There Is No Door
I could tell you that my Master is the one who opened the door, but that would be a lie. There never was a door. I was never on the other side. We were always in this together, he and I. If you call the realization of this Oneness, the opening of a door, so be it -- but since I'm in a really good mood today, I'll save you the trouble of hacking your way through a love drunk's excess of metaphors. There is no door! Never was, never will be. The knocking you hear is only the sound of your own heart beating.
The One for whom it beats has always been with you,
so what's all this monkey business about a door?
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:40 AM | Comments (3)
November 08, 2008KABIR (& Duke Ellington):The Swing
Between the conscious and the unconscious,
the mind has put up a swing;
all earth creatures, even the supernovas,
sway between these two trees,
and it never winds down.
Angels, animals, humans, insects by the millions,
also the wheeling sun and moon;
ages go by, and it goes on.
Everything is swinging; heaven, earth, water, fire,
and the secret one slowly growing a body,
Kabir saw that for fifteen seconds,
and it made him a servant for life.
Painting: Rachel Clearfield
Translation: Robert Bly
Five minutes after posting this poem, I turned on the radio. Guess what was playing? Duke Ellington's It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing. I kid you, not.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:16 PM | Comments (1)
October 30, 2008RUMI: Telling It Like It Is
Keep walking, there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances,
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move.
One day, you will take me completely out of my self,
I'll do what the angels cannot do,
Your eyelash will write on my cheek
the poem that hasn't been thought of.
Since I've been away from you,
I only know how to weep.
Like a candle melting is who I am.
Like a harp, any sound I make is music.
Happy, not from anything that happens.
Warm, not from fire or a hot bath,
Light, I register zero on a scale.
(Who remains to write the last line of this poem?)
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:36 PM | Comments (1)
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 16, 2008The Seed Once Sown, the Rune
I talk too much, too loud, too soon,
like one who pulls a sword from stone
and speaks
before the King has had his turn.
My words are ghosts of moments gone,
the poetry you want to hear is not my own,
but yours, the sacred sound long buried
in your bones -- the seed once sown,
the rune,
something born within you to be told.
This is what you want to hear,
the perfect eloquence of one
upon the throne,
whose prayer, these words, are heard
before a single word is said.
Live there! Breathe deep! Fly!
Free the priests and, if the angels die,
know you'll be dancing in the air.
That's the poetry you want to hear!
What you really want is this:
The lyrical flood of fullness within,
the drowning in bliss,
the letting down, like mother's milk,
of all there ever is --
the place where all the poets you have ever loved
are riding homeward on a train, alone,
looking out a window on a perfect summer day.
What they see is only their reflection
and, just beyond, golden fields of hay.
Somewhere in between them both their breathing slows,
they close their eyes and pause,
clear they never have to write again or think.
This is the poetry you long to hear,
when all the poets turn for home
and all their blood has turned to ink.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:02 AM | Comments (0)
October 15, 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.
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,
lunatic walking on moonlight,
singing, singing, singing.
This is not at all what I imagined.
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 04:59 PM | Comments (1)
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)
October 03, 2008Some Might Call It Dancing
Some might call it dancing,
I call it stumbling closer to God,
the unrehearsed
falling forward into love
as if the world was tipped.
Operatic in my cells,
lunatic for life,
I am taken to the place
where dancing is
infinitely less about movement than being moved --
for when the world is tipped
and we, drunk to our eyes
in love's ballet,
are willing,
there is nothing not dance,
no one not dancer,
no place not stage,
no breath not a standing ovation before God.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:07 PM | Comments (0)
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 29, 2008What Moves Us All to Dream
What moves us all to dream,
to think, to love, to act,
to give it up for some great cause
or double back to pause before our plans
of having more or getting there
or going to the country fair
is the same for everyone --
the sage, the fool, the king,
the self-appointed ministers of fun.
Einstein said it best, I think,
or maybe it was Rumi,
both of whom were missing links
from this to that, from here to there,
mystics of the unseen arts,
demystifying what it is that moves the air
and the human heart.
Still I wonder what it is I thirst for in my bones,
what will be enough to feel.
Is it what I see with these two eyes
or what I know beyond them both
is always just a bit concealed --
that which seizes me from deep within,
the mirror of my soul, my other half, my perfect twin,
the one who knows, but doesn't tell
or if he does, it's just enough
to dig my tunnel deeper to the well
where all the seekers that I am have come to drink,
long before the first parable was told.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:20 PM | Comments (0)
September 18, 2008The Paradox Supreme
Here is the paradox supreme:
What you want you have
and what you have you want.
What you call the path
is merely the way to this understanding.
Do not worry about the next step.
You have already taken it.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:56 PM | Comments (0)
September 13, 2008KABIR: I Talk to My Inner Lover
I talk to my inner lover
and I say, why such rush?
We sense that there is
some sort of spirt that
loves birds and animals and the ants --
perhaps the same one who gave
a radiance to you
in your mother's womb.
Is it logical you would be
walking around entirely orphaned now?
The truth is you turned away yourself,
and decided to go into the dark alone.
Now you are tangled up in others,
and have forgotten
what you once knew,
and that's why everything you do
has some weird failure in it.
Kabir: Ecstatic Poems, Robert Bly
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:07 AM | Comments (0)
September 10, 2008Plenty of Rumi for Everyone
I was dead, then alive,
weeping, then laughing.
The power of love came into me,
and I became fierce like a lion,
then tender like the evening star.
He said, "You're not mad enough.
You don't belong in this house."
I went wild and had to be tied up.
He said, "You're still not wild enough
to stay with us!"
I broke through another layer
into joyfulness.
He said, "It's not enough."
I died.
He said, "You are a clever little man,
full of fantasy and doubting."
I plucked out my feathers and became a fool.
He said, "Now you are the candle
for this assembly."
But I'm no candle. Look!
I'm scattered smoke.
He said, "You are the sage, the guide."
But I'm not a teacher. I have no power.
He said, "You already have wings.
I cannot give you wings."
But I wanted his wings.
I felt like some flightless chicken.
Then something said to me,
"Don't move. A sublime generosity is
coming towards you."
An old love said, "Stay with me."
I said, "I will."
You are the fountain of the sun's light.
I am a willow shadow on the ground.
You make my raggedness silky.
The soul at dawn is like darkened water
that slowly begins to say "Thank you, Thank you."
Then at sunset, again, Venus gradually
changes into the moon and then the whole night sky.
This comes of smiling back
at your smile.
The chess master says nothing,
other than moving the silent chess piece.
That I am part of the ploys
of this game makes me
amazingly happy.
- Rumi
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:22 PM | 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)
September 02, 2008Where I Live
Sometimes,
in a sudden fit of curiosity,
or need to fill
an unexpected pause in conversation,
well-meaning people ask me where I live.
I used to tell them,
depending on my mood
and how much I thought
they really wanted to know,
any of the following:
Two hours north of Manhattan,
Ulster County,
or the oh so famous Woodstock, New York.
Now,
many years after meeting Maharaji,
and having relocated to my breath,
I simply say:
the State of Gratitude.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:36 AM | Comments (1)
August 10, 2008The Gift
The gift I bought for you today
is not inside the box.
It's in the opening.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 02:53 PM | Comments (0)
August 09, 2008HAFIZ: Tired of Speaking Sweetly
Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,
break all our teacup talk of God.
If you had the courage and
could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would just drag you around the room by your hair,
ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
that bring you no joy.
Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
and wants to rip to shreds
all your erroneous notions of truth
that make you fight within yourself, dear one,
and with others,
cause the world to weep
on too many fine days.
God wants to manhandle us,
lock us inside a tiny room with Himself
and practice His dropkick.
The Beloved sometimes wants
to do us a great favor:
Hold us upside down
and shake all the nonsense out.
But when we hear
He is in such a "playful drunken mood,"
most everyone I know
quickly packs their bags and hightails it
out of town.
(THE GIFT, Poems by Hafiz, translation by Daniel Ladinsky)
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 02:10 PM | Comments (0)
August 02, 2008This Thirst
There is an aching deep within my heart
that cannot be explained.
It wakes me in the middle of the night
and write these lines --
a kind of fishing in a great sea I cannot find by day.
This escapade is not the search for something new.
It is not the need to find --
more it is the being moved,
my being pulled by an unseen moon,
how small birds, when days get cold,
make their way across dark skies
to the place where they were born,
how a feather falls to earth
and a child, finding it, looks up,
why dogs pace back and forth before a door
as their master turns for home.
Ah, this restlessness, this thirst, this ache,
this silent undertow inside
that takes me back to the hidden spring
where lions come to drink,
and snakes,
why birds sing when they are all alone
and the long ride home on an empty train
often feels like an arrival.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 02:50 PM | Comments (1)
July 30, 2008A Thimble's Worth
People ask me what it was like
being with Maharaji five days in a row.
Here's what I tell them:
It was like spinning around in a monsoon, thimble in hand,
trying to catch the rain.
Every time I noticed my thimble was full,
I opened my mouth to sing,
but my mouth filled up with water.
I gulped, I drank,
I bailed my boat of joy.
Somehow,
in between the tidal waves of love
and my odd little habit of trying to understand
what in the world was going on,
I heard what he said:
"Get wet! Get wet!"
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:18 PM | Comments (0)
July 22, 2008Harvest Me
Stories of your beauty
drift down to me like ash
from a fire
I have not yet been warmed by.
Your absence only singes me,
and though I flame
at the mere mention of you,
still I remain unconsumed.
Don't you understand?
Just the wind of your walking
would be enough to release me,
your glance,
enough to wake me from my dream.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:54 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)
July 16, 2008I Used to Write Love Poems
I used to write love poems,
now I collect them
like small shells on a beach
only the locals know about.
There is nothing inside them.
They are empty.
But when you put your ear to their opening
and really listen,
you can hear the ocean.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:47 PM | Comments (0)
July 07, 2008The Great Mystery
Here is the great mystery:
My thirst is quenched
as much by my longing
to have it quenched
as it is by the waters that come.
Tell me, oh digger of the well,
which do I drink first?
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:07 PM | Comments (0)
July 05, 2008Give Everything You Have
Give everything you have,
and after you have given,
give what's left.
After you give what's left,
give what remains.
After giving that,
give the feeling of having given.
After giving the feeling
of having given,
give what you get
for having given.
Then give again,
never stopping, always giving.
And should it come to pass that you forget,
forgive yourself immediately.
Then begin again,
giving everything you have,
and after you have given,
give what's left.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 08:41 PM | Comments (0)
June 26, 2008Speechless
It's not what I say,
it's what I don't say.
But every time I say nothing,
what I don't say
leaves so much to be said,
I am speechless.
Maybe that's why Groucho
raised his eyebrows
and Jesus raised the dead.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:45 AM | Comments (1)
June 21, 2008May I Stay Here Forever
May I stay here forever
in this perfect place of peace with you --
the sacred space between in breath and out,
the final coming home,
timeless moment before the need
for anything has risen,
Buddha enjoying his late afternoon nap
with no one around
to extract any meaning from it.
First, there is a breath,
and then, there is a second.
This is how I begin my
long walk with you by the water's edge,
cool white sand beneath both our feet.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:41 AM | Comments (0)
June 15, 2008Open Window
Alone in my room
at the end of the day,
I open my window and
release my breath like a dove
that it may find its way
to you, oh precious one.
It leaves the shell of my body,
carried by an unseen wind,
small wings beating
against a very big sky.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 01:00 AM | Comments (0)
June 11, 2008RUMI: Move Into Your House of Joy
If you knew yourself for even one moment,
if you could just glimpse your most beautiful face,
maybe you wouldn't slumber so deeply in that house of clay.
Why not move into your house of joy
and shine into every crevice!
For you are the secret Treasure-bearer,
and always have been.
Didn't you know?
-- Rumi
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 12:12 AM | Comments (0)
June 07, 2008A Six Pack of Kabir
Friend, hope for the Guest while you are alive.
Jump into experience while you are alive!
Think... and think... while you are alive.
What you call "salvation" belongs to the time before death.
If you don't break your rope while you are alive,
do you think ghosts will do it after?
The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic
just because the body is rotten --
that is all fantasy.
What is found now is found then.
If you find nothing now,
you will simply end up with an apartment
in the City of Death.
If you make love with the Divine now, in the next life
you will have the face of satisfied desire.
So plunge into the truth,
find out who the Teacher is,
believe in the Great Sound!
Kabir says this:
When the Guest is being searched for,
it is the intensity of the longing for the Guest
that does all the work.
Look at me, and you will see a slave of that intensity.
(Translated by Robert Bly, from Kabir, Ecstatic Poems)
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 03:55 PM | Comments (1)
June 06, 2008When You Walk Into The Room
When you walk into the room,
all the poets
feel a sudden urge to praise,
all the dancers want to move,
singers ache
to raise their voices high
for all those times
they foolishly chose silence instead.
This impulse to express,
this surging forward into form,
is absolutely involuntary, tidal, primal, pure.
The poet's fingers twitch,
the singer clears her throat,
the dancer moves inside her shoes,
already receiving roses
from the grateful choreographer of her heart.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:26 PM | Comments (1)
June 05, 2008How to Listen to the Master
First of all,
give up everything you know
about listening --
it has nothing to do with your ears.
That kind of listening
will only take you so far.
If you really want to hear,
you will need to leave your ears at the door
and while you're at it,
your head.
Then, take a seat,
breathe deep,
and become, if you can,
a flower opening to the sun.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:31 PM | Comments (0)
June 04, 2008Off the Coast of Love
My wife tells me I should pay more attention to details --
the house, the car, the lawn --
there's a thousand things, by sunset, that need to be done.
She's right, of course.
It's true.
If only I wasn't floating
three feet off the ground today,
caught in the updraft
of a single gaze from you,
spinning like a thousand cyclones
off the coast of love.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:33 AM | Comments (1)
This 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)
February 06, 2008The Path
The path is simple,
but not always easy,
kind of like a teenage boy
on his first date
who discovers he has a pimple
right before he goes to kiss
the girl of his dreams, who,
as it turns out,
is in love with someone else --
a nice enough fellow, or so I'm told,
but with a wicked temper
and a red '63 Corvette.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:07 PM | Comments (0)
January 27, 2008Create!
A star exploded deep within you years ago
and still the light has not yet reached your eyes,
not yet turned the night to day for birds to leave their nests
or monks their caves to play.
Blind to your own infusion, you insist there is nothing to see,
nothing to celebrate your reasonless being for,
and yet you feel it, you quake,
you quiver to begin.
An unseen trembling turns your head,
the way you stand, the wind,
the ground beneath your feet.
You think the shock of this bodily remembrance is fear
and do not sing,
do not burst into song,
do not wring the beauty of the sound
long buried in your bones.
You stop and throw a stone,
half hoping it will come back to you,
and wait
as if there was time,
wait,
like a beggar ashamed to ask for a bowl to beg with.
How can this be?
The sky is bluer than the eyes of your own mother
on the day she first beheld you
and still you cast your gaze down.
Don't you remember?
You were made in the image of God!
The creator!
The one who creates
river, eagle, ladybug, leaf.
If anyone else gave you the moon you'd call him a thief
or worse, refuse to look.
Give up the notion of stealing from God.
The only crime here is to hoard.
Prometheus?
Only bored of chilly nights
with no flame to write his poetry by.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:23 PM | Comments (0)
January 11, 2008Can You Hear It Being Played?
I have something to say to you and it is this:
This! This gathering of souls.
This timelessness. This space.
Nothing else ever happens.
There is nowhere else to go.
Only this!
This!
Every flower, child, breeze and breath is saying the same thing:
This! Wake up! Sing!
There is no other possibility or hope,
my friends.
What you call future is a dream,
your well-intentioned scheme
to more thoroughly enjoy what can only ever happen now.
This!
There is nothing else to do, nowhere else to go,
no one to come home to,
or if you are, shall we say, spiritually inclined,
no one to chant om to.
You see (and you do!) this... is... it!
Just this -- a chance like a leaf on a high branch, to come undone,
flutter down, land, and there -- at the root -- find rest.
Let it fall to the place it can fall no further from!
Live there!
And when, as you might, finally decide to speak,
announce your discovery of pure and perfect presence,
you will be struck dumb -- stunned like a child just before tears,
mute, like someone upon whose shoulder a butterfly has come.
Moved, but unmoving.
Proof, but unable to offer any.
The perfect fool.
It is into this space that music enters.
It is into this space that hearts become drums and we hear --
do not listen to -- but hear
music!
Can you hear the molecules and the atoms within,
the sound which ties us to God,
that like an identical twin knows exactly what we want to say?
It is into this space that music is made.
Can you hear it being played?
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 06:12 AM | Comments (0)
