Sufi Poem Quotes

THE DANCE OF ANGELS

Suzy Kassem

He spins and spins and spins
To remove all three layers of him
And with devout discipline
He spirals to ignite the light within.
He becomes a part
Of the solar system
And spirals to its cosmic hymn.
His soul transcends through
The mouth of God
To join the source
Of everything.

He turns and turns and turns
To open up windows to the universe
And with each circle of love he twirls
The love in his heart
Radiates and bursts.
His thirst for a meeting with the divine
Has been his only quest since birth,
And while rotating like the hand of time
He sings the 'AH' of an angel's verse.
As he turns and turns and turns
A million emotions and vibrations submerge
A luminous spectacle worth a million candles,
The Sufi dancer is poetry without
Words.


THE DANCE OF ANGELS by Suzy Kassem ~ Suzy Kassem

The rules or 'laws' of poetry are only tentative devices, an approximate scheme. There is no Sinaitic recipe for poetry, for the individual poem is the norm. ~ Louis MacNeice

Forever - is composed of Nows - / 'Tis not a different time - / Except for Infiniteness - / And Latitude of Home - / From this - experienced Here - / Remove the Dates - to These - / Let Months dissolve in further Months - / And Years - exhale in Years - ~ Emily Dickinson

When hope turns dark,
I will bring the sun to light it,
I shall guide, protect thee,
For I am the human spirit.

Poem: God's Dream,
in 'Chameleon Lights ~ Ayushman Jamwal

We have all seen them circling pastures, have looked up from the mouth of a barn, a pine clearing, the fences of our own backyards, and have stood amazed by the one slow wing beat, the endless dihedral drift. But I had never seen so many so close, every limb of the dead oak feathered black; and I cut the engine let the river grab the jon boat and pull it toward the tree ... Then as I passed under their dream, I saw for the first time its soft countenance the raw fleshy jowls, wrinkled and generous like the faces of the very old who have grown to empathize with everything. And I drifted away from them, reluctant, looking back at their roost, calling them what they are- transfiguring angels who pray over the leaf graves of the anonymous lost with mercy enough to consume us all and give us wings. ~ David Bottoms

Roses are red, violets are blue, I have five fingers, the middle one is for you. ~ Gena Showalter

I don't speak a word about you but,
You are there in every word I speak.

I may forgive you
On the day when my heart no longer
Whispers your name or
On the day
I no longer see you in my dreams.

You were my dream in the day time
Now, I am going to hide you
In my silence
All through the night.

I don't speak a word about you but,
You are there in every word I speak. ~ Jyoti Patel

Memory, when it juts, retreats, recovers, shows us how to hold the darkness, how to breathe. ~ Drew Myron

There's a beautiful poem at the beginning of a collection of books we call the Bible. In that poem, it is written: "Then God said, 'Let us make man.'"

God then recognized that it was not good for man to be alone.

We can all agree on that one, I think. Loneliness is one of the most excruciating pains that the human heart, or any heart, has to go through.

What did God do about it?

What was His remedy?

What was His answer?

He created marriage. He didn't create dating, He didn't create courting - He created marriage. ~ Cole Ryan

I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree. ~ Joyce Kilmer

Sleep is the boundary between being/existence and not-being/non-existence. ~ Wasif Ali Wasif

A phrase may come to me as I am walking, and, once I write it down in my journal, the rest of the poem will unravel from that catalyst. ~ Stephen Vincent Benet

The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life, which is a work of art. ~ Henry Miller

Will read a poem by Sir Walter Raleigh at his grandmother's funeral.

"Pondering the joys we had, listen & keep very still. If the lowing from the hill or the tolling of the bell do not
serve to break the spell, listen: you may be allowed to hear my laughter from a cloud. ~ Lynne Branard

I think a lover, when broken, is given a gift
not a scar, not a poem, not a rhyme
(unless it fits.)
I think as humans, we see a set of hues
but when wounded, we see something more:
deeper shades of hurt and worry,
colors never seen before.
Because I can't imagine a child
could see the same black as a widower,
and I don't think healthy hearts
know the true meaning of blue.
When children close their eyes,
they see a color they call empty.
But in the eyelids of the bruised,
the empty black's a crowded room. ~ Katya Polo

There isn't a grand plan at work in the progression of the books with respect to the line. I do want the books to be different from each other, certainly, but I'm more aware of that on the level of theme or structure. I can tell when I'm writing the last of a particular type of poem because the writing is too easy and I start to feel queasy. ~ Matthea Harvey

I don't believe a good poet is very often deliberately obscure. A poet writes in a way necessary to him or her; the reader may then find the poem difficult. ~ Lydia Davis

Cold-Blooded Creatures

Man, the egregious egoist
(In mystery the twig is bent)
Imagines, by some mental twist,
That he alone is sentient

Of the intolerable load
That on all living creatures lies,
Nor stoops to pity in the toad
The speechless sorrow of his eyes.

He asks no questions of the snake,
Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom
Where lidless fishes, broad awake,
Swim staring at a nightmare doom.

William Dunbar was one of the first great Scottish poets, and is also known for his poem "Lament for the Makiris" (Lament for the Makers, or Poets).

Elinor Wylie "was famous during her life almost as much for her ethereal beauty and personality as for her melodious, sensuous poetry. ~ Elinor Wylie

Yoko [Ono] was showing me some of these Haiku in the original. The difference between them and Long fellow is immense. Instead of a long flowery poem the Haiku would say 'Yellow flower in white bowl on wooden table' which gives you the whole picture. ~ John Lennon

A final caution to students: in making judgments on literature, always be honest. Do not pretend to like what you really do not like. Do not be afraid to admit a liking for what you do like. A genuine enthusiasm for the second-rate is much better than false enthusiasm or no enthusiasm at all. Be neither hasty nor timorous in making your judgments. When you have attentively read a poem and thoroughly considered it, decide what you think. Do not hedge, equivocate, or try to find out others' opinions before forming your own. But having formed an opinion and expressed it, do not allow it to petrify. Compare your opinion then with the opinions of others; allow yourself to change it when convinced of its error: in this way you learn. Honestly, courage, and humility are the necessary moral foundations for all genuine literary judgment. ~ Laurence Perrine

Fool brother Filip led blind brother Daret
deep into the black cave.
He knew that inside it, the Queen Crab resided
but that didn't scare him away.

Said blind brother Daret to fool brother Filip,
does Queen Crab no longer reign?
I have heard she is vicious, and likes to eat fishes.
It's best we avoid her domain.

Answered fool Filip to his brother small,
have I not always kept you safe?
I know what I'm doing, for I'm older than you,
and I'll never lead you astray. ~ Susan Dennard

The poem, the song, the picture, is only water drawn from the well of the people, and it should be given back to them in a cup of beauty so that they may drink - and in drinking understand themselves. ~ Federico Garcia Lorca

A poem begins as a lump in the throat? Gamache asked Ruth. The elderly woman held his eyes ~ Louise Penny

You play me with your jazz & leave me with the blues. ~ Curtis Tyrone Jones

If God could transcribe my heart, it'd still read "I love you". ~ Jenim Dibie

When you become vulnerable, any ideal or perfect image of yourself falls away. (...)

Many people are addicted to perfection, and in their pursuit of the ideal, they have no patience with vulnerability. (...)

Every poet would like to write the ideal poem. Though they never achieve this, sometimes it glimmers through their best work. Ironically, the very beyondness of the idea is often the touch of presence that renders the work luminous. The beauty of the ideal awakens a passion and urgency that brings out the best in the person and calls forth the dream of excellence.

The beauty of the true ideal is its hospitality towards woundedness, weakness, failure and fall-back. Yet so many people are infected with the virus of perfection. They cannot rest; they allow themselves no ease until they come close to the cleansed domain of perfection. This false notion of perfection does damage and puts their lives under great strain. It is a wonderful day in a life when one is finally able to stand before the long, deep mirror of one's own reflection and view oneself with appreciation, acceptance, and forgiveness. On that day one breaks through the falsity of images and expectations which have blinded one's spirit. One can only learn to see who one is when one learns to view oneself with the most intimate and forgiving compassion. ~ John O'Donohue

Welcome to thee,
O sword of eternity!
Through Buddha
And through Daruma alike
Thou hast cleft thy way. ~ Okakura Kakuzo

The secret of understanding poetry is to hear poetry's words as what they are: the full self's most intimate speech, half waking, half dream. You listen to a poem as you might listen to someone you love who tells you their truest day. Their words might weep, joke, whirl, leap. What's unspoken in the words will still be heard. It's also the way we listen to music: You don't look for extractable meaning, but to be moved. ~ Jane Hirshfield

She knew she was really sad when she stopped loving the things she loved. ~ Atticus Poetry

Sufis Know the Secrets of Love
"Longing takes us back to God, takes the lover back into the arms of the Beloved. This is the ancient path of the mystic, of those who are destined to make the journey to the further shores of love. Why we are called to this quest is always a mystery, for the ways of the heart cannot be understood by the mind. Love always draws us back to love, and longing is the fire that purifies us. Sufis know the secrets of love, of the way love takes and transforms us. They are the people of love who have kept alive the mysteries of divine loving, of what is hidden within the depths of the human being. ~ Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee

But the poem was born elsewhere, and need not stay. Like the wild geese of the Arctic it heads home, far above the borders, where most things cannot cross. ~ Gary Snyder

I think there is a poem out there for everyone, to be an entrance into the poetry and a relationship with it. ~ Natasha Trethewey

I am not soft. I do not have that luxury. I am the wolf in girl's clothing; all snarls and claws. My mother once told me: be gentle, be kind. She forgot to mention that the world was full of beasts, and if I wanted to survive I would have to become one myself. ~ Nichole McElhaney

could not sleep last night
bed cover of
unease distance
kept me awake
windy whispers in summer
night
was telling
you were awake
one corner to another rolling
like swimming in a competition
my heart wanted to see
you then n then
we live ,we love
on same earth mostly
rare within a real
another world don't allow us
to sleep
in side your ,or mine
restful love

©litymunshi ~ Litymunshi

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem. ~ Anne Sexton

Nature is a book of many pages and each page tells a fascinating story to him who learns her language. Our fertile valleys and craggy mountains recite an epic poem of geologic conflicts. The starry sky reveal gigantic suns and space and time without end. ~ A. E. Douglass

Every work turns against its author: the poem will crush the poet, the system the philosopher, the event the man of action. Destruction awaits anyone who, answering to his vocation and fulfilling it, exerts himself within history; only the man who sacrifices every gift and talent escapes: released from his humanity, he may lodge himself in Being. ( ... ) One always perishes by the self one assumes: to bear a name is to claim an exact mode of collapse. ~ Emil Cioran

If I could sum up my poetry in a few well-chosen words, the result might be a poem. Several years ago, when I was asked to say something on this topic, I came up with the notion that for me the making of poems is both a commemoration (a moment captured) and an evocation (the archaeologist manqué side of me digging into something buried and bringing it to light). But I also said that I find the processes that bring poems into being mysterious, and I wouldn't really wish to know them; the thread that links the first unwilled impulse to the object I acknowledge as the completed poem is a tenuous one, easily broken. If I knew the answers to these riddles, I would write more poems, and better ones. "Simple Poem" is as close as I can get to a credo':

Simple Poem

I shall make it simple so you understand.
Making it simple will make it clear for me.
When you have read it, take me by the hand
As children do, loving simplicity.

This is the simple poem I have made.
Tell me you understand. But when you do
Don't ask me in return if I have said
All that I meant, or whether it is true. ~ Anthony Thwaite

I have experienced healing through other writers' poetry, but there's no way I can sit down to write in the hope a poem will have healing potential. If I do, I'll write a bad poem. ~ Marilyn Hacker

It seems to me that readers sometimes make the genesis of a poem more mysterious than it is (by that I perhaps mean, think of it as something outside their own experience). ~ James Schuyler

Her long beautiful red hair wasn't what got me to stare. It was her beautiful heart that I heard beating when I thought no one was there. Her hugs wasn't what got me to stay, it was the thought of me being alone again and I was afraid. She completes me more than she knows. I admire her more than I show, they say true love is hard to find but, I don't believe that because once I saw her in my dreams, I knew she was mines. I've waited for this day for so long and she never knew it, I plan to give her the world. Lord please don't let me blow it. ~ N.I.

The best picture has not yet been painted; the greatest poem is still unsung; the mightiest novel remains to be written; the divinest music has not been conceived, even by Bach. In science, probably ninety-nine percent of the knowable has not yet been discovered. ~ Lincoln Steffens

A poem is learned by heart and then not again repeated. We will suppose that after a half year it has been forgotten: no effort of recollection is able to call it back again into consciousness. ~ Hermann Ebbinghaus

WORK, SOMETIMES
I was sad all day, and why not. There I was, books piled
on both sides of the table, paper stacked up, words
falling off my tongue.
The robins had been a long time singing, and now it
was beginning to rain.
What are we sure of? Happiness isn't a town on a map,
or an early arrival, or a job well done, but good work
ongoing. Which is not likely to be the trifling around
with a poem.
Then it began raining hard, and the flowers in the yard
were full of lively fragrance.
You have had days like this, no doubt. And wasn't it
wonderful, finally, to leave the room? Ah, what a
moment!
As for myself, I swung the door open. And there was
the wordless, singing world. And I ran for my life. ~ Mary Oliver

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer;
Rarer is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it rarer;
Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter
And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning outmastered the meter. ~ Richard Realf

And then a man of forty or so, with a French accent, asked, "How do you achieve the presence of mind to initiate the writing of a poem?" And something cracked open in me, and I finally stopped hoarding and told them my most useful secret. The only secret that has helped me consistently over all the years that I've written. I said, "Well, I'll tell you how. I ask a simple question. I ask myself: What was the very best moment of your day??" The wonder of it was, I told them that this one question could lift out from my life exactly what I will want to write a poem about. Something I hadn't known was important will leap out and hover there in front of me, saying I am - I am the best moment of the day. I noticed two people were writing down what I was saying. Often, I went on, it's a moment when you're waiting for someone, or you're driving somewhere, or maybe you're just walking across a parking lot and admiring the oil stains and the dribbled tar patterns. One time it was when I was driving past a certain house that was screaming with sunlitness on its white clapboards, and then I plunged through tree shadows that splashed and splayed across the windshield. I thought, Ah, of course - I'd forgotten. You, windshield shadows, you are the best moment of the day. "And that's my secret, such as it is," I said. ~ Nicholson Baker

The intelligence of the heart bypasses the intellect in the head which works on assumptions and requires a lot of thinking and confusion and makes a person tired and weak. But, the heart intelligence is not only direct and to the point, it also gives you energy, vitality and strength. ~ James Dillehay

Radu had practiced the poem so often he could recite it in his sleep. He had stolen shiny bits from famous Arabic poems, gathering them like a raven to line his own nest. The language was dense and flowery, hyperbolic in the extreme. Murad listened, enraptured, as his reign was likened to the ocean and his posterity a mighty river. ~ Kiersten White

The reason for the existence of the perfection conjured up in these fourteen lines is that it possesses ... the authorization to form a message that appeals from within itself. This power of appeal is exquisitely evident in the object evoked here. The perfect thing is that which articulates an entire principle of being. The poem has to perform no more and no less than to perceive the principle of being in the thing and adapt it to its own existence - with the aim of becoming a construct with an equal power to convey a message. ~ Peter Sloterdijk

I Made a Jacket Out of a poem But it was cold like me Dropping colors and phrase from its sleeve Shivering and useless Until I hemmed in the warmth of your name ~ Jamie Zerndt