Don Raskopf
I carved this image of Rumi as a 5 week aim
around '97 in North Salem, New York.
the slave
I am the slave of whoever at each stage will not imagine that he has reached the end of his goal. Many a stage has to be left behind before the traveler reaches his destination.
he was in no other place
Cross and Christians, end to end, I examined. He was not on the Cross. I went to the Hindu temple, to the ancient pagoda. In none of them was there any sign. To the uplands of Herat I went, and to Kandahar. I looked. He was not on the heights or in the lowlands. Resolutely, I went to the summit of the fabulous mountain of Kaf. There only was the dwelling of the legendary Anqa bird. I went to the Kaaba of Mecca. He was not there. I asked about him from Avicenna, the philosopher. He was beyond the range of Avicenna . . . I looked into my own heart. In that, his place, I saw him. He was in no other place.
epitaph of jalaludin rumi
When we are dead, seek not our tomb in the earth, but find it in the hearts of men.
(Rumi's quotes above are a few of Linda Jo's favorites from The Way of The Sufi)
Message from Richard Condon:
Hi Linda Jo,
Here are a few of the poems I composed during my period in "school".
(This is an early attempt at an Italian style sonnet – as opposed to an Elizabethan. I didn't succeed at all, really, viewed from a strict assessment of syllables and strict rhyme scheme, but it nevertheless remains one of my favorites. I wrote most of this in the wee hours of the morning while unloading trucks at the flower market on March 28, 1991.)
An Ant
An Ant, sore vexed, bestirs upon my arm,
And I, from thither, bring my thought to bear
Upon its tiny presence, swift about my hair,
And raise one monstrous hand to do it harm.
Then I am ashamed. Why kill instead of care
For this creature which entrusts its life to me?
Unwitting though it is, it cannot even see
The man on which it walks, else it might beware.
My charge's world sparks curiosity;
I twist my arm to keep him in my sight.
Careful not to crush him, whose frame is slight,
Feeling suddenly, strange responsibility.
This ant on me, far less am I on Earth.
How views She my days, with hard frowns or mirth?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(This poem works much better from a technical perspective, and is true to the mandated format for an Italian sonnet. I completed it in July, 1992, two months after my daughter was born.)
The Most Eager Waltzer
The most eager waltzer ignites the day
Upon his firey cheeks, and, leaping high,
Begins to dance; and by dancing vivifies
His dazzled court, dressing all in bright array.
Scintilating on the rippeling bay,
Capering with wind-tossed leaves, blithe and spry.
Dappeling the humble moss, slow and shy,
On the bellies of shirtless babes at play.
Nor spider's silk too lowly to be touched,
Nor mountain peak to great to be embraced;
No waltzer ever wandered half so much
Seeking partners so needing of his grace.
None other but the Sun may dance as such,
Who whirls the giddy earth, dancing face to face.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(This is a for fun poem I wrote in 1993, following no particular form at all.)
The Roach
Late, late in the darkest hour of the night,
Hunger roused a sleepy soul–the poor man's guts drew tight.
From his bed he slung himself, forced by unnatural appetite,
Thus kitchen-bound he fumbled forth to take his boldest bite.
With squinting eyes he braved the switch to cast the light
But what his vision registered stirred an horrid fright.
A cockroach shot across his feet, tracing circles tight,
Then springing forth quoth he, "I'll smite the roach!"
He durst with calloused heel to plant a grim reproach,
But his foe out-guessed his foot and fled in furious flight.
Then such a rage befell the man his hunger waxed but slight.
And he untongued a gutteral growl, "Come face me, knave, and fight!"
But no starchy honor, in the bug, did his hot words ignite.
And half insane with pique, he scoured the floors and scanned the heights.
Not for sleep nor hunger would he swerve from his savage lust for fight,
And all the while sweareth he, "I'll smite the vile roach!"
The roach was deep within a wall, consuming crumbs it poached.
Its conscience being but feeble, it felt not the least contrite.
Without, the man raved on, swearing to requite
The dishonor done his foot, and with that very foot to blight
The bug which leeched his leftovers, which ruined his delight.
The city traffic wouldn't halt, the Earth still spun despite
The man who put his belly last, whose mouth could but recite,
"Nor rest, nor food I'll take until the vile roach I smite!"
THANKS TO HOMER
O Great Master of that noble craft the Epic Song!
Your ODYSSEY is the one for which I wish to speak:
Though now (and maybe even then) hollow men love picking your
exalted Swallow's bones for mere morsels of literary candor,
you may be pleased to know it struck a different
chord in me…
Ever ascending, octave within octave, from Do to Do it rang
climbing, soaring, diving, and beating
its tiny wings inside my breast – sweeping away
that awful stuff caked up around my heart, till by the end
I felt no quarrel with a single soul but rather new and fresh.
Know that when our captain finally stood his ground behind that
special bow, I lent him all my strength to pull it back and let the arrows go,
for he had brought me with him!
One by one we slew those swine – no mercy did we show!
For if such rogues as those were left to squander his estates,
how could the Master resume his rightful place?
Our heroic Odysseus, his patient Penelope, their brave son, Telemakhos –
three yet one remaining strong and steadfast through every pain of circumstance.
But, Song Master, from whence does such great Patience, Love and Courage come?
Are they God's breath blown down to billow sails on ships at sea bound Home?
. . . or the celestial cloak that clothes the human spirit for the Journey?
Or do they come from deepening wish,
constant prayer and wakefulness?
I thank you, Friend, for we have met as lovers
on the bridge of time in your eternal masterpiece,
surely meant to leave its mark upon the soul
and remind us of our Destiny.
I thank the friends who came after you, as well,
who cared enough to enclose your Swallow's wings and message
between the covers of this
boundless book.
Linda Jo – 1974
Penelope: Man’s life is short. To him who is harsh, and hard-hearted, all living men wish suffering till he dies, and mock him when he’s dead. But the fame of a good man, with a kind heart, his guests spread far and wide among men, and people sing his praise.
Celestial City (silk screen paper mosaic) by Linda Jo Sapere – 1990
On GSR Robert L. Gibbs says:
February 6, 2012
For Hummingbird
BINGO
there’s no one to call
though I have a ton of numbers
and ears to listen
no one who will tell me
yes…that's correct
that’s what you should be doing
I turn in every direction
searching for affirmation
approval to the choices I have made
as if to avoid a mistake
as if to get the right answers
as if they would know
but they don’t
and they are not me
another minute passes
and turns to years
and turns to regret
and silence falls on the dreamer
with only images in his head
images of success
that I may never reach
if I do not realize
the only reality…is me
I have to walk alone now..with…but yet without
I am a part of you all
but i must walk alone now into the mystery
of discovering the man I am inside
that only my eyes can see
that only my mind can reveal
that only my faith…can find.
3-8-98
after the million miles we walk as followers
the journey…Into…
manifests the truth of peace
the direction is inward
The Great Spirit will find u there..or visa versa….
Robert G.
The Gentle Souls Revolution says:
February 6, 2012
Thanks, Robert G, for the lovely poem! I keep thinking this:
evolution is an inside job. x, o
Robert L. Gibbs says:
February 7, 2012
YES…I believe it is…
just like cleaning house!
We could in fact hire someone else…but it's usually surface cleaning…just the dust that collects.
But what of…that which is creating the dust?
and what of all the little detailed stuff?
and the junk drawers?
Who knows what's hiding in there? lol
and if we have to go through all that trouble to write the chore list…that we will assign to another.
Why not just do it yourself…?
one by one by one…
one step…then another…then maybe three…towards self-sufficiency…
self-knowing….and self-reliance…
and then…
maybe take a bath….
and wash the exterior…for everybody else. :) lol
The mantra…
I am a self cleaning oven! lol
Circe says:
February 22, 2012
Robert,
You made me laugh!
It made me remember that when we were doing some particularly horrible task at “school”: construction projects that lasted for days with no sleep; washing rocks at 4 AM; catering a hot meal for 120 people with no kitchen, etc. Someone would always say something like: we could have gone out and hired someone else to do this work but then we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to “work on ourselves”!
Dear Readers,
I am so excited to share this piece of auditory brilliance, written and provided by a fellow escapee. I love the way he wove “observations” into the song giving them the perfect creepy character they deserve. Would love to hear about your favorite parts! And now, for your listening pleasure:
OH, SO, GOOD…so, good…so, good…
I’m climbing up towards a finer place
objectively observing, and forcing smiles upon my face
But I just can’t seem to shake this sinking feeling
(no buts no justs, no buts no justs)
You tell me move myself in circles,
we’re forcibly denying. and it’s…
Oh, So, Good
I’m evolving higher
these ideas you stole and bastardized
oh how they inspire
and it’s…
Oh, So, Good
You say you need me to be all in
and address the check ‘OSG’
to pay for my arising
Oh, So, Good
and you keep feeding me lies
in your truth of choosing’s disguise.
What an amazing feat
in this age of vast technology,
to keep us in the shadows…
and blind to your hypocrisy.
But I guess I should give credit where it’s due,
(no buts no shoulds, no buts no shoulds)
because you helped me see so clearly,
Now through you I see so clearly,
and now I see so clearly…
that which I already knew.
and it’s…
Oh, So, Good
You say you’re teaching,
but what’s practiced in here
is not what it’s preaching
Oh, So, Good
You call it clever,
but there is no denying
your insincerity’s lying
Oh, So, Good
and you’ll keep eating your lies
in your truth of choosing’s disguise.
Does anyone else have “school” inspired brilliance to share? I’m not posting regularly, myself, so I would love to make Cult Confessions/Gentle Souls' Revolution an open forum.
Illumination (silk screen paper mosaic) by Linda Jo Sapere – 1991