I like to write poetry posts on Saturday mornings while drinking coffee. There is a part of me that wants, that needs, Saturdays to be that day of rest. But for me, in my rhythm of the week it just doesn’t work out that way. So I post poetry, and salute these Saturday mornings (and then I often go to work).
-By Kazim Ali
You’ve forgotten he other life in which
Shams-e- Tabriz threw your books into the fountain.
The ink, finally unrecognizable,
Reached for you in dissipating life.
Once I went up the mountain at daybreak, and still met pilgrims
coming down who had woken for the journey earlier.
In the tomb on not-Shams I prayed and prayed to be found.
Am I the sun inside me?
Shams will walk out the back door and never return.
You will go mad—spend years looking for him.
One day in the marketplace, estranged and weeping,
You will understand the farthest mosque is the one within,
and that the sun in the sky is not the one you orbit around,
nor the one who went out the back door and never returned.
Somewhere in the world now, every minute,
A sun is dropping over the horizon into yesterday.
At the fountain in the village square,
The books are still sinking, bereft of your hands.
Even the mountains are bending down to try and save them.
Dear Shams-e- Tabriz, Ido not mourn.
You spindle me, sun-thorn, to the sky.