Phoenix from the wasteland

Something sacred for sunday. Another poem from Rumi that revels in paradox and plurality.

What is to be done, O brothers?
I do not know who I am.

I am not a Christian, a Jew, a Magian, or a Muslim.
I am not of the East, the West; the land, or the sea.
I am not formed by Nature; nor by the circling heavens;
Not by earth nor water, nor air nor fire.
I am not the king nor the beggar;
Not of substance nor of form.

I am not from India, China, nor a bordering country;
Not from Persia, nor the lands of Khorasan.
I am not of this world nor the next;
Not of heaven nor of hell.

I came not from Adam nor from Eve;
I do not dwell in Eden nor the gardens of paradise;
My place is placeless, my trace is traceless.
Nothing is mine, neither body nor soul -
All belongs to the heart of the Beloved.

I've descided that sundays, it being God's day and all, I should post something of a religous nature. Today, I'd like to share another of my favourite poems. It is called Zero Circle and was written by a Sufi called Rumi. He was a 13th century Persian poet, islamic jurist, theologian and mystic. His followers founded the whirling dervishers that are famous for spinning around a lot.

Although of an islamic background his writing is universalist. First it requires us to release all intellectual confusion by envoking a paradox. Then it asks us to surrender ourselves to grace. I can think of no higher aspiration than to become a mighty kindness.

Zero Circle

Be helpless, dumbfounded
Unable to say yes or no.
Then a stretcher will come from grace
to gather us up.

We are too dull-eyed to see that beauty.
If we say we can, we're lying.
If we say No, we don't see it,
that No will behead us
And shut tight our window onto spirit.

So let us rather not be sure of anything,
Beside ourselves, and only that, so
Miraculous beings come running to help.
Crazed, lying in a zero circle, mute,
We shall be saying finally,
With tremendous eloquence, Lead us.
When we have totally surrendered to that beauty,
We shall be a mighty kindness.

Every year my family and I stay at a small fishing village, called Aberaeron, on the west coast of Wales. Such is it's beauty that footage of it is used to advertise Wales abroad. We go on the same weekend every year, at the end of august, for their annual festival. My mother has been going there over thirty years and I have been there almost every year of my life.

It is always a refreshing holiday that reconnects me with my childhood. One of my personal traditions while I am there is to visit the village second hand book shop. I have always found these shops magical places in which books have literally leapt off the shelves at me. This shop in particular has furnished me with many a significant and timely read.

So, a couple of years ago I arrived at the book shop full of hope for another lucky find. I focused on my intuition and wandered the shop waiting until I got a hunch that I'd found the right book. The hunch didn't come. None of the books seamed attractive. I kept at it though and eventually buried away in the antique section I found a book of poetry. It was called Poems From Beyond by Reddie Mallet. (Can that truly be a real name?). It was published in 1929. I opened it to find some verses highlighted and on reading them I had to buy it. It was well worth the twenty pounds it cost me.

Mr Reddie Mallet has absolutely no web presence and I believe his work deserves a wider audience. Here are those highlighted verses.

From the poem The Music of the Soul:

“And wisdom, sought of God, would know
That hope, through virtue, finds its rest
Not here, in fierce self-interest-
Where life's experiences attest
That sin and death forever brood
In whatsoever thing is good,
And wealth and want are one to woe;

But whence the eternal love descends
Like sunshine on a troubled sea,
And works inscrutably its ends,
If even in seeming contrariety:-
Thus should we keep our spirit's conflict in control,
And hear God's voice of comfort in the music of
the soul.”

From the poem For Self Release

“I pray not for the toil to cease,
But strength to find in self-release;
More constancy
In seeking Thee
To succour and to soothe;
Help in the hourly strife I crave;
Power to be humble, patient, brave;
For scanty grace
Rests in the race
Whereof the road is smooth.”

Anybody want me to post some more? Some full poems maybe?

One of my favourite poems is The Wasteland by T.S Eliot.

Here is a section from it.

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust."

It is a poem written out of the fragments of other poems. It describes the breakdown of traditional religous symbols and the resulting spiritual malaise. I read it at a time when I was deeply aware of my own and others soullessness.

An excellent article discussing it can be found here
http://www.rosenoire.org/articles/hist14.php

However, I broke through the veil of confusion and doubt that once surrounded me and have discovered a world view that inspires and fulfills me. I believe that it was only through wandering the wasteland that I discovered the subtletys and nuances that continue to give me a sense of wonder and awe. The phoenix captures this idea of rebirth and resurgence. Hence, the phoenix from the wasteland.