This poem is taken from Stand 216, 15(4) December 2017 - February 2018.
O Sultan, my Sultan! – have pity on a meagre outsider. He replied:
Outside? Who put you outside your own heart? Are you a dog to God?
I said: Then why not let me in? Ah – imposition is no door, He said.
I saw how delicately is poised Perfection at its threshold with the human.
Why would nuanced Consciousness, in repose on its heavenly couch, bed
down instead among worldly spines or fill His pillow with mortal bone?
You: whose tresses snag souls as trees unnumbered birds have done.
You: whose face is the sun, the mole on Your cheek a transiting Venus.
That corona of light so fine around Your face – a down of brightness.
In His cosmic gallery, how could such a God not hang such a Sun?
See how Your moon blushes with dawn to reflect Your hidden glow.
Watch the rose petal of Judas fall strangely into the wild cup of Rose.
I said: Your lovely hair, so dark it flecks with light – let me nest
entwined there. In the morning: a single speckled egg. No regret.