SAMSON:

"The sun is within me and so is the moon"
Author: Kabir

Your hands

still embedded, minutely,

with fragments of bone

from the jaw of the jackass – how clearly

you should have seen then,

the warning implicit in your weapon –

 and the flesh that covers your fingers,

warm even now, ridiculed as your are,

chained and kept far from the sun,

flesh that has touched lips and breast and liquid essence, touch now

what your eyes can no longer see - and your mind explains to itself,

as only a mind can - how your eyes

have led you to this place;

for in the dark

you have forsaken yourself, followed instead

the fallacy of the moon

whose weight is nothing

compared to yours and whose light

is but a reflection, like the lake that reveals

but has no reality, yet

you gave the moon all your secrets,

allowed the moon to remove your strength

and now

your two hands, hands that once held, caressed and fought,

rest upon the pillars of the temple

as you strive to bring everything down…

yourself

the moon

and the shame of being blind when the sun

gave you all the light you ever needed.

Salt

Like a mound, I feel,

Piled but on the slide towards a fatal spread

Atrophying…

And in my ears your words,

More salt upon the wound,

Ring - forming a conch of my heart

So nothing escapes

But pours towards my centre

And commits me to this weighty state

Of waiting…

Of crying

But the tears cannot shift enough salt

And my flesh burns

And my eyes

Are now blind.

I await the return of your flesh,

Perhaps even a finger, to reach across and touch

Turning everything back to me again.

Absalom (edit 1)

The picture, from a book my mother gave me

back when I was just a child, tried to draw

the reader’s eye to the shock of black hair

that had willfully managed to tangle itself

into the low hanging branch of a tree

and

his mule moved forward

and

his enemies drew close behind

and

Absalom, lifted up away from his saddle, dangled

and

waited for the killing blow.

What I recall all these years later was the distress
on Absalom’s face as he realized that hope
could be snatched away by the thing he loved most.

David wept at the news – and isn’t that just the way

that when the son is gone, the father remembers

the smell of his scalp, the feel of his hand,
the way he looked at you as if you were a living God?

And now at the death, David is alone, Absalom’s wrongs

forgotten, the bitter words lost, the anger a breeze that chill’s the heart

leaving behind only the emptiness where once Absalom,

David’s son – and all those that would follow him - had dwelt.

The Prodigal Son (edit 2)

 

The force that drew you home - a blind worm

at sunrise drawn without hope towards

the expectant beak - was it stronger than

that which drove you to choose emigration?

And your brother, did he ever forgive you,

who took for granted all that he had

not (forget your father’s words,
what else could he utter in justification)?

Did your mother’s eyes ever lose their sheen

of pain? Did cousins, once co-conspirators,
and family friends ever cease
that curious sideways glance in your direction?

And in the cloying heat of a summer,

as you lie in your tossed bed, surrounded
by familiar sounds, do you wish to again

escape with every exhalation?

Absalom

 

The picture, I remember from a book

my mother gave me when I was just a child,

tried to draw the reader’s eye to the shock of black hair

and the way it had willfully managed

to tangle itself into the low hanging branch of a tree

as his mule moved forward and behind his enemies

drew close and Absalom was lifted up away from his saddle

to dangle and wait for the killing blow.

What I recall all these years later was the distress

on Absalom’s face as he realized that hope

could be snatched away by the thing he loved most.

David wept at the news – and isn’t that just the way of a father

and son, that when the boy is gone, the father remembers

what once was, the smell of his scalp, the feel of his hand,

the way he looked at you as if you were a living God?

and now David is alone with the chronic sadness

at the death, Absalom’s wrongs forgotten, the bitter words

lost, the anger a breeze that now chill’s the heart

leaving behind only the emptiness  where once Absalom, David’s son -

and all those that would follow him - had dwelt.

Daniel In The Lions' Den:

In the den then, the stench

Thick as a father’s disappointment,

Daniel stood and remained untouched…

Had the lions found peace

Through a murmuring prayer Daniel released?

Or, having just finished a feast, could it have been
That man, comparing all to their own greed,

Never understood the beast killed for need

And never for sport?

Daniel, then, in that den,

As he stood and shivered… or did he

Always believe he would be unharmed?

Did he stand in that dark place and smile

As the lions stayed resting upon the hard ground?

Or did he even dare to sit and let the lions

Pad close, their fur, as hot as a warmed rock,

Touching gently his arm and feet, his face and breast,

Their hearts to beat as his did?

When the cave’s boulder was cast aside

And Daniel finally released, did he turn back

And spare a thought for the lions

Or did he stride back into the world of men

Without ever considering their fate?

Prodigal Son

The force that drew you home -

the blind worm at sunrise drawn without hope

towards the expectant beak - was it

stronger than that which drove you away?

And your brother (the expanding cave was once

both your home, each of you making use of it

to be different from the other) - did he ever

forgive you, you who took for granted

all that he had not (forget the father’s words,

what else could he utter in explanation)?

Did your mother’s ocean-green eyes ever lose 

that sheen - saltwater glistening on the curved shell, 

the tide in recession - of pain? Did cousins,

once co-conspirators, and family friends ever cease

that curious sideways glance in your direction?

And in the cloying heat of a summer’s deep blue night

do you lie in your tossed bed, (the ship at the mercy

of dream’s many turbulent waves)  familiar sounds surrounding 

you, and wish to again escape with every exhalation?

Judith Beheads (Edit 1)

 

So charming Judith, how did you experience
the feel when the held knife sliced through
The flesh and chords of the general’s throat?

Did you watch the blood spurt, free at last (free at last)

From the tunnel of discord? Did you whisper to mask

The gurgle of his approaching silence?  Were you forced

To saw with furrowed brow and stern hands; your lips

Pressed, your tongue pushed passed – an act of command?

His killing hands, only moments prior plump with desire,

Did they try to defend or was sleep so complete

That his slide into death was but a moment’s passion?

Did Death’s graceless hands, rather than the General’s,

Caress your face? Did Death’s white lips lean in close
To Kiss your throat as your knife kissed Holofernes?

When you carried away his severed head
Wrapped in a cloth, did its weight echo

The memory of a babe in your arms?

So sweet Judith, after that act, what could come next?
Having faced the general in that tent,
Having drunk him to his sleep (and did you show, perhaps,

A hint of flesh, a lick of your lips, a twirl of hair and flutter

Of a laugh) after he swooned into sleep and you produced

The knife that led to his death, was the rest of your life…

Merely an aftermath?

I and the tree (edit 1)

There are as many of me, as many
as leaves on the oak t—,
each inimitable I believe yet perceived
as unabridged, the equivalent; my grandeur
an illusion of the whole.

There is more to me than can be counted
by foe or friend, their heads craned u— ,
as they stand beneath the tree,
try to place me into a past shadow,
not the present’s circumstance.

Each of me, like every veined leaf, spr
ings into being by the eye’s momentary
glance; each determined
to be the definitive
and not let another take their place.

The tree and I are as much
a product of spa
es as we are of solid matter, we are filled
with light, both particle and wave
and all the infinitely finites in-between.

The Hut (edit 1)

At some stage we must leave the hut,

pull closed the dusty curtains, hide the rattling keys,
leave its well-worn sounds —rain falling

on the tin roof; in the wind, the planted tree’s limbs

brushing like memories, across paned glass;

the rattling of the front door as if a guest has arrived—leave

them all at some stage —or if not; if we stay,
grow old and time-succumb —breath falling away

in leaves as brittle as Time’s footprints - even then
we must leave or if not stay and, as a counterweight,

those who come after us will retch at the stench

and turn away; close the door and wander far into the reaches
we feared to search so that our decision to stay moves
our beloved ever further away from whatever fear held us.

So it is that at some stage we must leave

the hut, and in our fullness, head out

into the emptiness of unknowing and unfamiliar —

journey towards a future as distant from that hut

as Time’s multitude of stealing kisses can take us.

I and the tree

There are as many of me, as many

as leaves on the oak, each inimitable

yet seen as unabridged, the equivalent,

all touching, all parts of the whole.

There is more to and of me

than can be counted by friend

or foe alike, their heads craned up,

as they stand beneath the tree

trying to place me into a past shadow,

not the present’s circumstance.

Each of me, like the leaves, springs

into being by the eye’s momentary glance;

each determined to be the definitive

and not let another take their place.

The tree and I are as much a product of spaces

as we are of solid matter, we are filled

with light, both particle and wave

and all the infinitely finites in-between.

the hut

We must leave the hut at some stage,

leave its welcoming sound as the rain falls,

the tree’s limbs brushing like memories

and the rattling of the front door, leave them all

at some stage - or if not; if we stay,

grow old and succumb - breath falling away in leaves

as brittle as time’s footprints - even then

we must leave or if not stay

while those who come after us, retch and turn away,

close the door and wander far into the reaches

we feared to search and then we stay and yet move

ever further away from whatever held us.

So it is that we must leave the hut at some stage,

head out into the emptiness of unknowing

and unfamiliar and journey towards a future

as distant from that hut as time and death can take us.

The Poet is an Albatross

Like birds we are, migratory birds, eyes bright

gazing into and away from ourselves,

the ocean – spinning words teasing to be traversed;

cold currents swirling into white-foamed sentences, waves

of thought, of hunger, of homelessness, for we have no home

no place to remain, only the journey there and back again;

each flap of our enormous wings lifting us

or settling us again and always the smell of sound

calling to us, the inner compass begging us to try again

and again

and I feel sometimes

as if these wings have grown too heavy,

feathers frozen with salt air, the scent

a stinging rebuke -

failure

heavy as the laden atmosphere

for this solitary journey always appears

and finds a space between me

and those I hold dear.

I would like to rest,

to nest in a high mountain far inland

where I cannot hear the ocean,

allow my wings to fall mute

and rest in silence

but then a breeze catches my wings,

lifts a particle of me again into the air

and soon the words become the currents

and I am soaring again,

prescient with the image that I will land

(already the song of heaviness of that journey

anchoring me tiredly again)

but while I soar I give myself over

to look upon it all and try once more

to capture a feeling in a phrase,

the universe in a pause.

Judith beheads

So sweet Judith, how did it feel

When the knife you held sliced through

The flesh and chords of the general’s throat?

Did you watch the blood spurt free at last from the tunnel of discord?

Did you whisper words to drown out the coming of his silence?

Or did you cut with furrowed brow and stern hands,

your lips still, your tongue pushing passed in the act of command?

His hands, that had killed their own many foes, did they

Try to defend or was sleep so complete that

The slide into death was but a moment’s passing?

Did Death’s hands, rather than the General’s, caress your face?

Did Death’s white lips lean in close

To Kiss your throat as your knife kissed Holofernes?

When you carried away the weight of his severed head

Was it wrapped in a cloth, did feel like a babe in your arms?

So sweet Judith, after that act, what could come next?

Having faced the general in that tent,

Having drunk him to his death,

Showing perhaps a hint of flesh, a lick of your lips,

A twirl of hair and flutter of a laugh, after he swooned into sleep

And you produced the knife that led to his death,

Was the rest of your life simply an aftermath?

Listening to an old vinyl record:

The Beatles album starting with The Two of Us and suddenly
there I am,
hot as a summer’s cricket,
the blue room of my adolescence - its
cheap walls with the metal band (like a child’s brace)
cracking in the summer heat
as the drab expanded into the possible night -
the world unpeeled
and ripe…
it could not be
destroyed only gorged
and that guitar
stirred my heart as if all the music
and all the wild winds and bright sun,
all the rain and all the ocean waves,
were there
for me - the burgeoning world
in a glass jar -
and still these million years later
something deep inside my autumnal chest quivers
as I recall
how carelessly I opened the lid and let loose
the unexpected years of my adulthood.

The Ripples Of Separation

I think sometimes of that baby in the basket,

set loose

from the bank,

cast adrift

upon the  sacred Nile, the hot sun beating

(to the tune of his heart) down upon

his swaddled flesh as his arms and his legs

kicked and clutched empty air where moments

before had been the warmth and security

of his mother’s breast.

The baby too young to understand

anything except being lost to the current

of events he does not comprehend,

loss as heavy as a stone threatening to drag him

beneath;

never to know that his mother is lost

so that he might be saved…

and I wonder if later

(finding himself in arms that embrace him)

he, unsettled by that water’s uncertain trip,

does not believe, not ever really –

and perhaps this is why as Moses

he could cast aside so much and chance

the words of burning bush, the separation of the river

and the wandering in the desert –

that he deserves those arms and the love held within.