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Spiritual Poetry

Updated on August 9, 2013

Importance of Poetry

Is poetry still a defining force in our contemporary literary and social landscape, or has it become irrelevant?

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I put my pen to paper
And already my feelings
Have flittered away.


-----

At this oasis I rest
My journey has been long,
And long still, to go.
Here, I no longer dream
Of glory or martyrdom.
No longer do I dream
Of leading others to the well.
Prophesying, and healing,
And working the miracles of God.
I am a simple man,
Who asks only for
The simple miracle of remembrance.
To remember Allah,
To rest my weary head on His Breast.
That is all I desire now.
A simple wish
For the most precious of gifts.

----

Lord,
Grant me eyes that can see injustice and gaze upwards
Give me a tongue to taste the bitterness of hate
And the sweetness of Paradise in Your Mercy
Give me hands willing to work
Awaiting calluses
Grant me ears not deaf to suffering
And open to the call to prayer
Give me a will to overcome adversity
And accept my shortcomings
Give me a nose to smell Your Fragrance
In the flowers
In the corpse
Give me an open heart ready to love
And accept all beings
Grant me feet willing to travel the dusty road
Soles ready to be toughened
Give me a soul capable of loving You
Grant all these things, in Your Mercy,
To a selfish one, not worthy of Your Love,
But who receives it, nonetheless.

----

How sweet
Is the Liquor of Your Lips
My Love.
The wine of this world
No longer stirs my desire.
Only the taste of Your Honey
Can slake my thirst.

----

Hollow out my heart, Love.
Once, it was hollowed out
To make room for You.
Now, hollow out my heart,
Even of You.
Fana, fana.
Let nothing remain.
Not me.
Not You.
Fana, fana.

----

Sitting in this chasm
Distance defines me
Disruption penetrates
The single point
Yet still it remains
Mocking me.
I cannot topple it
On my own power.
Death.
Christ.
Are they not one and the same?

-----

There is but one thing in this world
With the power of love equal to God’s.
It comes to all.
Muslim, Jew, Christian,
Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh.
Saint and sinner
Rich and poor.
Class, color, creed,
All are equal before its eyes.
It embraces them all with equal abandon.
Envelops them all with the same intensity.
Ally and enemy,
Good and bad.
All come to Death, and Death comes to all
Completely without distinction.

-----

Breathe fana into my lungs
The desire to die
Too great to bear.
Impale and decapitate me, Lord,
So that this “I” may die.
The longing for annihilation,
And the lack of this destruction
Is my true test, I suppose.
Annihilate, annihilate.
Love.
But annihilate even that.

-----

Through the gate of my soul
I stare into Oblivion.
No comforting limpid light,
Just swirling Chaos long-repressed.
Dead gods
And regrets
Float like driftwood
On the churning sea.
I stare into it
And see the cold, ugly truth.
I am Christ.
I am Anti-Christ.
I am human.

-----

Unthinkingly turn on the TV,
Or insert the earbuds.
Anything,
Anything,
Anything to fill the void
And stave off the madness
That floats around the edges.
I cannot keep it all at bay forever.
So I refuse the placebo,
And open the flood gates.
Let whatever may come, come.
Come and consume me.

-----

If You are everywhere,
Where am I to find You?
I feel you with the Christians,
The Jews,
The Sufis,
The Mormons,
The Hindus,
The Sikhs,
The Wiccans,
The Muslims,
The Buddhists.
What a blessing,
What a curse.
To see and find You
In all things.

-----


What name to call You?
As You call us by name,
It is only fitting we call on You likewise.
But You have so many names.
Allah.
Krishna.
Jesus.
Shiva.
Nada, nada, nada.
Every name helps me feel a part of You.
An aspect,
An energy.
And yet each fully contains Your infinity.
I suppose I must now and forever,
Simply call you “You”.

-----

What is this elusive “I”
Of which I hear so much?
I see but layers,
Sheaths,
But never this “I”.
Only a yawning gap in my soul,
A vast, spacious nothingness
That cannot be bounded or constrained.
Beautiful, yet deadly.
It constantly threatens
To swallow “me”.
Void, void, void.

-----

Just as the hummingbird
Seeks out nectar
So does my soul
Thirst for the taste of God.
How funny!
The wellspring
Was actually inside me
All along!

-----

Are not all souls
Beautiful blooming flowers?
Does not the fire of Divinity
Burn inside all breasts?
Jew, Muslim, Christian
Sikh, Hindu, Buddhist.
All secondary labels
For what cannot possibly be defined,
Yet possessed by all,
Cherished by all.
From this irony
All tragedy flows.

-----

I see God
Even in this chipped tea saucer.


-----

Awaken from your slumber
O Sweet One!
Great things await you.
More than you ever dreamed
Is already in your possession.

------


Always look beneath the surface,
Sweet One.
Lest you forget
Whence you came.

------


Enjoy this Great Dance,
Friend.
For it is uncertain when the music
May end,
Or you shall be called
To some other, more tiresome task.
Just dance
And smile!

-----

Be concerned not with “correctness”,
Whatever that may be,
But instead with what aim,
What goal,
Your each and every action serve.
If the answer is not “Love,"
Or another package with the same contents,
Then a Golden Calf stands in the Kaa’ba.
And Jesus’s tomb remains full
And undisturbed.


------

Ignite the fire inside,
Become mad with devotion
For your singular goal,
And as you listen to
The sweet whisperings
Of your soul,
You may see
That your soul is no different
Than God.
How funny now,
All your searching seems!
O happy joke!
O enjoyable ruse!
Even God
Can laugh at Himself.

-----

I used to think,
“How desperately I want to love God.”
And how I ran away,
Trying to find Her.
Then I thought,
“I have searched so long,
And I have grown weary.
She must not ever have been.”
But how sad and sleepy
I became.
So I sought Her again.
And suddenly one day I thought,
“Aha! She was with me all along.
I never want to lose this feeling again.”
But like all feelings,
This one, too, passed.
So I searched ardently once more,
This time inside,
And again I grew weary.
And in my tired desperation,
I thought,
“What searching needs be done?
For isn’t my Beloved all around me?”
With this in heart,
All things become cause for celebration.
For there is nothing God is not.

------

An instrument
Is a poor player of itself.
Surrender,
And trust,
And witness the beautiful music
That emerges from the strings,
And hollow channels,
Of you mind, body. and soul.

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    • DDE profile image

      Devika Primić 4 years ago from Dubrovnik, Croatia

      Poetry allows one to express and rewrite down what they truly feel when at their weakest or strongest point of life.

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