You tell the story every night,
Of milking honey from the moon.
Brewing nectar in flower’s patella,
Your sky head kisses my earthen lips,
Your colors neither surreal nor abstract,
Your green has the fallacy of star dust.
The recessive maze of your soul,
Your sensuous desire is like grapes,
Grown purple on tree trunks.
You would drag my ear to the corner.
Cover my window from morning rays.
You are in a dark cave of murals.
Be the sun, be the rain, and be the song.
The bird sings for no one but sings.
The stream of water pleases no one,
But flows on its own, and so all planets.
Be the multitude, a poor heart’s voice.
Be a tongue to an unspoken love.
O love sick poet, if not mine,
If not any one’s else. Be yourself.
Temenos 8, The poet: Collection of Jason Hughes
Plato on poets.
“For the poets tell us, don't they, that the melodies they bring us are gathered from rills that run with honey, out of glens and gardens of the Muses, and they bring them as bees do honey, flying like the bees? And what they say is true, for a poet is a light and winged thing, and holy, and never able to compose until he has become inspired, and is beside himself, and reason is no longer in him. So long as he has this in his possession, no man is able to make poetry or to chant in prophecy.” Plato
Sadiqullah Khan's Other Poems
Topic(s): love and art
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