by
Davis Taylor
To Meher Baba,
The Ancient One
THE HUT: SONNETS TO MEHER BABA
BAMBOO BABA: GHAZALS TO MEHER BABA
17. “Dress Your Soul With Baba”
To penetrate into the essence of all being and significance, and to release the fragrance of that inner attainment for the guidance and benefit of others, by expressing in the world of forms, truth, love, purity and beauty—this is the sole game which has any intrinsic and absolute worth. All other happenings, incidents and attainments can, in themselves, have no lasting importance.
—Meher Baba
1.
That instant when thought awakened You from sleep
and imagination sparked the starry night;
that instant of stirring, when soul began its leap
from Om to Self evolving toward the light;
that instant, or any, since all are now to You,
You could have seen me up writing, for hours
fussing to make this sonnet shimmer like dew
but failing, my poetic garlands, flowers
of rhetoric wilted from dithering. No Tagore
or Whitman, I’d quit except that something’s worrying
me like a bird trapped behind the door
of a wood stove scratching, scurrying.
Oh Baba, You’re driving me nuts. Break my heart,
let out Your blessed Word. I’ll write. You start.
2.
“I’ll write–You start” has been a trial, not
that I expected sonnets by UFO
or that You’d speak, a genie from a teapot–
You’ve kept Your silence as deftly as Pierrot–
but still I feel that something’s passed between us,
that You, a subtle mime, have flicked the rose
that flares in me, but I’ve no proof unless,
well, certainly not from videos,
but if a reader can attest to moments
sudden chills have shuddered down the spine
or frissons seized the heart, then I’d have hints,
not proofs, You’ve sent and I have caught Your sign,
as when I lift a seashell to my ear,
where there’s no words, Baba, it’s You I hear.
3.
You are the Ancient One, the Avatar,
I know within my heart and not because
I’ve sipped on Buddhist water, Hindu nectar,
Christian wine, or shopped around–it was
for years–churches, sanghas, temples, wherever
I imagined tickets sold for heaven,
thus bound to miss You, and might have forever,
if I hadn’t happened on a photo when
in Albany of Mani and Mehera that caught
my eye–illumined from within they seemed–
and so I learned of You, read books, and got
the courage up to pray, whereon I dreamed,
no saw, a flash of the infinite and fled,
but You’ve wound me back, a kite, Your love the thread.
4.
And did You call my name,
mine—could it be true—
for I am full of shame
from years of fleeing You?
But now at night I go
into a vacant shed
to sit with You and slow
the thoughts within my head.
“Oh Parvardigar,
the Preserver and Protector
of all, You are.... You are....”
I cry and cry, and after
I cannot tell You why,
and then again I cry.
5.
Baba, it’s far more likely that You found me
than I You, but afterwards, why send
me north to Lake Superior? To be
alone, no neighbors near, and learn to listen?
Out in the snow are shivering chickadees,
hammering hairy woodpeckers, skittering mice,
wind, and something’s gained by listening to these,
but more it is the silence, the sun on ice,
that brings me tears, Mani would say because
I too am melting, the man I was, important
to others, yielding, but I’ve a deeper cause
for tears, for when I rise from prayer repentant
and face Your portrait, it breaks my heart in two
to see You long for me as I for You.
6.
When I was four, I overheard my mother
say to my sister, “Your brother’s muttering again
to no one.” It’s been so long, I can’t remember
who was my chattering, invisible Friend,
“imaginary,” my mother would have said,
but real to me, though lest my family think
me crazy, sentenced to silence in my head,
but Baba, if You’re that Friend, I’ve found the link
proving that we’ve been close before, You
more dear to me than the rag doll I took
scampering under my bed when lightning flew,
and now You’re back, nattering like a brook,
as real as anyone I could imagine,
more real, now in my heart no longer hidden.
7.
The hush of evening’s come. The sun has set,
and yet there grows in me a restlessness
I cannot shake by scrolling the internet,
paying bills, or organizing my office.
I wonder if it’s a cancer swells inside,
a business risk I casually assumed,
or years ago my first wife’s suicide
that holds me now terrified and doomed.
I envy the cat, curled-up upon the sofa,
drowsing herself asleep. I cannot find
such peace, am stuck in peevish worry. Baba,
save me from myself and let my mind
be drowned tonight in Yours. My dear, why not?
You are the sea, and I a tossing thought.
8.
When did You get to me? That photo of Mani
and Mehera, reading Your books, or afterwards,
that time You scared the bejesus out of me
sending Your light, and I scampered backwards
from You to Nisargadatta and nothingness,
or did we meet some lives ago when Buddha
raised a flower, or was it back when Horus
soared to battle, his eyes the moon and Ra?
Sometimes, I feel as though I’ve known You from
some lost beginning, but even if that’s true,
that’s no excuse for why, this time You’ve come,
I’ve run away, frightened of facing You,
and then it happened. Leafing through a Glow,
I saw through You to God. By chance? No.
9.
It came to me on waking,
there is no You I love,
no You for Whom I’m aching,
no You below, above.
It came to me as well,
there is no apple tree,
no harbor’s chiming bell,
no rocks, no sand, no sea.
It came–I had no warning–
there is no I, no I
who waits for You this morning,
no I who fears to die,
but all’s illusion only,
and then You came to me.
10.
I thought by loving You that I’d love all
more fervently, be buoyed up by bliss.
Instead I feel lackadaisical
about life and politics, letting this
and that go, perhaps because I trust
You now, and do, though worried all the same
that I am drifting, blown by every gust,
while You held firm whatever perils came.
Once, I clearly saw my course: that I
would help the suffering as I’ve been trained.
“Give it up,” I think You’re saying, but why?
I’d rather work than feel so weary, constrained
to fade like mist before the warming sun
unless, like this, we shall at last be one.
11.
Baba, what’s going on? I felt last night
an explosion in my chest, no heart attack,
more as if a star had burst with light,
a vial shattered, and down my spine shot cognac
burning, searing, and not just sensation
but in my mind a change from outer to
inner sight, the sun-flecked, rolling ocean
slipping back into an ancient bayou
where the coiling serpent bites its tail,
dismembered Osiris is gathered up by Isis,
Diana swells to full, and through the frail
laurel, Daphne, ever green, arises,
images I’d not connect with You, Baba,
but was it thus You came to open Sara?
12.
Baba, I’m happy that You let me be
crazy over You, out of my mind
addled, worthless for work, asking of me
nothing but these poems that You’ve assigned.
You know I’ve changed. I’m not the man I was
since youth, driven to excel, to rescue
others, live as I thought a Christian does,
preparing for a final interview.
Nope, I’m free of that, thanks to Your mercy,
finding You in everything and one,
becoming a celibate from controversy
and television to garden in the sun.
I never thought I’d be like this, a truant
from life, nothing but Your love important.
13.
Baba, if You’ve had Your fill
of sonnets, ghazals, light
and heavy verse, I’ll stop,
governed by Your will.
Sure, I like to write,
to wrestle with words, make art,
but I would miss the waiting
more, the gradual drop
from mind and its debating
to find You at my heart.
I love to feel Your presence
before the coming of
the word, to sit in silence
thinking it’s You I’ve heard.
14.
Last night before I went to bed, I read
about Rwanda, the Tutsi women raped
by Hutus, shunned by their families, and led
to camps with bastard children. I read their taped
responses: “I don’t love my son, don’t hate
him either....My father says my child is bad....
My son’s a tree without branches....Too late
you came to rescue us.”* Like many, I had
forgotten Rwanda, but through the night I dreamt
I was in camp with them. The children walked
slowly, famished, afraid. When I’d attempt
to play, they’d turn away. Not one talked
with me. I woke, then saw, despite my sadness,
You are the trunk and all of us Your branches.
*Amnesty International, Spring, 2008.
15.
Today, I followed Your advice to Kitty,
“let Baba do it.” I lounged in bed while You
jumped up, lit the fire, fed the cat,
scooped out the litter box, filled the kettle,
made the tea, then brushed against a vase
that shattered to the floor. Whoops, but You
kept quiet, mopped it up, swept the walk.
Why scold or praise myself? I hadn’t done
a thing, but like a marker in Parcheesi,
been scooted round the board. It was easy.
You stepped into my life and did it all.
I scarcely knew myself. The day sped by,
and as I turned again toward bed, I saw
I’d be in heaven if for You I’d die.
16.
If I were You, if I could see the fall
of every sparrow, know in full the future,
I think I would go mad. Knowing all–
well, it isn’t meant for any creature,
and so You said, “Don’t try to fathom me,
just love me,” but then, out of compassion,
in talks and books, You also let us see
how we are part of You, how everyone
and everything indwells as finite thought
within Your Infinite Intelligence.
Although we seem illusory and caught
in shadows, limited to a world of sense,
in You we’re light and love eternally.
The sparrow falls in You, and so do we.
17.
In Your menagerie were five monkeys,
four dogs, two pigs, piglets, parakeets,
rabbits, goats, a horse, a pair of donkeys,
and they’d rush to welcome You, whether You had treats
or not, each morning as You’d visit. You’d giggle,
tickled by a bunny’s fur. At the horse,
neighing as Mehera passed, You’d stop to wiggle
Your nose against its snuffling muzzle. Of course,
pigs pooped, birds screeched, and puppies jumped. You didn’t
seem to notice. Smiling, You’d shrug to Mehera:
were all all right? You seldom missed a visit,
the silent center of a brouhaha,
and so the planets spin about the sun,
and so we rush until with You we’re one.
18.
Few know about these poems.
To shout our love from rooftops?
Baba, a shyness trims
my heart. Consider the snowdrops
by the walk, each one
a tri-part bell of white,
an utterance of sun,
a gathering of light.
Wordless, they astonish,
yet people hurry by,
as if from cold they’ll perish,
steaming lattés to buy.
If they won’t stop for snowdrops,
You think they’ll stop for sonnets?
19.
Fear scampers off from You, is far too chicken
to call You Christ and face idolatry.
Gluttony’s unimpressed. You will not win
him over with a diet of milk and tea.
Wrath, chided by You, slams the door.
To Lust, You’re naive and inexperienced.
Sloth misses the bus, goes home to sleep some more.
Pride, hearing You say You’re God, is impressed,
but will not deign to sit with leper or mast.
Greed thinks You’re stingy: a candy, a hug, and that’s it
for Your lovers? Envy seethes. “It is unjust,”
he cries, convinced if people judged by merit,
he’d get Your garlands. And so Meher, eight
deadly sins agree You’re not so great.
20.
I got up at four after sleeping fitfully,
determined to get an early start on the day
and be as obedient as one of Your mandali,
those early years, up in the dark to pray,
when, “Go back to bed,” I’d swear You said.
“But Baba, how can I be holy while drowsing
in bed?” “Holy? Who turned your head
to being holy?” “Why You and Your rousing
the mandali up for prayers.” “Enough, obey,
and go to bed.” I did, sensing Your care,
and slept til after eight, and now all day
I’ve felt You near–a presence by my chair,
a wisp of breeze–and I’ve been free of worry.
For holiness, I’m not in such a hurry.
21.
For weeks I’d felt You near, and then today
for just a second You were gone. My heart
seized, as if the floor had dropped away,
then eased, for You were back, but what a start
I’d had–to stumble through a gap, a tear
in the cosmic fabric, and know right off that if
You left, the pain was more than I could bear.
I sensed, as after a major quake, a whiff
of dust, and then I managed on til night
pretending all was just the same. It was,
or so it seemed. I’d merely had a fright,
but once in bed, I could not sleep because
You’d left, or so it seemed. You are my life,
a moment’s absence cutting as Kali’s knife.
22.
For a second You were gone.
I knew I should not fear.
It wasn’t like a year,
but still I tossed til dawn.
All night, my nerves were drawn,
my stomach upset, queer.
A noise and out I’d peer,
but nothing crossed the lawn.
At last the sun burst through.
I rose from bed to face
Your portrait, remember You,
but worries took Your place,
and though I said Your name,
You’d gone. ’Twas not the same.
23.
You weren’t someone I just dreamt up,
a wish fulfillment, as Freud would say,
a toy or happy, frolicsome pup
to help me through my waning day.
You were the force of life to me
“that through the green fuse drives the flower,”
as wrote a lover of spring and folly,
but You have left, like him, a dower
of grief, absence, what is not.
The finches flock, the herons cross
the sky. I watch but cannot blot
away the darkness of my loss.
Why write? Everything falls wrong.
You were the music to my song.
24.
I will not dream You up or conjure You
from the depths of longing. Better that You are gone,
better this bitter pain that says I knew
Your presence once, better that I go on
alone than in pretended company,
for there’s a truth in absence, a certitude
in the bleak hollowness of my days that we
were once in love. You gave me then the food
of life, and now my hunger points the way
of faithfulness. Not an instant, Baba,
can I leave You. Though You are gone, I stay
beside my gate and childlike count each car
pass down the road to home, and when I hear
the silence through the trees, I think You’re near.
25.
Baba, You’re gone, and yet I live as though
nothing’s changed. I say Your name at dawn.
I’m watchful for a sign. All day I go
about my work with smiles and not a frown.
A glance at me, perhaps You’d think that I
am holy and like the fabled saints, patient
in my love, but that’s not true. I cry
most nights; the days, I scarcely hide my torment.
I know the Hafiz poem, “O be not grieved,”
that says I shouldn’t fuss or expostulate
to You about my fate. I have believed,
but Baba, how much longer must I wait?
I’ve read, “this desert one day shall be a garden,”
but every day without Your love, I harden.
26.
A gentle emptiness now falls on me.
I’m tired from days of planting apple trees,
tired of longing, of measuring degrees
of absence, presence, so tired that now I see
perhaps You’re part of me, the part that’s empty
when thoughts are swirled and carried off by the breeze
and there is nothing left but chickadees
swooping back and forth from bush to tree.
No one would think to steal this emptiness
except myself, worrying if You’re near,
but I have grown too tired, I must confess,
for worry, as though I’d walked from far Kashmir
to Poona seeking You and then arrive
to find but emptiness, not You alive.
27.
Some say that You are found in emptiness
and fathomed by yogic discipline, by years
given to watching yearnings, thoughts, and fears,
to patient seeking not for more but less,
to letting go and coming to address
what’s been most painful, to accepting bitter tears,
to finding peace in whatever now appears,
and yes, I’ve found relief in emptiness,
but You are more than that: You are the face
where I’ve met God, the love duet that won’t
stop playing in my mind, the rush of grace
that springs from failure, kindness, a selfless moment,
the Friend Whose name I’ve whispered through the day,
but since You’ve left, You are grief’s résumé.
28.
Like every day, I’ve gotten up
to say Your name. It is my habit,
my discipline. So what if my cup
is empty, I’m up. I will not quit.
Pride, shame, stubbornness
comprise my willful trinity,
propping up my cheerfulness,
my pretense of serenity.
How different it was. Light
would fill the room as You drew near.
I didn’t worry, all seemed right.
I’d smile, for it was You I’d hear,
as even now: “Be not dismayed.
Love’s secret game is being played.”
29.
You’ve played and conquered at love’s game, and now
You’re back, I know You’re back, and as for how
I know, I know, and You know I know, Your absence
over, so let me shout my thanks—Ah,
“what’s real is given and received in silence”—
so You’ve said, but I can’t be silent, Baba.
Bursting with love, bursting to sing Your praise,
must I stuff my feelings, no hubbub raise?
All right, but this at least I will admit:
I was wrong. You never left. Not pride,
’twas You Who kept me going, wouldn’t quit
yearning in me for You–so deep inside
it seemed You’d gone–and yearning too for me,
who’s You, my truest Self, a mystery.
30.
Most people haven’t heard of You, Baba,
or if so vaguely as another guru,
Maharaj, or Ji, though not as Allah,
Yahweh, Vishnu, Ezad, God, but You
are God, not a small tributary
to the ocean but beyond the ocean,
the very source from Whom the Cosmic Sea
of stars and planets flows in constant motion.
Formless, hidden in Illusion’s train,
You are unknown. Not even paradox
can light the darkness that You are, restrain
the silence of Your voice. You’re Buddha’s ox
and boy. You’re Christ and Peter, Indra’s net,
the Love in whom our need to love is set.
31.
Baba, I’m building You a hut,
fifteen feet square, a cherry floor,
a Jøtul stove, Wisconsin cut
cedar for ceiling. Above the door
I’ll paint, “Baba’s hut,” an excuse
to speak of You and say this space
is sacred, Yours, but what the deuce,
I’ll add, so’s every other place.
I’ll put inside Your books and portrait.
When someone comes, we’ll sit and wait
for You, dispel the known to let
the unknown enter, while on the grate
the kindling crackles, to ash burning,
ourselves to You, our Self, returning.
32.
Read Hafiz. He’ll let you know about the planes,
the steps to take to realize you’re God.
Search out his tavern, listen as he explains.
He has imbibed the truth, a wine-drunk sod
and Perfect Master too, while I’m a pilgrim
setting out along the way, my staff,
Meher Baba’s name, my goal to write a poem
for Him each day, the subject love. Don’t laugh.
Baba’s told me to trust my yearning heart,
to speak out loud His Word that lies therein,
to labor on, though always at the start,
while gathering stories from the sacred inn.
I’ve far to go, by love am stupefied.
So what? I’m happy, for Baba is my guide.
33.
I must be lost for You to find me,
dark for You to give me light.
I must be free for You to bind me,
and bound to be released in flight.
It’s when I’m silent that I hear
the murmur of Your voice inside.
It’s as a child I let You steer
my aged bark to reach Your side.
When I’m emotionless, I feel
Your bliss, when I’m completely still,
Your force. When I am thoughtless, You steal
within and take away my will.
When I become for God insane,
You shelter me from sun and rain.
34.
I pass the barn, the forest on my left,
the frost crunching, all silent otherwise,
to reach Your hut, its roof between a cleft
of stars, its walls lit by the moonrise.
I go inside as thought into Your mind.
It’s March, the lake a frozen sheet, no slide
or slap of waves. I see the hills outlined
against a sky where the Gemini now stride.
The deer-nibbled field is yet snow-patched,
in moonlight, the fence’s posts arrayed in line,
but I am scarcely here, a mind-trace snatched
by You, as chills are racing down my spine.
If thus my ego died and I were You,
would all be gone that now I barely view?
35.
Out in the woods, I’ve often sat beside
a stream and flicked small sticks into the flow
and watched for hours, guessing how they’d go,
which ones would be by eddies pulled aside,
which wedged by rocks, which drowned, which spinning slide
downstream and pass from sight, guessing as though
I could control their swirls and stops, but no,
I was but watcher to their casual ride,
and in my life it’s often been the same,
that what I thought I chose, in fact, chose me,
and what I thought controlled steered me. As for blame
or praise? I’m undeserving as a stick would be,
fate-flicked, and then it hits me: Fate is You,
watching, nudging, lifting me on through.
36.
I’ve reached a ledge.
There’s nothing there.
“Step back,” fear says–
I’m at the edge.
My hands are cold.
“Go on,” love says–
I don’t know where
or if You’re there.
“You’ve wings,” God says–
I feel my soul
now take control.
“Be bold,” she says–
There is no wall.
I fall and fall.
37.
I quote from the masts: “Look, the Lord Krishna
and His gopees have come.” “He’s God Himself,
and you have tricked me. I am not fit to sit
beside Him.” “We have come to the garden of Paradise.
Look at this man’s face and forehead, they shine
as if the sun were there, can’t you recognize
who he is?” And Chatti Baba to Krishna:
“You want to leave, ...but what’s the good of that?
All the world’s in Baba’s power, so where
will you go to? Serve Him now. He is
the ocean. One day, people will throng to see Him,
and you may miss the chance of meeting Him.
Take it now.” God-crazed, out of their mind,
they saw the One all seek but so few find.*
*The quotations, with minor changes at the end of the last, are from The Wayfarers, Meher Baba with the God-Intoxicated, by William Donkin (Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, 1988), pages 151-156. In the order in which they are quoted, the masts are: a mast near Brindaban, Gulab Baba, the mast of the “Place of Seclusion,” and lastly Chatti Baba, who was speaking to Krishna, one of the mandali. The last line comes from one of Baba’s sayings: “I am the one so many seek and so few find” (Meher Baba Calling, Ahmednagar, 1992, #14).
38.
There in the ditch, we think that we can see
the blackbird swaying on a cattail stem
accurately from stimuli entering us,
as if the world out there comes in as is.
Not so. From hints, experience, and memory,
we fabricate four fifths of what we see–
mental constructs, the visible partaking
of the invisible continually,
but once, for me, it was reversed, that day
I saw Your face appear across the sky,
for then invisible reality
grew visible despite my mortal eye.
I wasn’t thinking of You. The sky was clear.
I was out walking. No one else was near.
39.
Baba, I’ve had too much to drink
at Woody’s, Independence Day,
up here in Herbster, north Wisconsin.
Kids are partying by the bay.
We old have gathered at the bar,
fish fry, a Friday night and noisy.
Did You know, Your name, Baba,
rhymes with bar? The dictionary
says so. It’s true. I’m drunk with beer,
with You. A thread of silken floss–
is that the moon above the pier?
I stagger home. O’erhead, the cosmos
bursts with stars and stripes and smoke.
Freedom? To You I am bespoke.
40.
“You are without color, without expression,
without form, and without attributes,”
I say each morning as I watch the sun
strike the photo of Your face. Shoots,
Baba, it’s pretty strange to say to You,
“no one can see You but with eyes Divine,”
while gazing at Your eyes and sensing, too,
right then that You are gazing into mine,
and yet more strange since I believe each word
I’m saying, that I cannot see “the One,”
yet seeing You, and thus the visible’s blurred
into the invisible, my sight undone.
My mind grows quiet as I say Your Prayer,
my body opens dissolving into air.
41.
Friends challenge, “Why Baba? You could have stuck with Jesus.”
This Easter, I felt a darkness cross the land
and then the sun’s return, blazing, joyous,
Your harrowing of hell, Your journey done,
Yours, Baba, Who’ve been the Christ and are,
although a Christ Who has evolved through time,
from Zoroaster til now, the Avatar,
God embodied and no mere paradigm.
I’d claim You’re up-to-date and Jesus passé
but it’s truer that You’ve returned to meet our need,
now, less for teaching than learning to play
silently, intuitively love’s reed.
Your message is always, “love God,” but this time too,
without speaking, You’ve tuned our hearts to You.
42.
I launch myself into a train of thought.
It lurches and I jump off, too tired to follow.
The tracks vibrate, but now I am too slow
to hop a freight that’s shrinking to a dot.
I fall into a reverie, am caught
nodding as sleet patters against the window
and cold winds rattle the house although
already May. Then comes what I forgot.
Last night half sleeping, I had a premonition
of a bomb exploding midst the screams
of children, and all today I bear their dreams
of everlasting, horrid recollection.
Each child we bomb is You, each adult too,
and then we run, Baba, in terror from You.
43.
There’s this and that to do,
so much that’s trivial,
to spiff up, mend, and glue.
I’d like to call on Ariel,
get him to clean the house,
to wash the kitchen floor,
to gather trash, not grouse
of hand prints on the door.
I’d rather now be still,
have time to write this sonnet,
be one with You in will,
not vacuuming the carpet,
but You will come tonight
and now this home’s a sight.
44.
Way back, I remember us kids in the back seat
on Christmas headed to Aunt Libby’s house,
scrunched together, shivering without heat,
and how we’d elbow each other grumbling, “You louse,
move over.” “I won’t. Can’t you see that line.
It’s my space.” “Stop kicking me.
Daddy, tell Susie to stop.” “Children, all’s fine.
Now please be cheerful.” I’d hunker down in fury.
Life wasn’t fine nor I cheerful. Damned
if I’d pretend, so Baba, I had a start
that perfect cheerfulness was Your command,
that You should be my father’s counterpart.
You are. His love and Yours have steadied me
til now I love You both more cheerfully.
45.
Mehera never spoke of an awakening,
of passing through the gateless gate to emptiness,
of losing self in fana, of flying on angel’s wing
to meet her Ka’abic friend, nothing of ecstasies,
but just of getting up at four to make Your tea,
of greeting You with towel, basin, comb in hand,
of how she’d cook all day, grind spices, skim the ghee,
and when You’d leave on trips, of how she’d make a garland
from old saris, an album from Your photos, for You
on Your return, of how she would obey Your will,
live in isolation, read no books, make do
with lack of privacy, walled-up on Meherabad hill.
She didn’t complain. Joy and kindness lit her face.
Of hurt, envy, even suffering there was no trace.
46.
I say that I’ll obey you, but brace
myself when sensing Your command,
afraid You’ll say, give up this place,
this house, the farm and planted land.
Do You know that I’m afraid
of love, not of the goddess Venus
but of You, that all I’ve made
and done will come, has come between us,
including these my poems–O may
You cherish them–but in every line
there’s still my ego, my hope someday
they’ll ring to Your renown, and mine.
Oh Baba, I’m terrified to be
selfless as dust as You’d have me.
47.
I wait convinced that You will come,
my dinner guest, at six tonight,
while finches chitter, bees still hum,
and lilies open to the light.
I know You’ll come. What I’ve to do
is mostly done–just garlic to crush
and curried dal let gently stew–
so when You’re here, I’ll need not rush.
You’ll come, I’m sure, by evening star.
You’ll be the first striding quickly,
then Eruch, Pendu, Baidul, Pawar,
all dressed in white spotlessly.
The sun has set. Baba, it’s eight.
Come. I fear my heart will break.
48.
This lifetime, You left miracles to gurus
and other players at illusion’s charms,
seeing little to value in offering rescues
or doing tricks that oft bring lasting harms.
You were instead the purveyor of helplessness
and hopelessness, the master demanding sure
obedience, and the fellow beggar no less
subject to suffering than the poorest poor.
At nineteen, after Babajan’s kiss, there came
to You the glory of God, abundant power
to rule the world, but You played a different game,
love’s. In poverty, You proved a shower
of grace falls when we get out from under
the self’s protective roof to feel God’s thunder.
49.
This or that, red or blue, visit
or stay at home, I’m dizzied with endless choices.
Whispers flit in the parliament of wit,
but which are hellish, which angelic voices?
How serious they are, for discerning is not
funny, goats to the left, sheep to the right.
Upon the human soul’s a hideous blot,
genocide again aiming the spotlight,
but there was no selection with You, Baba.
When pilgrims came, You’d welcome each by saying,
“Baba bows to Baba.” The Avatar,
You’d wash their feet, then stand with them praying
to Baba. You gave Yourself to Baba in all
that duality as one in love should fall.
50.
You took me back last night to the boarding school
I hated as a child. I wandered about
its spotless grounds–“pick up the trash” the rule–
then passed the dining hall as boys rushed out.
Amidst the crew, I saw one awkward as me,
a knobby-kneed, pixy child, small
as a Hobbit. When I was thirteen, how casually
I was teased, called fairy, kicked til I’d bawl,
but I saw in this child’s face he’d not been beaten,
was liked by all. In minutes, You transformed
my school into a paradisial Eton
and me into a boy with others, sun-warmed
on a free afternoon heading for the river.
Erasing dream with dream, You make me shiver.
51.
If I could be a Christian in the choir,
a Buddhist monk off on a year’s retreat,
a Taoist in the woods warmed by a fire,
a Quaker quiet on his straight-backed seat,
if I could be a someone, hang my hat
upon a peg, be seen as good, if I
could know that I was on my way and that
I’d soon arrive, by effort if I could buy
an hour’s peace–oh, I’ve tried it all
and failed, raised my mind up to a pitch
of ecstasy, crashed like a cannonball
right back to earth, unable to throw the switch
that turns off I, but I pray someday You’ll come,
a thief, and snatch me off, a ripened plum.
52.
Baba, You’re here smiling from the photos
on the wall, and in God Speaks, and in
my heart where daily Your loving presence grows,
but still I long for You, wondering when,
or if I’ll ever touch Your face, give You
a hug, massage Your knees, unlace Your sandals
and lay my head upon Your feet. I’ll do
what You ask, but I can’t stop longing, scandalous
or not. So what if others call me willful,
or worse, a spoiled child imagining
that if I squall, You’ll come. Yes, I’m awful,
but, Baba, come. I know I shan’t be winning
praise for patience, and perhaps I’ll be regressing,
but I long for You far more than for progressing.
53.
Sometimes, I want to go back into the world
and do Your work, teach, whatever You’d say,
to leave this frozen North now, be hurled
back into life’s bustle, to escape away
from endless yearning and all these games of Yours.
Dreams erasing dreams? Not so last night–
practicing my scales and arpeggios,
I played with brilliance, struck the keys just right,
then felt beneath my fingers hairy mice
that squirmed when struck, racing everywhere
as a tune came from a higher plane–’twas nice–
but still I could not play: no keys were there.
I woke exhausted, but Baba, don’t let me go.
Begin the Beguine again that goes so slow.
54.
I trudge to meet You in the night.
Dark clouds are packed across the sky,
and in Your hut there is no light,
no sound until I start to cry.
It is Your love that humbles me
and not like any love I’ve known,
more like the battering of the sea,
a power greater than my own.
“You must be happy in my love.”
I am, but why I do not know,
and “happy” misses feelings of
drowning in Your undertow.
The hut is cold, yet here I stay.
I’m powerless to go away.
55.
I’ve changed, or maybe I’ve not changed at all.
I am no taller; at catching jokes, still slow,
and slow at guessing Your wish, hearing Your call.
Self-annihilated? In bliss? Not so.
I’m still myself, and yet the world seems brighter.
Sometimes I ache and think You’ve gone away,
but no, the ache is You holding me tighter.
I’ve grown more sure we’ll meet somewhere, someday.
You’ve said, “Obey me. Hold fast onto my daaman,
say my name, remember me.” I do,
thereby discovering that Your discipline
is light because it brings me nearer You.
You promised that if we do what You command,
there’d be less ego, more You. I understand.
56.
It’s simple, Baba, I love You,
I do,
and simple now to do Your will.
Love will.
So simple I can’t understand.
Who can?
As simple as to fall asleep,
no peep,
as simple as to float downstream
in dream,
then simple as to wake with light,
so bright,
and simple then to find, my Dear,
You’re here.
57.
Tonight, You came to dinner, oh,
not in the body that You had,
but certainly ’twas You, I know,
and deep within my heart was glad.
As for my knowing, what can I say?
We weren’t that many, just a few,
but I by love was blown away,
and yes, my Dear, You watched and knew.
At last You’d come to eat with me.
I scarce could bear such happiness,
was like to burst, as You could see
and signing “yummy” put me at ease.
I served to You a simple meal,
and everything ’bout You was real.
58.
You’ve promised everyone sat, chit,
ananda, the experience of being who
we truly are–God Who’s infinite
in knowledge, power, and bliss, God Who’s You,
but when, Baba, I used to worry, when
will I begin the involution of
the planes, and when, if ever, reach the end
of incarnations, united with You in love.
I’d still be worrying if I didn’t know
at last for sure: You are my Lord and Master.
When I was a child, our gardener, Pietro,
drove me to school. I’d squirm, yelling, “Go faster.”
He got me there. You’ll do the same, Your art
like his, by going slow to temper my heart.
59.
“I’ll write, You start.” That was long ago.
Tonight, You feel as fresh within my heart,
fresher than way back then, and yet I know
it’s time to stop, though not from You to part.
Sixty. That will be enough. Should You
want more, my God, I’ll start again fretting,
fussing, at times rejoicing when out of the blue
a word appears, thanks to Your abetting.
What a trip it’s been, Baba, at least for me,
to feel I’ve had a reason for my life,
opening to others God’s humanity,
proclaiming Your love, the power that cancels strife.
Baba, my faults as poet please forgive.
If mine, these poems will die. If Yours, they’ll live.
60.
I’m out today to net a butterfly,
but with the autumn winds crashing through,
scarcely a grasshopper appears. The sky
is empty; my butterfly net is empty too.
Baba, I know I’ve reached the end, but I
will miss writing these sonnets, trying to tell
the truth of our love story, despite how shy
in life I’ve been. Now to these poems farewell.
Bless this book, Baba, as it sails off
to posterity that it be well received,
and if the critics at such sonnets scoff,
it’s no big deal, but I’d be deeply grieved
if these sonnets turn from You anyone.
They’ve spoken soul to soul, and now they’re done.
A Note on the Ghazal Form:
In several of the ghazals, I follow the traditional Persian form and repeat one rhyme and refrain throughout (see, for example, the sixth, “Crowned with Longing”). In others, I keep the repeated rhyme without the refrain, and in yet others, I use rhymed couplets. Persian metrics depend on a quantitative system for which there is no English equivalent. I have used iambic meter instead. As for content, my ghazals focus on one subject more than traditional ones.
I’ve passed through churches, temples, Buddhist halls
arriving at a tavern with bamboo walls.
Ghazals, from deep inside, drift out to me.
I’d sing along but cannot keep on key.
Singers and lovers, I’m told, are soon let in
and poets, too, with sitar or mandolin.
I’m not so bold to claim that I’m a lover.
A writer? I’m driven to it by another,
a daemon in me, whose words, that shine at night,
suffer when exposed to morning’s light.
“Call me poet,” he insists. I do.
If he deserves the name is up to you.
Now poet, what’s this nonsense they’re singing of—
wine and drunkenness, travails of love?
“Love’s love,” he translates, “an eternal track,
though lovers fail and ties of love grow slack.
The Lover and Beloved, in sleep, are one.
God rouses them, and creation is begun.
Birth pains, that’s love, from which there comes a child
whose crying, ‘Give me all,’ drives parents wild.
They give him some, reluctant to give him all,
then find they’re sobbing, twixt Child and them a wall.”
The music fades. Outside the bamboo gate,
the poet tugs my heart—“We’ve come too late?”
Perhaps we have. I’ll give the porter my name.
It’s Davis. Poet, what’s yours? Is it the same?
Baba, is every night in the Tavern chaos,
the God presiding here not You but Bacchus?
Tajuddin Baba called You the Heavenly Rose.
Hazrat Babajan woke You with a kiss.
“Master, Master, hurry, bring us more wine.”
The drunks presume to call on You for service.
And now that poet’s pleading along with them.
“A drop, a drop” he cries. He too is shameless.
Baba, this is no place for one who’s bashful.
Let those drunkards dance with dervishes,
and let me out. Look. The sky’s a chalice.
Here too is sparkling wine, and more—there’s silence,
and yet no peace for me, that poet wailing,
“Give me a sip of wine that ravishes.”
Besides, I’m ashamed. You came from bliss to us
while I’ve retreated from the Tavern’s ruckus.
Let me back in. I’ll write what the poet says,
to be his scrivener enough for Davis.
3. Lock-Picking
It should be easy to step into the heart,
a journey of an inch, no need for a chart.
Baba, You called, and I set off though now,
it’s been so long, whenever did I start?
I’ve tried my best, daily raced towards You,
but I’d go faster in a bullock cart.
Led by love, a peasant finds his way,
while I get lost, attached to being smart.
Endless is the road, so gather clove
and sandalwood to lay upon the ghat.
Then light the fire, my body burn to ash,
and yet from death, Meher, I shall not part.
My body and that inch are but illusions.
Beyond this plane endures their counterpart.
Below, above, the inner gate is shut.
It’s clear: reflections can’t be pried apart.
Davis, don’t despair amidst your longing.
Leave lock-picking to Baba. It is His art.
A whiff of scent, an intimation of bells
announce the subtle planes, so Hafiz tells.
That ringing in my ears, why it’s tinnitus;
that scent of rose, so fragrant, of earth still smells.
Baba, I’ve given up my worldly travels,
left the steaming oysters in their shells.
I’ve locked my office door, packed up diplomas,
said to grieving clients last farewells.
I’ve headed north, my only occupation
penning ghazals, sonnets, villanelles,
and yet, what is my progress? Only this:
I’ve grown more weary of Maya’s carousels.
I want off, now; I want the higher planes.
Davis, want Baba’s love, not dreamy spells.
Tee-you, tee-you,
chuck-chuck-chuck,
tee-you.
The tee-you bird is up at seven
announcing that this earth is heaven,
or so the poet says, convinced
he sings of love. I’d say he’s driven
to stake his territory from lust,
a primal urge to keep on livin’,
but then, what do I know of love,
just pain after the heart is riven.
Poet, what’s this you’re arguing:
that all through love shall be forgiven?
You’d say that bird now sings of joy,
like one released from years in prison.
How differently you hear from me:
right through my heart I feel you listen.
Yes, Davis, that’s how I grasp
the tee-you’s song, Baba’s daaman.
Entering the Tavern, I cross the ground with longing.
At Baba’s chair, I kneel spellbound with longing.
I am alone. Silence takes my hand,
and now I’m sailing outward bound with longing.
I glimpse my image at the Pilot’s door
and see through it to Baba crowned with longing.
We’ve left astern the harbor of memory,
are ripped by tides into the sound of longing.
The islands slip behind. There’s open sea,
or fantasy, my mind unbound by longing.
Oh Captain, steer my ship, for I am lost.
“Davis, He Who’s lost is found through longing.”
7. You Came
Baba, You came today,
the mist upon the hay.
Beneath the clouds, You came,
a brightness in the grey.
Dressed in white, a blossom,
You trembled on the spray.
A king, You came, stuffing
with apples my hut’s doorway.
A full-moon tide, You came,
flooding into the bay.
You came as saint? From me
a saint would turn away.
As God? If so, in osiers
reddening with May.
You came to Davis, Baba,
as rain fell on the clay.
Baba, let’s face it. The taverns of Wisconsin
reek of smoke, cheap beer, and cheaper gin.
I sit on a bar stool pretending to hold Your daaman,
whispering Your name into the frightful din.
If I were mad, Baba, I’d get up and sing.
They’d call the cops and cart me to the bin.
The television’s blaring. What do I see,
commercials pandering to lust and sin.
And now the ten o’clock news. Oh Baba, if once
I watched and didn’t judge, I’d be in Eden.
Everyone in Woody’s is You, Meher.
If they, if I, knew, what bliss we’d win.
There’s Bobby McFerrin singing, “Don’t worry, Be happy.”
Come on, Davis. Let go. All here are kin.
Thanks to a photo, I look into God’s face.
My mind goes blank; my heart picks up its pace.
You roll Your eyes, asking for everything.
I hesitate, and still I feel Your grace.
One smile from You, I know that I’m forgiven,
then laugh at how I had rehearsed my case.
No artist captures God, no photo either.
Who sees you truly burns and leaves no trace.
Your smile becomes a frown. Lightning flashes.
As quick, the clouds disperse in streams of lace.
Rays, more hued than sunlight, burst from You.
Haloed with light, You chuckle holding the ace.
You have the power to make me cry or giggle.
I never know which until our eyes embrace.
Today it’s giggles. Now Davis better stop.
He seeks to please and spare himself disgrace.
Baba, You are the morphic motion
uniting rivers with the ocean.
You are the Lover and Beloved,
the fire that burns away devotion.
You’re joy in presence, pain in absence,
the poise that holds despite emotion.
You are the Weaver. You are the carpet
of stillness arising from commotion.
You’re Indian. You’re Persian. You’re server and served.
You are the thirst that brings love’s potion.
You are the twinned being of oneness,
source of truth and veil of illusion.
Only You exist, Meher.
You’re Davis, the scrivener. What a notion!
11. The Thresher’s Tine
There, the thud of a fallen pine.
It’s storming, the Beaufort scale’s at nine.
Windows shake, the power’s out.
The precipitation’s crystalline.
“I love You, Baba,” and there I stop.
That’s it for this year’s valentine.
Boreas, blow and bust a gut.
You’re innocent of my love’s decline,
and yet I ache for Baba so,
He’d find me here in bed supine.
“Get up,” He’d say. “Be off with you.
Don’t fear the wind’s, or bullets’, whine.
Where nothing meets with everything,
look up,” He’d say, “and see my sign.
Go in.” He’d say, “The tavern’s warm.
More blessed than life’s a drop of wine.”
He’d say…, but look, the clouds darken.
I fear to meet with Death’s combine.
Davis, when you remember Baba,
you’ll find bliss in the Thresher’s tine.
12. The Pearl
Wings whirl, light without measure.
A seraphim, a dragon, or is it God?
Why comes to me this guard? I’ve squandered my treasure,
left behind no jeweled vault, just sod.
The fiery wings constrict into a gem,
a single pearl out-blazing a diadem.
It’s heart-stoppingly beautiful, so bright,
it’s color’s not contained in earthly white.
**********
My God, I did not mean to turn away
from lightsome pearl, more precious than my breath,
but I let it go, awoke to common day
when I should have followed it unto my death.
I turned to my dismay. Now let me go
sell everything. Say yes, my Lord, not no.
I fear my ego—I turned when Baba came.
Take from me Davis. I’ll go without a name.
Baba, I hate my anger, my lies to You.
I seek for oneness, no surprise to You,
but I’m as distant as that crow out there
pecking pebbles. Away it flies. To You?
From consciousness to consciousness it wings,
sped on by its sanskaric ties to You.
If it’s like me, as long as it shall call
the dark wings mine, it cannot rise to You.
That crow, although its cage is infinite,
begs release. Meher, it cries to You.
Let it be free, the dust beneath Your feet,
and then, whom shall it elegize but You?
Davis, name it. You are that winging crow
but must feel such to realize who’s You.
In answer to the zephyrs’ kiss,
the sedges whisper, “Baba is.”
Horses whinny, frogs croak bass.
The earless snake’s the audience.
“Baba is. Baba is,”
bushes sigh, an old man sneezes.
A popped balloon is limitless.
So fast we rush from stone to bliss.
Tell me, Baba, what are we—
spatters of God’s intelligence?
Tell me, Baba, who are we—
You emerging in consciousness?
A monarch flutters down the path,
and afterwards along comes Davis.
To think without attachment to thought
is easy as selling the farm dad bought.
Each time we think, we draw a map.
No wonder suffering’s the human lot.
I tell my mind, “Relax, let go,”
and watch it tighten up each knot.
I tell my mind slow down and walk;
it bounces me in an endless trot.
I tell my mind, “you’re ignorant,”
and it retorts, “you think you’re not?”
I’m sleepless, Baba, from love and worry,
a scrivener, my eyes bloodshot,
who’s ready, Dear, to give You all.
Wing Davis home to Your dovecot.
Baba, my impatience to be with You,
my restlessness to be with You,
are dragging me down. Love can’t be this,
this nagging insistence to be with You.
It feels like lust. It puts me first,
You second—in service to self, not You.
A lover would accept Your will,
his hopelessness apart from You.
It must be wrong to yearn so much,
hoping to force my way to You,
unless, Baba, yearning’s Your gift,
a fiery harness straight from You,
for every day my body burns
with feverishness to be with you.
Oh Baba, pity this fool whose longing
is all the closeness he has with You.
Let Davis dream that in Your mind’s
all-knowingness, he’s there with You.
With Baba, cap-a-pie,
I’m dressed, Meherly.
I sail into the night
beyond the stars I see.
I bore into the light
within the banyan tree.
I ride the wind, delight
that from myself I’m free.
Baba, I know You’ll find
I’m dressed becomingly.
It’s more than practice merely.
It’s how I’m meant to be.
Without self-consciousness,
I praise Your majesty.
Without a touch of fear,
I stand in company.
Putting on Your oneness,
I pierce duality,
find friend and foe the same
within Your comedy.
Baba, where’s Davis gone,
from self, an absentee?
* Baba gave this instruction at the three weeks gathering in 1954.
While I’m in bed wheezing, by flu depressed,
out there an eagle soars, by wind caressed.
If we create our own reality,
then Baba, why do I suffer while he soar blessed?
A quiver of wing sends him upward wheeling;
a crumb of toast sets me tossing, bed-stressed.
You know, I’d soar like him if You’d lift me.
I’d soar if You would merely clear my chest.
To be cut off from You and all creation,
is this my trial, is this Your cosmic jest?
You say be cheerful, accept whatever comes,
for all is You. Then Baba, this viral pest?
All right, I’ll laugh. It’s You Who’s stricken Davis,
enforced surrender to Your will: bed-rest.
To Baba’s hut, I’ve brought no light.
The wind and sun have taken flight.
I settle in to drink love’s wine
when comes to me a just-off line.
I couldn’t get it right all day,
and still it nags, won’t go away.
And now my mind is churning, slapping.
Poet, are you out there clapping?
You dangled that line knowing I’d bite,
and now you’ll keep me up all night.
What have you got to do with me
and Baba? Shush, you busy-body.
Oh, you say you’re close to Him.
Leave me out. Go write a hymn.
Look, I’m sorry. I get your drift.
Hearing Baba, that’s your gift.
I’ll be your scrivener once more
if you’ll bring Baba through that door.
Oh, I must surrender first
and not with irritation burst?
Look, I’ve got my pen and pad,
proving surrender’s not so bad,
but in an hour, give me a break
and go to sleep, for Davis’ sake.
God visits one, but when the story’s told,
it draws a multitude into His fold.
“Write down what happens,” said Creation’s Planner
knowing through stories that He would feed us manna.
“I would believe in God if He would sit
with me for coffee.” Baba made that visit.
He came and settled in the empty chair.
Two saw His face, the third a blinding flare.
A foggy night, He took the steering wheel,
so now in fog, His hands on mine I feel.
Who let their hearts be broken as they write
break ours as well to let in Baba’s light.
Bhauji, Mani, Eruch, Kitty, Don—
naming names at length I could go on.
Thanks to them, Davis reads til late.
There are no other stories half so great.
Baba, these ghazals are shadows of shadows of You,
all fantasies, the revelers, the brew,
the Tavern, the tee-you bird, all made up,
and so I’d stop, but the poet says continue,
reminding me of Ibn Arabi’s
simile of light dispersed through dew,
that thus creation shimmers on God’s breath,
to which, “Fine,” I say, “til God ah-choo.”
“Worrywart,” he says, “I feel God’s breath,
even as I speak, come streaming through.”
“Why that’s subjective.” I counter. “Give me proof.
If you can weigh God’s breath, then I won’t argue.”
“Weigh the breath of God, the kick in wine?
Weigh sunlight? Weigh Beauty, Truth, Virtue?
You can’t weigh these but they’re revealed in art,
distilled, as shadow through shadow, like Klein’s blue.
Davis,” he ends, “who doubts these ghazals, doubts God.”
“Poet, really! Now you’re stretching what’s true.”
Out in Your hut, Meher, with none but moonlight,
I’m in no hurry to be done with moonlight.
The frost, like pewter, lies upon the field.
A spider web expands, fine-spun in moonlight.
Without the ticking clock, how quiet’s time.
The western stars grow dim, o’errun with moonlight,
while to the east, clouds hang before the dawn,
as if to veil a bashful nun in moonlight.
Fox or coyote peers from wooded cover.
Blankly it stares into the gun of moonlight.
Then out it flashes, red its tail. Like that,
the color of the day’s begun in moonlight.
Approaching dawn is blushing through her veil.
Phoebus-smitten, she’s quick to shun the moonlight.
Oh Baba, I meant to be remembering You,
but You have slipped my mind, undone by moonlight.
Davis, you’ve been with Baba all this time.
He’s mirrored everywhere as sun in moonlight.
23. Who Shall Awake
In memory’s river lies a stone.
A cubit broad, it sits alone.
Bubbles rush on by like cars,
then swirl around the frothy bars.
Forgetfulness has blanched desire.
The past is voiceless in the choir.
The dipper’s pouring out champagne.
At Capricorn the Twins deplane.
Shadows crowd around the barn.
Baba was the child Merwan.
His father Sheriar, deadpan,
sat where crows would eat of man.
The personal has fled tonight.
Nothing now arouses fright.
Ursa Major prowls the north
while bears from slumber lumber forth.
In love with love, the heart does ache.
No Davis here, who shall awake?
Baba, if I were as strong as Eruch,
as loving, served as long as Eruch,
You wouldn’t pamper me with sweets
and my desires prolong, if Eruch.
You’d whack me like a ping pong ball;
You’d smack me when wrong, like Eruch.
He was Your Peter, Your faithful rock.
With You daylong, nightlong, was Eruch.
So fast he read Your board, Your signs,
so fast he raced along, did Eruch,
he almost seemed to read Your mind.
Your spokesman to every throng was Eruch.
When Davis gets to Mandali Hall,
who shall ring Your gong, no Eruch?
The poet says that late tonight,
he entered the Tavern, was stunned by light.
He didn’t swoon but kept eyes open;
He seemed alone. He passed no doorman,
and then he saw God everywhere.
God was the tree. God was the air.
God was the field’s new-fallen snow,
the pine that broke the moon’s halo.
Wind chimes rang—the silence after
too was God and the stars’ laughter.
Poet, how did you gain such sight?
“A bird in love will give up flight.”
Believe the poet. He’s a drunk,
in Baba’s wine completely sunk.
And yes, this ghazal’s wholly his.
I’m just his scrivener, old Davis.
Baba, my heart and soul this morning thrum;
Becky got the message. Yes, we’ll come.
She says You’ve called us to Meherabad.
No hesitations here though I’m struck dumb.
Tickets, visas, shots… Baba, I’m high.
The Tavern drink this morning hits like rum.
No worried traveler am I. That’s past.
Heart, go on, pound like a kettle drum.
Straight we’ll fly—old haunts have lost their pull.
Just to think of London makes me glum.
Soon, we’ll climb the hill to Your Samadhi;
soon, to mystery, we shall succumb.
Baba, I barely recognize myself.
Fretful Davis by joy is overcome.
Being happy is a trial,
bouncing through life, a Babaphile.
Don’t tell me it’s a snap, when sick,
to flash a real, not garlic smile,
or that’s it’s easy to be brave
when there’s no stick in the woodpile,
and yet these hardships don’t compare
to life upon depression’s isle,
cut off from God and those you love,
sentenced by thought to long exile.
Then every labored breath brings pain;
the track’s a circle, an endless mile,
and even if the scene should change
to carnival where rides beguile,
where Maya’s carnies mock at you
and butcher calls at his turnstile,
even then, in different pain,
Baba says to be not hostile
but cheerful til happiness is real,
no bitterness remain or bile.
Oh Baba, let me follow You,
give up my own, take up Your style,
so when neighbors ask, “Where’s Davis?”
they’ll find there’s been but You awhile.
Baba, I was praying, rushing along,
when struck by Your smile, my mind was gone.
There was no one, not even You,
no inner ache, no urge to long.
There was no there, nowhere to go,
no sought-for place where I’d belong.
There was no right; there was no wrong.
There was no word; there was no song.
I’d flown from temps to contretemps.
Davis finds Your nazar strong.
*Literally, glance. Figuratively, the protective watch that
a Master keeps over His disciples.
Woolgathering, I passed, year by year,
through school, a U-Boat captain, a bombardier,
gazing through the windows to realms beyond,
until the lights switched on. The room grew clear,
but all beyond grew dark, and in the glass,
I saw my startled face stare back, austere.
I learned my roles, and in my middle twenties,
stepped upon life’s stage, was thought sincere,
and thus, through worldly eyes, I saw myself,
dismissed all stirrings from the darkened sphere.
Applause rang out as loneliness bit deeper.
I changed professions and still found life was drear.
By Mehera’s grace, I came to her Beloved.
I prayed. He gave no answer I could hear,
but as I slept, I saw the Light of lights.
I woke, or It woke me, twixt joy and fear.
Afterwards, I tired of Maya’s stage,
for I had lost all urge to act or jeer.
I’m waiting now to cross the mirror’s glass
where there’s no Davis and Baba will appear.
Baba, come on. What’s this you say:
it isn’t You but I who stray?
I don’t believe it. Give me a reason
that I’d leave You for the highway.
’Cause loving You’s a pain? It is,
since hide-and-seek’s the game You play.
You play, I know, to bring me closer.
That’s why You’ve gone while here I stay.
Indeed, I suffer, and suffering,
remember You throughout each day.
Will longing bring You back, my Friend?
I dare not look in my doorway.
If I see no one, I can’t pretend
he’s You who’s dressed in everyday.
You are invisible, I know,
hidden in that crow, that jay.
Perhaps it’s from the mind You hide
while in the heart You stowaway.
With accusations, suppositions,
I fear my mind’s sent You away.
Davis, there’s truth in that. Be still
to hear the Master and obey.
When young, I was mesmerized by The Cloud of Unknowing,
but at book’s end, still far from the dark light’s glowing.
All night, a blizzard blew across the field;
snow twisted down the furrows I’d been hoeing.
It was pitch black everywhere and white,
the barn, a lump of coal, lit-up by snowing.
Being late, maybe it was only a dream—
I saw a man out there who seed was sowing.
He tamped it down, or was it the dark he tamped
with toe of boot, for wild the wind was blowing.
It was so late that maybe it was a dream,
but I gathered up the seed, the darkness flowing.
I watered it with tears, pruned it with fears,
for deep within my heart, I felt it growing.
What is this plant designed in darkest light?
Davis, it’s faith, the flower surpassing knowing.
Baba, You can be hard on me.
For You, Beloved, I’ll lower my guard.
Go on, pummel me. That’s it.
I’ll box as if I’ve never sparred,
or chase me, Baba, if You wish,
I, a gazelle, and You, the pard,
or render me, a hunk of lard;
boil me up as summer chard.
Before You’re crucified, go on,
shatter and pour me out as nard.
This isn’t just hyperbole,
the spouting of some half-crazed bard.
I’m speaking, Baba, from my heart.
To do Your will’s all I regard.
Oh, You have a test for Davis?
All right. I’ll go and rake Your yard.
Baba, I bring to You my sin,
and then You say not to begin.
I thought by sharing pain I’d span
the gap twixt us. –There’s none, dear man.
And yet, Meher, I feel apart.
If not through pain, how shall I start?
I never learned to listen well,
too quick to please, too much to tell.
I sense in You that empty mind
in which the universe I’d find.
I know the weight of sin because
I know the weight of loneliness.
Baba, give me penance please,
something to do to bring me ease.
Davis, don’t ask of Baba penance
but offer Him obedience.
The jungle’s vanished from this burnt-up hill.
Even in February, the heat can kill.
I go at once to Baba’s tomb, mid-day,
anticipating to be blown away.
Once inside, I do not feel a thing,
no chills, no tears, as I now greet my King.
I look around, would stay, but the tomb is small,
no space with Westerners along each wall.
Outside, I wait, thinking someone will leave.
When no one does, with quiet resentment I seethe.
I trudge back to my room, there kick my bag.
Baba, why did I come? So I might brag?
“Empty your cup,” You’d say, and yes, You’re right,
but Dear, You could have stunned me with Your light.
That eve I go obedient to Arti,
though hesitant to crash Your lovers’ party.
I put my hand against the Samadhi stone.
A pulse beats there, and no, it’s not my own.
Within Your tomb, my head upon Your grave,
I hear, “I am yours.” I leave Your slave.
It was, and wasn’t my voice that spoke in there.
So who is whose, and Baba, should I care?
A minute, or maybe more, no Davis, no “I”
leans against the fence as clouds race by.
Days pass. I find that I’m still judging others
although I know all here are Baba lovers.
And then one morning, I cannot sit through arti.
I walk back up the path, or rather, flee,
“me, me,” throbbing in my mind,
aware I’ve fooled myself to think I’m kind.
A giver? No, I’ve been a taker, cursed
by always putting me, not others first.
Shaken to the core, I want to hide,
ashamed that to myself so long I’ve lied.
I slink into my room, my roommate asleep,
then in the bathroom wash out undies and weep.
At breakfast, I sit off by myself alone.
A Westerner plops down, munching a scone.
He talks of Africa and wildebeest;
his love of life turns breakfast into a feast.
Baba, did You send him here by whim?
If so, I’m awed he felt Your nudging him,
and now, whether consciously or not,
he brings me healing, no trace of ego or thought.
That evening after arti, I linger on.
A shudder runs through me, and then is gone.
“Davis, you must leave Meherabad,”
I hear, and then, “Don’t worry. You go with God.”
Baba, let’s play cards. Why not?
A game like euchre without much thought.
I’ll keep my patience while I’m losing,
be cheerful as I take a bruising.
You, my partner? Baba, agreed.
No losing then. We’ll win, indeed.
But Baba, You just trumped my ace.
Let’s count on skill, not just on grace.
And now we’ve lost. Let’s have a win.
You bid this time. Go on, begin.
Oh my God, what am I doing,
all this advice to God I’m spewing?
Clubs? I must have missed Your sign.
So close to You, I’m drunk on wine.
I’m dealt three nines. I get new cards?
You love humanity—and bards?
If tired of euchre, let’s play hearts,
or Baba, would you rather darts?
I’m worried that I’ll burst in tears.
I want these games to last for years.
Davis, invite a friend tomorrow.
Baba’s in all. No need to sorrow.
In mid-December, where are rainbows?
I’ve never seen one when it snows.
So I muse beside the fire
while cross the lake, a nor’easter blows.
Oh Baba, I’m happy in Your love.
I’ve met in You the Perfect Rose,
but what of those out in the cold
or waiting now at the gallows?
“Ask the thief upon the cross,”
You say. “Go up to him. He knows.”
It’s true. You comfort all who come
and shed for You their coat of sorrows.
Sometimes, I try to spread Your cheer
and only add to others’ woes,
but even then, Omniscient One,
I doubt I’m stepping on Your toes.
Free will? You look and so we jump?
And yet all follows as You propose.
Now, what’s this You’re showing me—
rainbows trapped on icy windows?
I smile thinking of summer’s bees
buzzing by these colored shows,
but rainbows, come on. Don’t push Davis.
I am not fooled by cameos.
Baba, when You have asked for all from me,
I’ve hesitated, and yet You call to me.
To go into Moriah without a ram,
with just my son and splitting maul with me?
How can I, Baba? I think of Abraham
and shiver to go to You, just Paul and me.
Already Paul is Yours. I watch him totter.
A tug from You, and he will fall from me.
You cast Your net and pull creation in.
Fisherman, please, in Your next haul catch me.
Can you, with a net of light, pull darkness in?
In self’s dark ocean, would You trawl for me?
Don’t let me keep You prisoner, Meher.
Break through my fear, that bamboo wall of me.
Davis, do what Baba asks of you.
He’s caught your soul. Give up the smaller me.
Baba, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
So begins my daily rant.
I cannot write like Shri Hafiz;
I cannot sing a Bach descant.
I cannot love You as You want
’cause after fame, I gallivant.
Although I know You write the script,
I live as if I do. Recant?
Surrender? Nope. I push myself.
Up the mountain trail, I pant.
I thirst. Please, out of Your cup,
the killing wine of love decant.
Kill my wants. Now kill that want.
Want follows want as ant does ant.
I would be free but don’t see how.
Self can’t kill self. That truth, You’ll grant.
Baba, it’s clear I need Your help.
As Davis, all by myself, I can’t.
Baba, it’s Christmas morning. If You’ll relent,
I’ll laze by the fire, from writing ghazals truant.
What! You’re nudging me? O K. I’m up,
reluctant, yes, while yet obedient.
Becky, the kids, and I have opened presents,
sung to Your Jesus-birth with merriment,
and now the garnished roast is in the oven,
and now—it’s no surprise—my muse is spent.
You’ll let me stop? You see I’m comfortable,
and shall be even more if You assent.
What, You say that I must show my heart?
It breaks. You’ve blessed us to embarrassment.
Besides, all Christmas morning I’ve felt You near,
and nearness fuels my longing’s sweet torment.
What’s more to add? That when the feast is over,
Your love endures, an endless monument?
Or better: though Christ be worshipped still, You’ve come
that in our hearts we find Love’s Testament?
It’s strange. The more I write, the happier I am,
but now the voice within my heart falls silent,
so please accept this ghazal, Baba, from Davis
to be for You a Christmas ornament.
Baba, I had a life for a bit,
til You put me down, picked up that poet.
I was a scholar, teacher, healer,
and now am but a chirping cricket.
For giving up so much, tell me,
what have I gained? A Broadway hit?
Wealth? Fame? But I can’t stop
writing, as though condemned to it.
I struggle. If a line falls right,
unless I pad, the next won’t fit.
I’m tired by night, as if all day
I’d tried to fell an oak with hatchet,
but there are times the words just flow,
and I’m not there, a conduit,
when I would swear the words are Yours
and You’re the poet from whom I’m split.
After moments of such closeness,
it’s no wonder I can’t quit.
What’s this, no words but struggle again?
I feel ashamed, a thimble wit.
That’s how I am out in the world,
dazed by talk of loss or profit,
yet too embarrassed to sing Your praise,
eyes down, a shrinking violet.
I saw a bachelor’s button, though autumn,
peak around the fence’s picket.
My heart lept out to it and You.
You must be kin to that blue hermit
and kin to me, who’ve lost one life,
Davis’s, to be Your poet.
Baba, You’re God, You’re everywhere,
and only You exist, Meher.
All’s one in You, I know, but to feel
oneness, that’s a different deal.
Impossible, my mind would say,
and yet my heart longs for the day
when You will take me up the stairs
into that bliss beyond my prayers.
It could come soon, for sometimes when
I say Your name, I’m gone, and then
I’m in another’s dream, as though
I’m trying on a bride’s trousseau,
a judge’s robe of sweet renown,
a beggar’s blanket, a monarch’s crown.
Costumes litter the dressing room,
sanskaras dropped inside a tomb.
Baba, I think I’m racing fast
through others’ lives to You at last,
or is this but a fantasy,
my soul’s desire to reach the sea?
I cast off clothes, but there’s still I,
this ego self, this living lie.
Davis longs to feel what’s true,
that there’s no I but only You.
When the Lion dropped His body,
men built a cage and wove a tether.
They locked up Silence in that cage.
They strangled the Word with if and whether.
I try the lock with metaphor.
I slice the rope, my knife a feather.
The Lion’s caged beside the Lamb.
In Meher Baba, they’re joined together.
I say I want to be consumed
while pulling back, like an old wether,
my excuse, that my forebears,
out amidst the broom and heather,
were ignorant of jungle lions,
their minds upon their work in leather,
a feckless excuse, for in my heart,
the silence roars. Oh let me enter.
What’s this You say: To turn the key,
turn off the nightly news and weather?
Yes, Davis, drop Your life.
Don’t follow Maya as your bellwether.
Were I to do Tai Chi again,
I’d be no strutting rooster with hen.
I’d be the shadow of a cloud,
a stream that’s rushing through the glen.
I’d be the fingers of the breeze.
I’d push the hands of no one then.
I’d have no form, no steps to follow.
Love would be my regimen.
Were I to do Tai Chi again,
I’d swing no sword, take up no weapon.
I’d be the breath within the hand,
the shift of weight as circles open.
I’d be the flow that cancels thought,
the faith in novices and children,
but since I’ve met You, Meher Baba,
all my Tai Chi I have forgotten.
There is no practice calls me now
but holding fast onto Your daaman.
My sole defense is in Your name
remembered here in Maya’s prison.
It comforts me when I feel sad.
When wrong, it helps me feel forgiven.
It is Your love with which I love,
Your love through which my heart is riven.
Take me farther on Your journey,
more bewildering than Zen.
Take me, Baba. Yes, take Davis,
that I be counted with Your men.
By kindness, You drew me to Your court of love.
You used but kindness, or I’d have fought Your love.
I wasn’t ripe for You, had spent my life
angry, self-righteous, a worrywart, my love.
Afraid, I fled into my mind and built,
with books, degrees, an awesome fort gainst love.
I would not bow at graduation prayers.
Possessed by pride, I would abort Your love.
In mercy, You sent a servant from my heart,
a page with wine and chocolate torte of love.
He knocked. Seeing a child, I opened the door.
How could that youngster be an escort of love?
He slipped right in and bowed, inviting me
to sip and eat his treats, cavort with love.
I sent him off, and now return the gifts,
for all alone, I can’t support such love.
Although Your door is open, I dare not enter.
Take the gifts. I lack a passport of love.
Davis, Baba’s called you to your heart.
Come in and learn from Him the sport of love.
Stirred, birches in snow,
swirled, shrug off the snow.
I sit in Baba’s hut,
eyes blurred by falling snow,
thinking I see a Quecha,
a goatherd in the snow.
Along the hill he moves,
furred with whirling snow.
He’s close to You, Meher,
the Third with us and snow,
or is this just my mind
disturbed by blowing snow?
A Quecha? As likely see
a firebird with wings of snow.
Poet, what’s this you say—
that firebird, Quecha, and snow,
that all this world’s a poem,
the Word that’s veiled in snow?
Tell me, is that your voice
I’ve heard or blowing snow?
Davis, you’re caught in illusion,
the byword of truth, of snow.
Obama says, “More troops will bring us peace.”
He’s serious, not moved by mere caprice.
He beckons, we go. As patriots we run,
or idiots, our right to bear a gun.
Hit the target. This teddy bear is yours.
Trusting our skill, we shoot at Maya’s lures.
Bankers grow rich. The poor await the knock.
“Madam, your son is dead. I’m sorry. The shock.”
The angrier we get, the harder we play.
At night there comes no end to feverish day.
Caustic, ironic, bitter’s the fruit of mind.
The cynic’s laugh is joyless and unkind.
The Tavern’s for the mad. The madder yet
pursue Leviathan with Reason’s net.
The lover is helpless. He bears no sword or shield.
Crushed, how sweet’s the wine that lovers yield.
Oh Baba, quell my anger and irony
that keep me distant from Your company,
and help me feel the agony I hide
by writing couplets, snappy, bright, and snide.
I am no different from those I criticize,
a songbird snared by Maya’s sticky lies.
In battle, many times I’ve killed, been killed.
Help me, help Davis know, it’s as You’ve willed.
Baba, You see the sparrow fall.
You bear each soul through darkened hall.
Be with Marcia as she’s dying.
Hold my brother Jim who’s crying.
Marcia, his wife, last week retired.
How soon by death she is required.
I haven’t any words to say.
Sure, the trees will bud with May.
Jim’s grief, I fear, will linger on
when Marcia’s shoes are packed and gone.
Some hearts are opened up by pain.
Some minds can reckon loss is gain.
It’s getting out of bed each morning
when absence strikes. It gives no warning.
Be with Jim when he’s knocked down
that in his grief, he shall not drown.
For all my talk, he doubts You’re God,
while my conviction strikes him odd.
Davis, your brother knows his road.
There’s many paths to God’s abode.
For an instant this morning, I didn’t know
if Baba existed. How could He show
mercy to sufferers everywhere?
They’re numberless as flakes of snow
whipping, whirling down the road.
So thinking, I get to feeling low
when Baba’s portrait calls me back,
but in His eyes, I see no glow.
I figure, since inspiration’s dead,
I’d best let poetry lie fallow
when shocked, I hear, “Don’t You dare.
Right through hell, Christ did harrow.
Twice He has returned, His work
one hundred percent completing, and so,
what right have you to sit there moping.
Pick up your pen, forget your woe.”
Guessing this is the poet, I ask,
“And don’t You doubt?” He quotes below,
“If the Sun & Moon should doubt,
They’d immediately go out.”
No, neither you nor Blake would doubt,
but I have lost my way, dear fellow.
Baba’s will, where does it blow?
Davis with you and Him would go.
Baba, receive my psalm of morning light,
as well my thanks for sleeping through the night.
The fire now warms my back, the sun my face.
I’ve time for arti. No winter work needs haste.
But first, I want to share this chance I blew.
It happened when a friend asked me of You.
The longer I spoke, the clearer it became
I wasn’t reaching his heart, no matter my aim.
Perhaps if I’d gone deeper into mine,
perhaps through tears, I might have shared Your wine,
but Baba, who can say? All is Your will:
one flower grows, one wilts on the window sill.
And now to prayer: “O, Parvardigar…”
I stop, am overwhelmed how close You are.
When old and in great pain, You’d stand through arti
as sign You’d stand with us when You’d no body.
It’s true. You’re at my elbow. Fox would say,
I know the Christ by experience each day.*
“You are without Beginning, and without end;
Non-dual, beyond comparison,” and then,
“Faster,” You’d sign to Eruch, but Davis goes slowly.
This room, full of morning light, is holy.
*George Fox, the founder of The Religious Society of Friends (Quakers).
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To Leah Johnston, for sharing with me her love for Baba, thus helping me discover Him—
To Monica Ochtrup, for getting me to stop dithering with finished poems—
To Joe Winter, for holding a mirror of poetry up to my work —
To family and friends, for patiently reading draft after draft—
To Jeff Wolverton and Annie Lovett, for keeping the Tavern warm and reading these poems with such feeling, I heard them for the first time—
To Sky Wiseman, Eric Solibakke, and Paul Comar, for showing me kindness at Meherabad and continuing to do so—
To Joe DiSabatino, for giving me permission to use his painting, “Bamboo Baba,” and sending me an image of it—
To Michael Coughlin, for printing these poems with artistry and care—
To Becky McDowell, my wife, for traveling beside me toward Beloved Baba—
And to Meher Baba, for giving, being everything—
My heartfelt thanks.