The Arab spoke of homesickness
From the prow of the ship, looking
Down to where I sat, waiting. He
Who had stood before the Kaaba
And spoken with the dead; who
Had walked with the Man in Green
As he stepped across the sea and
Shared mysteries none should know
Spoke of homesickness, the
Yearning of the soul, like a traveller
Watching the sunset die as day
Sinks into night, for home.
Where one comes from. These
Jewels of wisdom scattered around
Me as I waited to be gone, the sea
Glittering in the twilight as the city
Closed its eyes to rest. The Muezzin
Cried with the seagulls. Minarets
Stood out against blue draining to red
And darkness as the evening
Drew in coldly. I thought and thought
On homesickness. The Arab’s words
Faded with the sun.



Put off he black garment et the soul hine forth reathing  Like a rose xpanding hiteness  preading eyond these walls o landscapes olling choing sky he mind anders o corners f universe nexplored usic leads he eternal spiral  hite soul hines ike the glowing un  he dancers evolve n ecstatic silence isteners  ove n hypnotic trance he dervish peaks  bserves he ritual ivine expression f the heavenly dance


The Hidden Ones

The hidden ones
Are strongest

Those unseen
Who in their homes

Know love

Who in the echoing

Leave their record
Of kindness

Unheard of

With others
Who know them

Like snow falling
Their stillness

Calms the roots
Of the world

Shouts their existence

Yet in their silence
So gentle

Hidden work
Is done



Memories of a bus and consciousness
That the journey was taken alone
Unsung unnoticed uncared for
Through mountains high of rock and stone
Sand through scrub unremarkable
Dust on the roads barely tracks
Silence and weariness past men red as hills
With tractors building the road ahead

A boy taught me some Turkish
People silent sat around me
A man brought drink and cakes
Nobody spoke veils and hats
The morning long and hours passed
With nothing no sense even
Of who I was or where I was going
Climbing through mountains and hills

And then Konya
Spread out before me like a bonfire
Burning in the sun beyond journeys
I could ever imagine or see
Sun blazing on Mosques there waiting
For me people greeting a tram
An icecream greetings in the street
And music playing in a shop

Someone helping me to understand
What I was seeing showing me the way
To to the Lodge and the fountain
The Mosque where people stood not seeing
A stranger instead a pilgrim
A guest in a house of feeling
Feet washed to see the waiting place
Of dancers for the time to come

Memories of a bus and consciousness
Of a welcome not found or heard
Of how things might once have been
Of how things could still become
Journeys and travels not everything wasted
Peace woven into bricks and mortar
Walking on concrete overladen with stars
Dancing beneath the sun



The dancer

The coloured dome
Of music

Pilgrims gather
At the fountain

The watcher
In the alcove

The turquoise tower
Greetings abound

Hang in the air

Calm for

For peace
The reed flute

For returning
Each of us

At the river
For the day

Of the wedding
When Beloved
And Lover

Are one



The deep sorrow
of my soul unfurls itself
like a dancer, discarding
robes as it passes,
tears under the sky.

For every love that
blossomed and died,
every wound, every night
left crying in darkness,
it lets a garment lie,

glistening beneath
the sun, soft beneath
the moon. No time
without its sorrow
forgotten, rich regret

pouring itself out
like water, like wine
fresh from the winepress,
blood flowing crimson
on the floor.

The deep sorrow
of my soul comes to rest
like a dancer, hands held
crossed before it, head
dipped to the ground,

the music drifting
like a song, ripped weeping
from the heart, winding itself
to stillness, waiting for
a new beginning,

waiting for birth,
a hallowed dream,
a whispered sigh,
a new unfolding,
a new Earth.


The Dictator

they dragged him from a drain
and pulled him across the road

a bullet finished him

his country’s anger had hunted
him down

within hours
his face was spread across
the world

empty eyes, muscles slack,
a loose bag, covered in blood
left to rot

a dead man
stunned by his end;
blank eyes, jaw gaping
as if astonished by his own

this was the dictator,
the man who had terrified
millions. prisons and torture
in houses of concrete

and now

a lank sack
left by the road


Akbar’s Tomb

The second journey from the city akes you to a place where the city changes, eading you from the violence, he noise and the dust, he squalor and pain o wider streets, still dirty ut freer, freer to move and breathe. aking heat burdens the air. un beats down and sweat pours efore you see the red gates tood before you, ammoth beneath the sky. andstone inscriptions nviting you to Paradise, owers that shield the Tomb from view. hen through, gardens,  ush gardens f green and pleasantness. eer walk in the distance. onkeys prowl and suckle their young, laying as you walk long paths of stone and silence, aught in the air of unreality o the doors of Akbar’s Tomb. utside the entrance, olours and gold.  lantern hangs in sapphire, ainted forests, reds and blues wirl at the mouth of the tunnel. old stone and shadows s you walk to the chamber.  singer sits in the silence, alling the Emperor’s name oice spreading in a single note  f yearning and pain s you stand in the darkness and wait. n the cool of hidden stone ike water calming the burning flesh  single light, in a socket hields the door from blackness nd you sit, thinking,  ou sit, dreaming truck by the atmosphere f a silent Tomb so simple nd see the truth before you s Akbar sleeps, lies resting ot an Emperor, a Ruler, a King ut a man alone with his God.

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