Diving In Deeper
If you are new to Heart of the Matter, chances are good you've only seen a small percentage of what's available to you here -- more than 200 postings of all kinds: videos, slide shows, excerpts and reports from Maharaji's events, stories, personal reflections, poetry, humor, a talking puppet, links to cool resources, and much more.
You can always access the most recent 30 postings by logging onto the site and scrolling down. For the rest of the content, you'll need to click on the archives (in the sidebar beneath "Recent Entries"). But since you're already here right now, all you need to do is click the link below for a hot-linked list of all past postings. (If you find something you like, please feel free to forward it to friends, acquaintances, family, or neighbors. That's how word about this blog is getting out.)
Heart of the Matter Monthly Archives
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September
August
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June
May
April
March
February
January
Photo by Durango99
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 05:12 PM | Comments (0)
October 17, 2008The One For Whom It All Makes Sense
I have written a thousand poems for you
that have never left my room.
They fill the pages of notebooks stacked high on a shelf
no one can reach.
Orphans they are, beggars afraid
they are not noble enough for the King,
would never make it past the guards.
I make a vain attempt to dress them up,
disguise their ridiculous origins,
but still they smell bad.
There are times, late at night, however,
when they think I'm asleep,
I can almost hear them talking to each other,
conjuring ways to make it to your court.
Oh, the arguments they have! The barroom brawls!
Some of them actually think a shower and a shave
is all they need.
Others insist on practicing, all night long,
the perfect way of greeting you.
There is much to be said for these backroom bards,
these arm wrestling vagrants from another world.
Indeed, if I was dead,
my ambitious biographer, after paying his respects
and asking permission of my dear, sweet wife,
would borrow them just long enough to search for pearls
and find the perfect turn of phrase, the verse,
the sudden storm of brilliance
even my harshest critics would have to praise.
He'd think of clever titles for the tome,
describing, in his carefully written way,
the "man who left his muse too soon"
or some such thing that might make you wonder
why I never gave these poems to you --
the one for whom it all makes sense even when it doesn't.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:29 PM | Comments (0)
October 14, 2008Radiant Being of Light
Radiant being of light, vortex of love,
alchemist supreme, magnifier of prayer,
the one I dream about
and the one who wakes me from the dream,
why the dervish spins
and the earth.
Teacher, teaching, and the taught,
first breath, last breath,
what lovers look for in each other but rarely find,
center around which everything revolves,
endless night of love
and the ecstatic aching of a moon-howling heart
that does not want the morning to come.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:08 PM | Comments (2)
September 30, 2008Thirst Quench Thirst
Hello... You can hear nothing but the sound of my voice.
You are lovingly placing your cursor over the hotlinked phrase below, clicking once and buying at least one copy of my new book of poetry, Thirst Quench Thirst.
Do not concern yourself about whether or not you actually like poetry, read poetry, or have ever heard of me. Those concerns, while certainly understandable, are beside the point. Sometimes you just need to trust your instincts. Like now, for instance.
Some of the poems in this blog are excerpted from the book, so if you're still not sure, simply scroll around and read.
Oh, I almost forgot to mention, the book is only $15.00. At 72 pages, that's only $20.8 cents a page (1/18th the cost of a Starbuck's Frappucino). Such a deal!
Still need proof it's worth the money? Click below and check out the reviews:
Thirst, Quench Thirst evokes a memory of the deepest longings of the soul. Reading Mitch's poetry reminds me of what I already know, but often forget." -- Joan Apter
"This poetry has touched the deepest recesses of my heart." -- Dermott Philpott
"Mitch's poetry touches a universal human longing; the ache for internal connection to the divine. He speaks in a personal, simple, accessible way about things that are ancient and deep." -- Erika Andersen
"Most great love poetry baffles the mind, but delights the heart. And great love poetry cannot be written without great love. Mitch Ditkoff's poems are intoxicating." -- John Adorney
"This is the kind of nourishment that penetrates to the core of Divine Love, and if deeply imbibed, its sweet nectar can be savored for a lifetime." -- Jamie Delay
"Mitch mixed the most profound -- almost indescribable -- with the kind of simplicity that somehow manages to capture a feeling. Lovely stuff!" -- Candice Wilmore
"This book of poetry, delightful and charming, takes me right to the heart of the matter gently, often with wonderful humor! I read and re-read these poems just to take the ride." -- Kim Greene
"Not bad, but buy this book anyway so I can get a higher allowance." -- Jesse Pouget Ditkoff
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 05:23 PM | Comments (0)
September 28, 2008Last Night I Googled Longing
Last night I googled longing. What I found surprised me.
Ninety percent of the images were women: Women dreaming. Women staring out windows. Women brushing their golden hair beneath the full moon.
Oh... and lots of Goddesses, too.
Where were the men?
Hunting buffalo? Watching the Superbowl? Mowing the lawn?
OK. Maybe men don't stare out windows or wait by the door for their wives to return home from war, but surely they are feeling something. Surely, men want more out of life than just a cheeseburger, beer, and tattoo. No?
According to Google (the closest thing we have to tracking the collective unconscious), apparently not.
Are men incapable of longing? Not at all. It's just gotten a bit suppressed, gone underground to the place where even Google's algorithms cannot find it.
The reason?
I'm guessing it has something to do with the male concept of survival. After all... wars, hunting, and politics aren't all that conducive to inspired questings of the heart.
To put it bluntly, most men consider longing a girly thing. A sign of weakness. A minor holiday card invented by Hallmark. Something you express only because it's expected of you.
I suggest we put an end to this madness once and for all.
Longing is not a sign of weakness. It is a sign of strength.
And before I go on, let me make one thing abundantly clear: when I refer to "longing," I am not referring to a poetic kind of "desire" or a beatific "wanting." Not at all. I am referring to the innate human aspiration -- beyond gender -- for something timeless, pure, and unconditional.
Poets write about it, but it has nothing to do with words. Musicians compose about it, but it has nothing to do with notes.
Feeling. That's what it's all about. Deep feeling. The recognition that what we're looking for is also looking for us. What lovers feel after they must take their leave. The artist's pause, inspired by a sudden shift of light.
The ahhhh moment.
And so, dear readers of this blog, as the self-appointed, President (and Chief Hun) of the Longing Liberation Front for Muscle Bound Males, allow me to (Chest Bump! High Five! Shot of Red Eye!) refer you to someone who truly understands the game of life, a fine gentleman who knows that the ones who win are the ones who feel -- the ones who long for something more than what they see with their own two eyes.
May I introduce you to Coach Rawat?
It may be third and long for some of you, but you are closer to paydirt than you think.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:07 PM | Comments (2)
September 17, 2008The One Minute Seeker
In days gone by, classic "seekers" had to endure a ton of trials and tribulations to find what they were looking for. They walked across deserts. They fasted. They hunted for the One in faraway places.
No more. Those days are over. The game has changed. Things have heated up, big time.
Now, that which you are looking for is looking for you. Your inner questing for something timeless, pure, and full of love has been responded to.
Really.
Click here to find out more.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:01 AM | Comments (0)
September 05, 2008Rumi and Kabir Bowling
Last year, as I understand it, Rumi was the best selling poet in the United States -- 800+ years after he was alive. Amazing, eh? Clearly, there is something timeless and universal in his words. Kabir, too, is still being widely read -- as is Hafiz, Gibran, and a host of other ecstatic poets from times gone by.
Many people assume these guys must have been praying, meditating, and going on pilgrimages all the time. I don't think so. All you have to do is read their poetry to see how down to earth they were, how irreverant, and how funny.
Anyway... this next piece is an homage to Rumi and Kabir -- my little fantasy of how the two of them might have spent an evening -- in a bowling alley -- if they were still alive today.
Read it aloud, with some drama in your voice, for maximum value.
I have been to the place where Rumi and Kabir
are bowling all... night... long.
They are rolling perfectly round balls
down a perfectly polished alley,
laughing at the sound of the pins falling down
again and again and again.
Every time they bowl a strike even when they miss
which is often, their aim wandering in fabulously random ways
around this grand interior space.
Rumi orders a shot of Red Eye,
Kabir, a Bud Lite,
their clinking of glasses
some kind of esoteric temple bell ritual
neither of them understand.
They keep drinking and laughing and drinking again,
knocking back the elixir of their late night bowling life
and muttering under their barely moving breath
about the strangers outside returning home from yet another night shift.
Rumi opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out --
Kabir, long beard flecked with foam, orders a second round
and then a third as if the world was on fire.
Suddenly Rumi glances over his left shoulder.
More pins fall, this time leaving a perfect 7-10 split,
Kabir, knowing he never has to write another poem
to prove himself whole, leaps from his chair and hurls himself
down the perfectly polished alley, arms outstretched,
moving at the speed
of lite
beer.
Bang!
Both pins fall,
like... cedars in Lebanon,
like... Adam from Grace,
like... trees in a forest with no one close enough to hear whether anything
has actually happened or not.
No one except Red Eye Rumi swiveling in his chair
and pointing to the door.
A small man, in a starched white uniform, enters,
many keys hanging from his belt.
"Hey, you two! What are you doing here? This place is closed!"
Rumi smiles, tilts his head back and talks into his empty glass
now megaphone for the moment.
"I beg to differ, my good man,
this place is not closed.
It is open!
If it were closed we would not be here.
Open it is, I say! Wide open!
Like the Red Sea,
like a window on a summer night,
like the eyes of a young man upon seeing
the most beautiful woman in the world walk across the room,
her body the perfect mix of spirit and flesh.
Open, I say, like a book, like the sky,
like the heart of one not yet disappointed
in the ways of human love.
Go about your business, friend, and leave us here,
two happy hieroglyphs of love."
"We have a perfect game on Lane 23,"
intones a disembodied voice over the PA system
"A perfect game!"
Rumi and Kabir pull over another chair, pour another drink
and beckon to the man in the starched white uniform,
many keys dangling from his belt.
"Good friend, come closer, come drink with us.
Come now!
The night is still young."
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:39 AM | Comments (0)
August 29, 2008Someone to Call
Does this ever happen to you?
You have some extra time... in a cab...at the airport... or in between appointments. You pull out your cell phone, click on your contact list, and scroll.
You are looking for someone to call.
You know all the names on the list quite well. Some are your best friends. Some are your family. But you don't see the name of anyone you want to call at that particular moment.
You really want to call someone, but their name is not on the list.
You scroll up. You scroll down.
You wonder who it is you really want to call.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:12 AM | Comments (0)
July 18, 2008The Falcon and the Falconer
NOTE: This song of praise to Maharaji is best read aloud...
I am the falcon, you are the falconer. Always I am coming back to you, my soaring skyward just a strategy to gather speed for my ultimate return.
How you have trained me is a mystery -- the way you've tamed my restless heart. It is not with fear. I do not fear you. It is not with food. There is prey enough for me everywhere I fly. It is more the way you offer me your arm, a place to land, a second skin scented with the wild musk of one who waits for me, what I would be if I would be a man.
It is a wonderful game the two of us play -- this coming and going, this circular ballet. Each time you loose the loops around my legs and signal me to fly, I remember what it is to rise for the first time. It is here I find my rest, my home. Untethered, still I do not move, needing only to be close to you, my falconer.
It is this that beats my wings, releases me to sky, rides the unseen currents of the air, and though I notice other things: the tops of trees, a cloud, a nimble rabbit on the ground, all I see is you, holding out your arm to me, even as a thousand other falcons overhead, each within your view, circle closer, spiral down, descend.
Still I know that I am next and this is the perfect moment of my return.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:26 PM | Comments (1)
June 04, 2008This Longing, This Ache
This longing, this ache,
this pulsing of the deepest part of who you are
is the reason why you're here.
Do not confuse it with desire.
Desire is wanting what you
don't have.
Longing is wanting
what you do.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:19 AM | Comments (1)
April 28, 2008Prisoner of Love
I am a prisoner of love,
completely captive,
bird whose wings wish only
to fan the face of his Beloved.
What need have I to fly?
Where in this world can I go?
Bound with the invisible thread of devotion,
I pace my inner courtyard,
rave silently beneath a local moon
and wait for his return.
To call this a jail is a lie when all I want to do is
crawl further in,
dig my tunnel deeper to the one forever guarding me.
A prisoner of love, yes!
That's what I am!
Howling at the half moon, screaming for the full,
I turn my self in,
keep turning myself in and in and in
to the only one worth being in love and alone with.
Why dream of other times and places
when the one who has the key is knocking at your door?
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:51 PM | Comments (0)
April 27, 2008The Falcon and the Falconer
I am the falcon,
you are the falconer.
Always I am coming back to you,
my soaring skyward just a strategy
to gather speed for my ultimate return.
How you have trained me is a mystery --
the way you've tamed my restless heart.
It is not with fear. I do not fear you.
It is not with food.
There is prey enough for me
everywhere I fly.
It is more the way you offer me your arm,
a place to land, a second skin,
scented with the wild musk of one who waits for me,
what I would be if I would be a man.
It is a wonderful game the two of us play --
this coming and going,
this circular ballet.
Each time you loose the loops around my legs
and signal me to fly, I remember
what it is to rise for the first time.
It is here I find my rest, my home.
Untethered, still I do not move,
needing only to be close to you, my Falconer.
It is this that beats my wings, releases me to sky,
rides the unseen currents of the air
and though I notice other things:
the tops of trees, a cloud, a nimble rabbit on the ground,
all I see is you, holding out your arm to me,
even as a thousand other falcons overhead,
each within your view,
circle closer, spiral down, descend,
yet still I know that I am next
and this
is the perfect moment
of my return.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:54 PM | Comments (0)
April 11, 2008Just This Crazy Laughter
Now that you have ruined what I thought was my life,
what do you want me to do?
Sing your praises?
No can do, I'm mute.
Shout something timeless from the rooftops?
Sorry, I cannot move.
Write poetry? Impossible,
my hands are shaking and so is the ground.
Oh Friend,
it's clear my life is very different now
than what I thought it would be when first we met.
An ocean of unexpected tears I have become,
a fool,
a lunatic walking on moonlight,
singing, singing, singing.
This is not at all what I thought it would be
the first time I saw you.
It's a billion times better than that.
Even if my story could be told no one would believe me.
I have no proof,
not a single shred of evidence,
just this crazy laughter
and the kind of late night sighing that comes
when there is nothing left to say.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:55 PM | Comments (0)
February 17, 2008Watercolor
Today I wrote the most beautiful poem in the world,
something so pure I wouldn't mind dying --
the perfect song of praise
hewn from the dark forest of my secret heart.
Not a wasted word it was,
rhythmic, elegant, and holy,
poetry for the ages,
why sages dance,
timeless in its pauses,
with a long white beard and a thousand Santa Clauses
ringing their bells for love.
Yes, I wrote this poem today
or rather, it wrote me,
flooding through my body
onto a singular white page,
which I, amazed at having said it all
and having signed my name,
left, for a moment, on my favorite chair
beneath the willow tree,
then turned inside again and took my leave
to celebrate this unexpected visitation of my muse
by listening, with great respect,
to Mozart in the living room.
I did not hear the rain.
Not a single drop.
It was only later, after dinner, I discovered
the many ways ink drips down a white page
in a sudden, summer shower.
I could see, I think, small patches of blue,
a cloud, a flower, a silhouette,
perhaps a word or two,
my perfect poem now watercolor --
the many colors of my love for you.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:32 PM | Comments (0)
