like the ripeness of crimson, like ground,
opening to growth, the primal sward,
or the harder than rock diamond, the
quiet way a good word cuts out the
voice of deception, draws us into
the nameless as it’s written on glass
to see us though ... words have a
way of multiplying themselves like
cells when they divide, like chicks
breaking from their shells, words
burst from our mouths like whales or
dolphins surfacing above water, their
music dances in our ears, sometimes
harmonious, sometimes dissonant, ready
to help or haunt - take hate, door slamming,
end of discussion, or unlatching love,
breaks down walls, willing to debate
or so delectable, like a sweet kiss
the first time before union transfixing,
and prayer, a different sort of melding,
it’s one that transforms us ...
that we might make the peace, tear
the ragged pages from the old lexicon,
an act that breaks the binding of our
language to free the fresh sprouts ...
pushing though the ether, populating
Rumi’s field, such an opening for grace,
like faith, hope and charity, renewed,
purified, taken clean and hard polished
and used in a poem with a new spirit ~
words, a boat that takes us from here
to there, and having arrived, we let it go ...
floating beyond messages of wrong or
of right, in our spring - in Rumi’s field,
we’ll lie down on the lilt of grass, so full,
our peace no longer needing any words
or any poetry, nor even any name . . .
- Jamie Dedes
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.”
― Rumi, Essential Rumi
©2013 poem and 2015 photograph, Jamie Dedes (The Poet by Day), All rights reserved;
a publication of Beguine Again and The Bardo Group
January theme: "The Divine Feminine"
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