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Short Fable of the Three Schooners
The first sailboat out had nowhere to go but forward out into pure outness The light slitted down in louvered doors that swung…
The rowers of the big boats
had no letup
The trapeze artist has to
catch his mate
for once in midair it’s
too late to be
elsewhere
A mortal born must go on
until there’s no more
going on
then continues by his
Fashioner in His fashion
to where his Fashioner has
fashioned
Those explorers who went to the
ends of the earth and
perished in their tents
their own bodies their last frail
physical refuge
as the sleet continued to fall
the final resounding chord on the
planet’s piano played
Alone in our beds
the brush against the
cheek of that nearness
having been born into
physical being it’s
too late to be elsewhere
Having nothing at all to do with the
body is the saint’s way
of astounding conviction
and God’s direct Light
falling upon them
head to toe
inside and out
Looking over the edge of things
can we see any other way out?
But row the big boat
catch wrists in
midair
be peaceful in our
icy tents
bodiless Allah
our sole refuge?
6/4/12 (from Down at the Deep End)
Categories: Poems, Saints / Awliyya, Death