by
Davis Taylor
For Becky
And My Sisters and Brothers in Baba.
12 Infinite Longing, Infinite Ease
14 Chatting, Cheating at Cards
PREFACE
In October of 2013, my wife, Becky McDowell, and I spent ten days at the Meher Spiritual Center in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. On our first morning, I walked through the woods to the Barn where Meher Baba on His visits to the Center met His lovers for discourses, skits, plays, and dances.
I had brought with me a notebook and a pen, for I was planning after a brief stay in the Barn to walk to the ocean where I was hoping a poem might come to me. I wasn’t planning on writing in the Barn, for I’ve been annoyed when others have done so, but after a few minutes, I felt a strong impulse to write down what was coming to me. During our stay, Baba kept drawing me back to the Barn to write. When I got home, I sent my transcriptions with almost no revisions to Eric Solibakke who published them with the title, “Listening to Meher Baba in the Barn,” on his website, “Poetry of the HeartMind.”
Two years later, I’ve found myself called back to this work. I’ve discarded those pieces that seemed colored by my biases and kept those that seemed animated by a deeper source. As I’ve collected these here, I’ve revised them considerably.
Especially in light of my revisions, readers might well question who wrote these poems. I’d like to give you a clear answer, but I have to be equivocal and say that they are from Baba because that’s how I’ve experienced them and that they are by me because I’ve worked the originals into poems. I’m hoping that, however mixed their source, they’ll bring you into Baba’s presence and give you a darshan (a vision of God) that might change your perspective on creation as well as on yourselves. They’ve had that effect on me.
The only REAL EXISTENCE is that
of the One and only God,
who is the Self in every (finite) self.
Meher Baba
I greet you, my child.
Come, receive my love.
I shall befriend you
through the dark.
See: there is nothing to see.
Hear: there is nothing to hear.
Wings of light.
Be invisible while showing up
so people can see me
and silent while holding forth
so people can hear me.
Don’t be small.
In you is all.
I’ve joined with you in dreaming
that you might wake as me.
Stop where you are.
You can’t come closer than I am.
I’ve been watching you
kick off your shoes,
eager to enter
and sit by me.
The barn is dark today,
and the light
from my portrait
falls like moonlight.
Settle in. Feel at home,
and now that another child
has entered, don’t be disturbed.
With two, the stillness grows.
I hear you cry.
For whom do you cry?
You bow at my chair.
To whom do You bow?
Darkness has taken
away your breath,
and so I give you mine.
It’s your birthday.
I’ve not forgotten.
You are who I am.
For me, don’t cry.
For seventy years,
you’ve struggled
to protect yourself
and all in vain
because you can’t,
but I can
if, like the flowers,
you will grow
up from the seed of me.
Although I know your thoughts,
still pray,
for prayer softens hearts.
Pray for others
what’s most important—
that they might come to me.
Pray for peace
within, without,
because the two are one.
Pray to remember me in all you do
that I might be the doer
instead of you.
Pray for courage to let go,
for mercy to forgive,
for strength to hold your tongue.
Pray constantly
til every thought’s a prayer
and then you’ll merge with me.
I’ve noticed that,
although you’re sitting still,
every cell in your body hums.
You’re waiting for me
like a love sick boy
for his beloved.
I chuckle, for here I am,
but go ahead, throw yourself across the floor
since aching to do so.
*************************
Now that you’ve gotten up
and once again
are sitting in your chair,
aren’t I more present
than when you lay
outstretched upon the floor?
Yes, because
I’m more in you
than in the carpet’s dust.
Davis, lighten up.
You laugh. Others laugh.
You awaken, all awaken.
Tell me a joke.
Sure, the one about Ole
dancing naked in front of his tractor.
Darn, you’ve forgotten the punch line again.
Get a book.
Learn the jokes. Be silly.
Nestle in my arms
and giggle with me.
I hear you say my name,
“Baba, Baba, Baba,”
but I signed my name, M. S. Irani.
Who am I,
and who are you?
Are you the name you sign?
Am I?
I’ve told you who I am,
and still you do not know.
You complained for months
that you were hearing nothing from me,
and now you’re complaining
that I’m talking too fast.
Look, I’m dictating.
Am I complaining?
Dictating… Dictator…
God, a Dictator?
What a hoot!
I’ve never thought of that before.
That’s why you’re here,
to make me laugh and think anew.
Indeed, I’m most myself in being you,
and so I bow to you.
Don’t be alarmed.
I’m breaking up with laughter.
Laugh too.
It’s always me, my child,
and never you,
and every time you think it’s you,
you’re dreaming,
and who is reading through this poem?
I am.
Believe that,
and you will cease to be.
Go beyond liking to love,
for where love is, there is no you
waiting to be noticed
but only me
laughing with those who laugh,
grieving with those who grieve.
Drown in the ocean of my love,
and you’ll be me.
That’s it—listen
without questions
perfectly at ease.
Crows caw.
They’re happy,
and the beetle you didn’t squish
on coming here,
he’s delighted.
Stumble? Fall?
You can’t,
for there’s no path to me.
When you wake up,
you’ll be crying,
“Wake up, wake up,”
to those asleep,
longing for them as I for you.
That’s it—
infinite longing,
infinite ease.
Because you’re here with me,
the chairs, the barn,
the oaks and evergreens,
the scruffy border to the beach,
the salty sand,
the ocean’s waves,
the photons going back to Om,
all these are streaming from your heart.
A jogger’s just arrived
to chat about her night,
the kids, the day ahead.
She’ll linger
as I draw her closer
by listening and chatting back.
Think of all the hours
I spent at cards, chatting,
cheating, rubbing noses in the carpet,
but you’re above such foolery.
Oh, you’re not?
I see by your tears
you’d have loved to play with me.
It makes me happy
that you accept me as I am.
I’m all merciful,
and my justice is merciful.
In wars, plagues, and famines,
I can see what you can’t see,
and still I suffer on the road
with those who stream to me.
You’ve suffered.
Where was I then?
You lay your hands on those who suffer.
Where am I then?
You let their suffering into your heart.
My dear, whose heart?
Don’t set yourself apart from me.
Nothing is apart from me.
I am the lion and the wildebeest,
the cobra striking, the rat stricken.
I am the scales.
I am the balance.
At the end,
there’s only me.
As you listen,
you feel the Barn shake.
Its walls ripple like a flag in the breeze,
but there’s no flag, no breeze.
There is no barn.
There are no the chairs,
and look around,
no one’s sitting here,
and where you are
there’s only me.
I’m happy being you.
Are you happy being me?
There’s such abundance here,
why go to other planes?
Look around.
Take in everything.
The yarrow blooming,
the bee buzzing,
the crane circling,
I’m all of these,
and the girl in black
sitting cross-legged at your feet,
telling beads, annoying you,
who is she?
Focus on me,
and soon you’ll wonder
whose fingers
are telling beads.
Ah, you’ve got the barn all to yourself
and now are feeling so alone,
you wonder where I am
and where these words are coming from.
Do let these questions go
and let me go,
and close your eyes.
Don’t picture me,
and what you hear,
the clap of waves,
the chirp of birds,
the hum of traffic on seventeen,
don’t notice these
nor the breeze
that’s flowing through the window.
Let all go
and I’ll be quiet now
so you might be alone.
Did you arrive
where You’re alone
and all is vast and gone?
I think the answer’s no.
You’re imagining that I want you
to give up thoughts,
since they discriminate,
and wants,
because they hide your emptiness,
and worries, the seeds of separation,
and next your memory,
the shroud that covers now,
and finally your freedom and your will
because you’ve heard
that where you are, I’m not,
but dear, however hard you try,
without my help, you cannot die,
so now let go of letting go
and leave the barn at ease.
I am the King of Hearts.
I trump all cards.
Jacks, aces, jokers
fall to me.
I play by my own rules.
You think I’m cheating, but I’m not.
I always win.
I gather you into my hand.
I shuffle you and deal you out
over and over.
I scatter you across the table
and then I pick you up again.
My game has but one end:
that you should love and merge with me.
Do I play solitaire?
It may seem so, but I don’t.
That’s a mystery you do not understand.
Someday, I’ll show you.
The opening of a heart
is like amber releasing light,
and when you witness birth,
you’re hit by lashing winds,
and you’ll be washed away
unless already washed away,
as clear as an empty sky,
as soft as an open hand,
so practice now
by taking me inside
and holding still
in the hurricane of my eyes.
When I enter your heart,
you fade.
Sights and sounds fade
and then return
clothed in me
as if your heart’s absorbed
a colorless dye
that tints the breath of pines
and makes the floating specks of dust
shine like stars,
and then
what you experience
loses all taste of You
and tastes
exquisitely of me.
O Davis, dry your tears.
I accept your love.
Be quiet now and feel my love
that’s as bright and cheerful
as a sunny morning.
The geese are flying south,
surging like waves,
finding their way.
They honk, my dear.
They do not sob.
It’s time to put aside
feeling unhappy
and grieving about duality,
for heaviness hampers
your spirit’s flight to me.
Eruch
Davis, I had my likes and my dislikes.
After all, I was a man as well as God,
and liking comes with being human,
but loving does too. It doesn’t just belong to God.
Remember how some Parsis were upset
with Eruch and me for keeping them away
those last three years when, in pain,
I was living in seclusion, and how their leader
groused and fretted that I’d invited
Hindus and Muslims for my darshan
but no Paris outside my inner circle,
and after my physical death,
how they stayed away,
poisoning my reputation,
but then, years later,
their leader came to Meherazad, and Eruch,
on seeing him at a distance, set down his work
and hurried out to meet him and hugged him lovingly.
Did Eruch approve of the man’s bitterness and backbiting?
Of course not, but he set aside
his anger, hurt, and long aversion,
and without a thought of self,
went to greet him as a friend,
and all for my sake.
Such was Eruch. Be like him.
Last night, you were so full of song,
so full of me,
you couldn’t fall asleep,
and then at three, someone in bungalow two
got up and started pacing,
and now this morning you’re worried
that from exhaustion you’ll miss my words.
You won’t. You’re not your body-mind
but infinite like me and so will catch
my every word and get it down.
You said my name all night
hoping that baa, baa, baa,
like counting sheep,
would lull you to sleep,
and yet all night you lay awake.
Tonight, when back in bed,
say my name again.
Enjoy my name.
Settle in with me.
I’ll let you sleep.
The moon will be full tonight,
full everywhere
as it circles the earth,
and mottled here with cloud,
but if you watch awhile,
you’ll see the clouds thin
and the moon shine
like polished silver,
a glorious sight
that’s still a pale reflection
of my love’s coming brilliance
when I blow ignorance aside.
That’s Norina’s chair.
Look.
I’m sitting there,
and now I’ve snuck
into my portrait,
and now, whoops,
out the window so fast
you’d swear
you didn’t see me
and maybe you didn’t,
but the scent of pines,
the breeze coming through the door,
the slap of waves,
the air you breathe,
they’re all me.
Being everything
and everywhere,
how can I hide?
Oh, but I do.
Davis, you were the first
into the refectory this morning.
You had your breakfast, washed
and put away your dishes,
and then you washed and put away
the scattered dishes around your sink,
but there at the other end of the kitchen,
you saw another pile of dishes,
and you thought, someone else can put them away,
and then you left feeling self-satisfied
for having done more than your share,
but my dear, what about the other half of the kitchen?
Who’s going to tidy that?
Besides, you’d been judging as slobs
those who’d left out dirty dishes,
puffing yourself up and putting them down,
a disservice to you and them.
Darshan means seeing the Master
and changing one’s point of view,
so don’t think of serving others.
Think of serving me.
Rejoice you have the chance.
Then let me do it.
Such is oneness.
Such is bliss,
and, my dear, I forgive you
for leaving half the kitchen a mess.
This morning, look at the two of us.
We’re like a kettle bubbling over,
so much to say and share with others.
Yes, Davis, write that down, “the two of us.”
You won’t be sinning against non-duality,
for, my dear, you live in duality.
I know. You believe in oneness.
In your mind and heart, you rejoice in oneness.
You rejoice in me, but that’s the point.
It’s still you rejoicing in me.
It’s still the two of us.
I want it no different, for the “two of us”
keeps us thinking of each other,
what with my longing for you
even more than you for me.
Driven by longing, serve me,
and when you’ve lost yourself in service
and forgotten all about self-realization,
you’ll have what I can give,
the oneness of who I am.
Sometimes, on meeting someone,
I wouldn’t sign or spell out words
that they might hear my voice in them
just as I’m doing now with you,
but what comes up, these words and poems,
because you cannot prove they’re mine,
your mind objects that they’re
effusions from an agitated heart,
and your mind’s not wrong, but since
the agitation starts with me, what arises,
though not the absolute truth, has truth
relative to you and others who are moved.
Listen to the caw, caw of the crow.
Where do the caws go?
Listen to the hush, hush of the waves.
Where do these commas go?
Voice,
sing out the word love.
Then listen.
Where does its tremor go?
When everything returns to silence,
you’re left with me.
This morning,
the owls sang in the woods.
Did they please you?
I am the Owl of owls
listening to the scurry of mice
through the sweet fern.
When you get home,
listen like the owls
for the scurry of me everywhere.
You’ll hear me
if your mind’s as empty
as an owl’s ear.
You’re sad you missed me
when I was here in body,
when songs and dances rocked the barn
while now there’s just your pen
dancing across the paper
to catch my every word.
Ah, no matter.
The party goes on
because I’ve lit a fire in you.
Having brought you close,
I’ll never send you off.
O Davis, out in the world,
it’s hard to hear my words.
You’ve got to put aside
whatever you are doing,
the book you want to finish,
the shelves you’re putting up.
You’ve got to pause for me,
and then you’ll feel me
like now
thumping in your heart,
keeping creation alive.
The heart inside of yours
that never stops
is mine.
When getting up from kneeling,
you glance at my chair.
Why bother.
You know you will not see me there,
at least not physically, and if you did,
you’d be falling farther into illusion,
but still you’d like to see me,
and that’s no problem
because
you’ll see me breathing everywhere
the moment you believe
and see through faith and not your eyes.
You’ve found that the very last moments
before departing are full of life and feeling
while the next-to-last moments drag on
and keep you aching inside,
but really, what are next-to-last moments
if not illusions of time?
In truth, all moments are last moments
and every room’s a waiting room.
Now Davis, don’t be thinking,
what do I need to do when I get home?
Don’t leave here yet
and don’t leave me.
Get on with my work here.
Pack. Clean your cabin,
then go to the refectory and sit at a table.
I’ll send someone by who wants to talk.
The Center is a practice ground for waiting,
for waiting on me in everyone.
When you wait on me, I always appear.
Remember, I’m waiting in you for who I am.
Acknowledgements
To Eric Solibakke, for including the original version of these poems, “Listening to Meher Baba in the Barn” on his website, Poetry of the Heartland,
To Mike Coughlin, for printing these poems with art and beauty,
and to Meher Baba, the One in all, I give ever growing thanks.