The majority of my current thoughts are focused on my trip to Edmonton, and although the poetry class won't be taught this year, I found myself looking back and remembering great moments I had while being there last year.
I remember Marianne handing out a poem to each of us that we were to live with and analyze over the next couple weeks. I pulled a poem called Juventud (Youth) by Pablo Neruda. I remember falling in love with the words and insisting that I wanted to present the poem in Spanish, rather than using the English translation. I remember sitting outside in the hot sunshine at Leva cafe with my poetry group, and reading this incredibly erotic spanish poem while we all got a little googly eyed. I channeled my inner-Latina in that moment.
Finally, I remember discovering the poet Rumi, purchasing one of his anthologies and sitting in a park surrounded by lilacs in full bloom to read some of the most exquisite words I've ever read.
In honour of all those beautiful moments that I fondly look back on, I'd really like to share a poem that I have recently read, one that has stuck with me. I hope you enjoy :)
The Silent Articulation of a Face
Love comes with a knife, not some shy question,
and not with fears for its reputation.
I say these things disinterestedly.
Accept them in kind.
Love is a madman, working his wild schemes,
tearing off his clothes, running through the mountains,
drinking poison, and now quietly choosing annihilation.
A tiny spider tries to wrap an enormous wasp.
Think of the spiderweb
woven across the cave where Muhammad slept.
There are love stories,
and there is obliteration into love.
You have been walking the ocean's edge,
holding up your robes to keep them dry.
You must dive naked under and deeper under,
a thousand times deeper. Love flows down.
The ground submits to the sky and suffers what comes.
Tell me, is the earth worse for giving in like that?
Do not put blankets over the drum.
Let your spirit listen
to the green dome's passionate murmur.
Let the cords of your robe be untied.
Shiver in this new love beyond all above and below.
The sun rises, but which way does the night go?
I have no more words. Let the soul speak
with the silent articulation of a face.
From the main work 1. Odes (Ghazals), 1. Al-Fattah (The Opener) by Rumi.
Today, I let these beautiful words and memories replace any fear, doubt or guilt.
Sweet dreams, friends.