of having it beat out of you,
if you listen intently,
you’ll hear it,
your want will turn into your breath.
I adore your poise,
your pose, and your noise,
that is, your lack thereof.
How orchestral is your quiet,
majestic is your silence,
this deafening and drumming of nothing at once,
this wonderful humming of quiet and calm.
I’m mad I say, deeply mad,
obsessed with ears that listen,
and a mouth that’s mute.
The beautiful picture is by Hossein Irandoust
Perhaps once upon a time my soul met his in this abyss of pre-world obedience and silence.
I’m infatuated by his work to say the least.
All beautiful things are concealed well.
Pearls, diamonds, sages, gnostics and my favourite;
artists and writers who only become apparent when they pass.
If you think you’re going to arrive,
at beauty without a struggle,
wisdom and truth without suffering,
peace without a war inside of you,
if you think you’re entitled to it all by default,
just for existing,
then you’re deluded,
and deserve to be barred from it.
Do the work and be patient.
-Wesam El dahabi
Amazing pieces by Hossein Irandoust
And yet it offers an ease to this anxiety,
that leeches on my happiness,
relinquishment after all is said and done,
floats like fairness in the air.
If ever there was more of a reason,
to lose myself in work,
it is in gratitude to gifts I know are there,
status or money,
becoming the target of wagging tongues,
the laughing stock,
or despised amongst men,
is a small price to pay,
for surpassing mediocrity.
I’ve never met a man devoted to their art,
who could be easily comprehended,
nor a woman Gnostic and acetic,
who wasn’t indifferent to their appearance,
neglectful of their condition,
enough to misguide the laymen
away from their secrets.
Of things I’ve come to know,
there’s a truth that gnaws and twists,
and that is,
brilliance, has its price.
-Wesam El dahabi
And what are shadows,
but bits of ourselves that allow light to bounce off,
and make pretend we’re not temporary.
We’re definitely temporary,
ever so non necessary,
if granted pardon,
for the folly of ignorance,
and being carried away with importance,
we still, are responsible for remembering.
None of us have amnesia,
not so long as we have breath,
the soul records everything,
to the egos vexation,
and the scroll awakens,
when we lather,
to the spume of death.
A prayer bead hovers over my right shoulder,
ever the reminder,
that it should be between my fingers.
Were it not I had family,
I would have wandered in starvation,
a dervish, a gypsy, a vagabond,
nomadic, poetic, troubadour,
an alchemist of the heart,
absorbing strangers misery,
sorrows and hurt,
and returning a poem.
People who want ‘spirituality’ on their own terms,
don’t really want spirituality,
they want themselves,
I can’t put it any simpler.
I don’t know how to show you except by telling you.
Whilst the act of doing is better than the act of saying,
that’s only because people don’t know how to say.
But what if I showed you the way,
with words connected carefully,
delivered in a bouquet,
as lyrical ballet,
and show you how to stretch your skin tight,
so your heart can beat right,
and the club that beats it,
is your soul set alight.
There’s no room for a dishonest soul.
I have to gather myself together and fight me with me.
Pit myself against myself.
Fuel both and ignite them so they combust and turn to vapour.