A precious gift

of divine poetry was given to me today and this one is especially for you, my dear sg....
it resonates with exactly the idea you'd expressed in your reflection on what poetry means to each person...

Eating Poetry

My poems resemble the bread of Egypt—one night

Passes over it, and you can't eat it any more.

So gobble them down now, while they're still fresh,

Before the dust of the world settles on them.

Where a poem belongs is here, in the warmth of the chest;

Out in the world it dies of cold.

You've seen a fish—put him on dry land,

He quivers for a few minutes, and then is still.

And even if you eat my poems while they're still fresh,

You still have to bring forward many images yourself.

Actually, friend, what you're eating is your own imagination.

These poems are not just a bunch of old proverbs.

Rumi

(translated by Robert Bly)

--

This poem could refer to almost any thought or profound reality, that hits one in a moment of startling clarity, that might come from a reading, a conversation, an image, a dream, an equation, anything really. The understanding that emerges from it must be processed completely and shelved with utmost care and respect, in a most accessible place in the mind, to be drawn upon at any future instance, so the wisdom gained may be shared in all its brilliance...

'So, what's the secret?'

'Just pick up the phone, babe. That's all there is to it.'

--

Really, that's all there is. Sometimes, days and weeks, months, and sadly in some cases even years have rolled by before I've found the right moment to get back in touch. I am guilty of procrastinating this staying-in-touch business, because I want the conversation to be savoured and the time carved out for it to be free of any other engagement or distraction, to give the receiver all my attention and energy in the space between hello and goodbye; to fill the chat with a generous slice of my life that needs updating on; to be considerate of any other demands the other might have on his/her time, presumed by me obviously, at that moment. And then the moment itself passes, and the exuberance and eagerness to say a trivial nothing with it. Yet, I realized as I spoke with D last night, that in acting upon that impusle, the trivial is made memorable- the immediacy of that exchange collapsing all the time that has elapsed before it, only warmth and a sweet relish remaining. And with friends there can be no disturbing, right? Perhaps, they do welcome the interruption, even if only to say later, yet be gladdened for having been remembered?

And so, today I called three precious friends in the evening...to say nothing really, but everything still, and vow to do so more often.

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music

-Aldous Huxley

...

कैसा अजब यह सफर है

सोचो तो हर एक ही बेख़बर है

उसको जाना किधर है

जो वक्त आयें, जायें, क्या दिखाएँ

ओहो ...

दिल चाहता है

कभी न बीते चमकीले दिन

दिल चाहता है

हम ना रहें कभी यारों के बिन...