Affair.

Talamh An Éisc (Land Of The Fish) ... for Paddy Keenan

Across centuries of salt-drenched myths,
this is where we live now,
this is where we belong,
our hearts lined with fragments,
butlike the lichen-covered rock,
unaffected by storm.
Our souls are in every boulder
that inches its way to the sea,
we rule the meadows they
have claimed and the
gulls that rest there.
We sing to the drowned,
tear-soaked families and
cling to the broken truths that
made us call this home, our voices
crying out over the pounding waves,
only to be blown back to a sparrow's throat,
to have the melody cradled
in the arms of spruce and wind.
We are the songs of the weather.
Back then, when these harbors
showed themselves only to
St. Brendan and the Beothuck,
we came for fish, their scales becoming ours
their justice becoming ours.
Back then, when the echoes of a
single note would ring out and
caress our granite graves,
we would sing ourselves to sleep,
women would kiss the ocean,
their mouths smoothing the water that has
called us all back to this place,
to hear that note again, that
will sound in our hearts forever.

Subject: RE: Poem Of the Moment...
From: Amos
Date: 26 Jul 01 - 11:31 PM

A Love Poem of
Rumi

The lover's food is the love of the bread;
No bread need be at hand:
No one who is sincere in his love is a slave to existence.
Lovers have nothing to do with with with existence;
lovers have the interest without the capital.

Without wings they fly around the world;
without hands they carry the polo ball off the field.

 That dervish who caught the scent of Reality
used to weave basket even though his hand had been cut
off.

Lover have pitched their tents in nonexistence:
they are of one quality and one essence, as nonexistence is.