Inspiring poetry by inspired poets

The Body is Too Slow for Me

Toward the gardens,
Toward the orchards,
I am going.
If you want to stay here,
Stay here –
I am going!
My day is dark without His Face,
Toward that bright flame
I am going.

My soul is racing ahead of me.
It says, The body is too slow for me –
I am going.

The smell of apples arises
from the orchard of my soul.
One whiff and I am gone –
Toward a feast of apples
I am going.

A sudden wind won’t blow me over.
Toward Him, like a mountain of iron,
I am going.

My shirt is ripped open
with the pain of loss.
Searching for a new life,
with my head held high,
I am going.

I am fire, though I seem like oil –
Seeking to be the fuel of His fire,
I am going.

I appear as a steady mountain
Yet bit by bit,
Toward that tiny opening
I am going.


Lovers think they are looking for each other,
but there is only one search: wandering
This world is wandering that, both inside one
transparent sky. In here
there is no dogma and no heresy.
The miracle of Jesus is himself, not what he said or did
about the future, Forget the future.
I’d worship someone who could do that.
On the way you may want to look back, or not,
but if you can say “There’s nothing ahead”,
there will be nothing there.
Stretch your arms and take hold the cloth of your clothes
with both hands. The cure for pain is in the pain.
Good and bad are mixed. If you don’t have both,
you don’t belong with us.
When one of us gets lost, is not here, he must be inside us.
There’s no place like that anywhere in the world.


Are you fleeing from Love because of a single humiliation?
What do you know of Love except the name?
Love has a hundred forms of pride and disdain,
and is gained by a hundred means of persuasion.
Since Love is loyal, it purchases one who is loyal:
it has no interest in a disloyal companion.
The human being resembles a tree; its root is a covenant with God:
that root must be cherished with all one’s might.
A weak covenant is a rotten root, without grace or fruit.
Though the boughs and leaves of the date palm are green,
greenness brings no benefit if the root is corrupt.
If a branch is without green leaves, yet has a good root,
a hundred leaves will put forth their hands in the end.

Without the eyes…

Without the eyes – two clouds – the lightning of the heart:
The fire of God’s threat, how could it be allayed?
How would the herbage grow of union, sweet to taste?
How would the fountains all gush forth with water pure?
How would the rosebed tell its secret to the meadow?
How would the violet make contracts with jasmine?
How would the plane tree lift its hands in prayer, say?
How would the trees’ heads toss free in the air of Love?
How would the blossoms shake their sleeves in days of spring
To shed their lovely coins about the garden wide?
How would the tulip’s cheek be red like flames and blood?
How would the rose draw out its gold now from its purse?
How would the ringdoves call like seekers, “Where, oh where?”
How would the stork repeat his laklak from his soul,
To say: “O Helper high, Thine is the kingdom, Thine!”
How would the dust reveal the secrets of its heart?
How would the sky become a garden full of light?