A Jewel
in the
Dust
By Brian Darnell
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 BDI Publishers
Meher Baba said, “You have been given enough words.” The Tao Te Ching reads, “He who knows does not speak and He who speaks does not know.” In this spirit I offer this book of poetry. I wish to acknowledge and thank my sons, my late father, my mother and brothers, my friends and my Baba family.
This book is dedicated to the Divine Beloved, Avatar Meher Baba.
Brian Darnell
March 2011
A Mutual Sobriety
Ages ago I was stone. You began
shaping me into a human being.
With that same great chisel and hammer,
I’m now being reduced to dust.
O Lord, it’s hard sometimes, to keep my chin up
under the rain of Your blows.
We have to stop meeting like this!
A few hours of carousing –
I’m hung-over, despondent for weeks.
This morning, I found
bits of clarity at the bottom of my cup –
I have no right to desire,
nor should I expect to stumble through
every hour, drunk on Your bliss.
We have work to do
that demands a mutual sobriety.
You, the sculptor with Your careful dismantling;
me, the stone – holding steady.
O child of God, the Beloved serves His wine
for medicinal purposes only.
His hammer blows chisel away the false.
The path narrows
The path narrows ... and I narrow with it;
the heart gets smaller, too –
ridding itself of so many strangers,
hoping to fit precisely in Your chest pocket.
Affairs of the world?
My heart’s no longer in it.
My heart is with You –
under a stone on the Deccan Plain.
Let my life end up in Your Tomb
before I am carried away to my own.
Let the roses on my coffin
come from Your discarded garlands.
Let me curl up at Your feet
in Your holy dharmashala,
while You take Your next
seven hundred years’ rest.
O child of God, become smaller and smaller
to one day disappear within the vastness of God.
Lost paradise
A neglected garden knotted in thorns ...
You lured me from the gate
with a promise of wine; the fragrance
of jasmine, roses and tuberose;
distant blue mountains,
buried veins of ruby and gold,
brightly plumed birds,
greeneries of herbs and spices.
O! I’m in open country now –
let the sun parch, rains soak, winds punish;
my vision is upon that jagged horizon.
No one to blame, not even myself;
no punishment to mete out or receive,
just settling down to the business at hand –
the long trek back
towards that towering
range of love, that high realm
of utter absolution.
O child of God, step beyond your guilt and return
to the lost paradise of your eternal Beloved.
Lofty and forlorn
O Beloved, I’m utterly lost.
Why am I still looking for shortcuts?
I don’t know where I’m going
or where I’ve been,
but You’ve walked out to greet me,
leaving the gate unlatched.
These roads are lofty and forlorn;
the way to Your gate, narrow and winding.
You are my sole confidant.
I quaver when I hear only my voice
echoing among these empty hills.
Where I end up;
what happens along the way –
it’s Your responsibility now.
Perhaps, this is where love begins –
on the side of a mountain –
or accumulates along the way,
as we ascend, my Beloved and I.
O child of God, the path unfolds before you.
Be concerned only where you next plant your foot.
One flame briefly struck
I’m a leaf tumbling in the wind
and people ask, “What are your plans?”
Torn from the Source, people say,
“Put your feet up. Make yourself at home.”
Dead already, they say,
“Your color is good.”
My journey now is wherever
the wind may take me,
not knowing who I am, how I came to be,
where I am going or why.
That makes our meeting
all the more momentous, does it not? –
one flame briefly struck in the pitch dark.
O how lovely, sadly, the fading ember glows!
O child of God, you belong to the Beloved now.
You couldn’t leave Him if you tried.
Rough and tumble
You are a wild stag.
I spied You at the hill’s crest;
followed You down the deer run
into a labyrinth of paths
hidden under fallen leaves. Somehow
I managed to lasso Your neck.
Now the adventure has begun.
I can’t let go of the rope or rein You in,
a rough and tumble journey
but, O, the sights revealed!
I was lost when we met, more lost now --
but … You know where we’re going.
I’ve nothing to lose following You
and everything to gain!
O child of God, you’ve nothing to gain
and everything to lose!
Indescribable
And so it happened one night,
under the cover of a new moon,
an inmate slipped over the wall and was gone.
Imagine his surprise, when a jailer escaped with him!
They traveled together as far as the state line,
the inmate turning east – toward freedom;
the jailer ditching his uniform and rifle,
wandering off in search of lost innocence.
‘Punishment and confinement,’ he declared, ‘no longer
provide my livelihood!’
So saying, nonchalantly he strode naked into the sunset.
O child of God, how long will you persist in this folly –
trying to describe bits and pieces of the Indescribable.
The fruit sublime
Climb out farther on the limb,
the utmost ends,
where the sublime fruit grows,
only the rare ones eat –
assorted birds, extraordinary climbers,
graceful, long-throated beasts.
You’ve been rooted too long in the shadows,
settling for the ordinary.
Climb where the limbs splay and sag
under your weight;
know the body’s full price.
Your soul, fed on such fruit, eventually
will leave this entanglement
and with the birds soar
the farthest reaches of the sky.
O child of God, you’ll transcend this realm,
when you’ve developed a taste for the fruit sublime.
Port of origin
Rejoice in the poetry
your Beloved has given you,
but value, also, His silence –
poetry of a different kind.
In this riotous world,
the great need is for a poem
silently delivered – the placing
of His hand upon your panicked heart.
That poetry is the sound of True Being –
His wordless companionship, side by side
at the ship’s rail, on the ageless voyage
back to your port of origin.
O child of God, the crossing is long and difficult.
Take comfort in the Presence of Meher Baba.
Precarious
Women from the well in perfect balance,
water jars spilling not a drop –
so I place my Beloved above my head,
conducting this world’s affairs.
How precarious it seems,
juggling my faith, here and there,
often weighty and absurd – a pain in the neck, really,
but I never think of dumping it.
I’d rather be wrong about my Beloved,
than right about atheism.
Other religions have snapped under me,
their bones diseased to the marrow,
but the burden of my faith
in the Beloved has lifted me –
at times, my whole being
threatening to fly away.
O child of God, you have no choice in the matter.
The Ancient One has knocked upon your door.
The wedding feast
Don’t save the best wine for last.
I can’t wait that long!
It’s liquid joy. Pass it around!
Liberate us from this sobriety!
The market place wine is tainted –
buying it, I suspect fraud;
giving it away, I’m uncertain
of the quality of my gift.
Where can my Beloved be found?
At the wedding feast,
arduously turning
water into wine. O lover!
Swing an invitation to that affair!
Get drunk enough, you’ll find yourself
at the center of the circle, spinning intimately
in the arms of your Betrothed.
O child of God, purity is the elimination
of the taint of the false self.
Orange robe
Standing on his clothes, Pukar offered
his naked self to the Beloved.
He spent the remainder of his life
studying true nakedness; true surrender.
Last night a monk escaped the tower of piety;
shimmied down the wall on a ladder
made from shreds of his orange robe.
By moonlight, he was last seen naked
among a tangle of briars.
O pilgrim, the currency of your government
is worthless on this side of the border.
If you stop wailing long enough, you’ll discover
the jewels sewn into the lining of your coat.
How long will you persist in this folly –
trying to make sense of this realm
and your position in it?
O child of God, surrender involves the unknown
and unexpected.
Bewilderment is the treasure your Beloved
has bestowed.
Croupiers
I used to ask for purity and absolution.
Now, my plea is, “Take me as I am.”
Rotten wood burns just as hot
in Your furnace as seasoned oak.
People judge this cold exterior.
They can’t know my seared heart.
It’s a secret I keep with my Beloved.
I only mention it now
because I’m no longer responsible
for what’s written in these poems.
I used to punish myself…
to save You the trouble.
It’s no trouble, You assured me.
The scales of karma are self-correcting;
bets are placed, wheels spin,
the croupiers keep perfect tally.
Arrogant, foolish and futile are attempts
to add or take away from the sum total.
O child of God, longing purifies the lover.
The roar of its flames drowns out the world’s calling.
This rare mingling
From a child’s downed back
sprouted wings of loneliness –
propelling me, through a lifetime
of distances,
randomly and erratically, to You.
Your stone brought me down –
wrestling like Jacob with the angel;
feathers dirtied, wine-stained;
collapsed upon the tavern floor.
Fiercely embracing You,
loneliness fled in a wash of tears.
After much doting and fussing –
my Companion whispered,
“Drink deeply this rare mingling of dust and wine.
Drink to honor your loneliness ....
It has led you to the threshold of God.”
O child of God, existence was built upon
the loneliness of the One without a second.
The skin of my teeth
A beggar near the palace gate
hides his cup in his sleeve,
posing as a foreign dignitary;
a sentry keeping out riff-raff;
a scholar engrossed in the holy texts.
He fools no one, of course -- clad in filthy rags.
O Beloved, I can’t bear saying Your name
if it goes no deeper than the skin of my teeth!
Praising You to have my own voice heard;
accumulating a storehouse of pride and fear
while grumbling over the small change
dropped into my cup of love and intimacy.
O child of God, pride is the hypocrisy that keeps you
from receiving the gift of who you really are.
The true Adam
How delicious it must have tasted –
that strawberry in the Buddha’s mouth,
like Eve’s first bite into Adam’s shoulder
as the cock crowed thrice and the world began.
Strings are being plucked
eternally everywhere
but I've an imaginary tune
stuck in my head, off-beat, off-key;
trying to wake up and smell the chai
through the bones of my cell.
How heavy is the burden if God is the One to carry it?
If those shoulders never belonged to Adam in the first place?
How shall we find our way back? ‘Follow the true Adam,’
You whisper, ‘the first Human Being’.
O child of God, you’ve never left the Garden …
or your dear Beloved’s side.
The Caravan
O Beloved, I would join the New Life
but I’d have to give up my complaints!
Leave behind my chronic mistrust!
I can go without food and sleep on stony ground
but pessimism and negativity are comforts
I can’t seem to live without.
Truth is, I’ve chosen a sedentary life
in this crowded borough of well-worn desires,
rather than Your itinerant spirituality.
I haven’t the courage to fill my sails with Your winds,
pull alongside You, journeying headlong
toward abandonment and freedom.
O child of God, missed the Caravan again?
The New Life goes on … even if there is no one to live it.
Nettle tea
The road to hell is paved with good intentions?
I’m hoping it’s the road to Paradise.
Oftentimes, I miss the mark but, more and more,
my intentions are to serve You.
My love-arrows fall short
and stab someone in the foot.
I spread my cape on the ground --
an elegant lady sinks up to her bloomers in mud.
My cup of kindness…often filled with nettle tea.
I’m like a man on a crowded bus --
reaching to help this one, I knock that one’s hat off
and poke my umbrella into someone’s ribs.
Turning to apologize, I wallop the entire third row,
distract the driver and cause a rear-end collision.
O child of God, fondly recall your Beloved’s promise
that God hears only the language of the heart.
Bara-Coaty
Twelvecoats -- like him,
I came to my Beloved in rags.
Gently, You began cutting them from my body.
The Avatar, You say, is the human standard
but, how am I to shape myself after You --
unique in existence, perfect, beyond culpability?
I’ve cut a pattern from Eruch’s cloth.
He served You as You should be served.
If my humanity is altered, by Your grace,
one stitch toward that shape,
what more could this life ask of me?
I, too, will have been of service to the Master.
Like Bara-Coaty, I came to You in rags.
You began showing me
the great necessity of nakedness --
and how to achieve it.
O child of God, the Avatar is beyond attributes
but has often been called the perfect man.
Window of time
O Beloved, You were silent.
Remind us of that
as the intellectuals chase Your words
through the mazes
of God Speaks and Lord Meher,
capturing them like butterflies –
pinned behind glass,
only their bright shells left;
silent as if the man Himself was behind glass
gesturing Truth through that small window of time.
In our dark dreaming, let us not expect words
to awaken us but the Word of His Love,
the Real Word
we have been forever longing to hear.
O child of God, listen with the heart’s ear –
where words and silence both strike to the core.
Smooth-talk
The rent is due --
and all my checks are rubber;
bright red heart pinned to my lapel
for everyone to see; painted-on smile;
juggling my favorite conceits,
all smooth-talk and empty gestures.
Don’t let me die like that recluse
whose mansion was found empty.
Inheritance squandered, he’d quietly sold
over the years, all its furnishings
to pay for taxes
and a fresh coat of paint.
O child of God, abandon every form of asylum;
take to the highway to find your destiny.
The village grogshop
I was bound up in a dream –
You began shaking me from sleep.
My life fell open like the locks
of my Beloved’s hair let down for the night –
braids loosened; pins removed;
gravity and motion brought into play.
The Awakener called my name –
called His Own Name –
and I answered, roused from sleep.
Still groggy, I can barely stand.
Trade me one drunkenness for another,
just to bridge the gap;
drunkenness that unclenches the heart
and bares the truth.
Pare away these swaddling clothes.
I have come of age.
O child of God, saving you from the village grogshop,
your Beloved offers a most rare and exquisite vintage.
Cheap imitation
Onstage, You appeared –
gesturing profundities; dramatic
in Your flowing gown and hair,
the silent center of the whole production.
Curtains fell ... and the actor emerged
from under spirit gum and costume, make-up and wig.
But his bearing and authority had been Yours!
His gestures and movements – stolen
from Your matchless Beauty!
O Beloved, how often does my ego make itself up,
a cheap imitation of Meher Baba,
strutting the stage in Your righteous, humble coat,
finger-pointing, glad-handing, judging others and myself,
while, underneath, a sweating imposter
labors for his own amusement and gratification?
Curtains fall... I’m alone again onstage
with my awkward posturing; my ceaseless hypocrisy.
O child of God, accept the egocentric nature of your being.
Even the righteousness you don is tainted by the false self.
The last excursion
You said hold on to Your damaan
like a child in the marketplace
holds to its mother’s skirt.
I find that when I dawdle,
distracted by the crowd,
enticements in the shop windows
or a shining trifle in the gutter,
You slow Your step to wait for me.
When I run ahead, sure I know the way,
letting go of You in pride and excitement …
or when I tug on Your skirt to direct You
the way I want to go, You keep Your patient,
loving pace and guide me gently toward the goods
we came for and the true road home.
O child of God, hold on to His damaan, until
the last excursion -- when you have come of age.
Toddler
Each morning I say the Prayers –
I have for years – words well worn,
rolling off my tongue slightly sweet – like prasad.
I begin earnestly but, soon my mind
drifts away like a lost kite; like a boy
gazing from his classroom window
or a toddler nodding off in the pew.
Would anyone fault that schoolboy
for preferring the day’s green pleasures?
Or the child off to dreamland
under a preacher’s sonorous tones?
I go easy on myself, saying the words You left,
trying to keep awake, trying to stay focused
on the blackboard at the head of the class.
O child of God, it’s arrogant to consider yourself more
than a toddler playing at the Master’s feet.
Loose change
The taste of love is bitter in my mouth.
I can’t swallow it; I can’t spit it out.
Give me the definition of love --
but don’t use any words.
I’ve been given enough words.
All day long I beg for it
but, at night, when I empty my pouch –
there’s nothing but loose change.
How will this beggarly life ever make me rich?
Show me where to dig to strike the secret vein.
How do I split myself open just right
so that key of Yours might be
inserted into the padlock?
O child of God, in your quest for wealth, ask yourself,
‘Who is the one so impatient and dissatisfied?’
Love is a Lion
O pilgrim, you ask for illumination.
But why give a lantern to a blind man?
Give your hand to the Godman.
Grow accustomed to His gait.
Truth eludes your half-hearted steps.
Dark is the path ahead. Yes, faith is blind --
but, prick up your ears! Lick your thumb!
Follow that lingering scent of purity!
He was silent for a lifetime.
You keep silent now.
Or say the Name which leads to silence,
the Name of the Silent One, Meher Baba.
O child of God, You want to hold love
in your lap like a kitten. But, Love is a Lion.
Eloquent fingers
I came to You, throat aching
from questions and complaint.
You held Your tongue, eloquent fingers
fluttering across the board,
pointing to the silent, ceaseless
repetition of Your name.
Your name now has become the silence
in which all my questions perish;
the answer to every question;
where caution and doubt evaporate;
the silence I struggle to keep
amidst this world’s chaotic roaring.
O child of God, there is only one question …
and only one answer – Meher Baba.
Unspent coins
You unlatched the purse of my heart;
overturned it; beat it across the bottom.
‘It must be empty’, You explained.
‘Can a slave own a heart full of hope?’
Unspent coins of solace and fantasy;
the small change of disappointment and envy.
When I began to surrender these coins –
I discovered them to be counterfeit,
imprinted with an imposter’s face,
(their taste bitter between my teeth).
Empty my purse, Lord;
fill it as You please.
O child of God, hope is spent on false comfort.
In Illusion’s reign, it’s the coin of the realm.
Shoebox
What straightforward thing, square and true,
ever comes from a crooked man in a crooked house?
I’m innocent of only one thing – my attraction to You.
That was Your doing.
I left my apartment for a pack of cigarettes
and never went back.
Rounding the corner I was gone!
Turning corner after corner,
thoroughly bewildered after a few blocks.
I left my valuables in a shoebox on the top shelf,
but I’ve lost the street address.
Randomly knocking on doors while You wait
in the back of a Nash Rambler. Only You hold the key.
O child of God, lost your bearings?
Everywhere you go the Beloved is there.
Tethered
O Meher, Your frail body waited near its end –
attached to this physical realm,
pounding Your thigh, hard
and gnarled as driftwood –
while the rest of Your Being labored
in the Unimaginable Ocean beyond.
These days, I repeat Your name
like a fist pounding my flesh,
keeping me tethered to Your Being.
Otherwise, I’d founder
in this sea of illusion – a bit of driftwood
cast upon some alien shore.
Your name – remembrance – is my lifeline,
my hope, my fetish, my penitence, my vocation.
O child of God, connections at times seem tenuous,
but your Beloved is with you always.
Humble beginnings
According to Scriptures,
Jesus was born in a stable.
The Magi brought Him news
of His true status
and a strategy for survival.
Thus, He rose to His destiny.
O Ancient One, You’ve come again
to lure us from humble beginnings
amid the beasts and fowls,
excrement and straw,
offering strategies; enticements
to draw from our beings
the in-dwelling,
latent Divine Essence.
O child of God, such a long way to go...
but think of how far you’ve come!
Neither drunk nor sober
By Your grace, the wine was poured,
sobriety abandoned,
along with illusions of self-sufficiency.
But that was another time.
I wander these rooms calling Your name,
neither drunk nor sober.
Idle, the muscle of faith atrophies.
Strengthen me, Lord.
Your interior Presence elusive,
grant me a distant nazar.
Discouraged by this daily grind,
perhaps, courage is the only virtue
to which I might aspire --
courage born of faith; faith born of grace.
O child of God, this path is yours alone.
Not even the Beloved can walk it for you.
A jar of candy
In the body, You never slept –
the toddy shop open 24/7.
Not one moment wasted
in a lifetime of servitude,
ordinary objects and circumstances
used to awaken the divinity of others:
a jar of candy, a woven design,
a Jim Reeves tune, beads of rain on an umbrella.
Even now, with ceaseless grace,
Your nimble fingers nudge people awake –
our constant Companion. O pilgrim,
the path is under the soles of your shoes!
No other path than the one
you’ve halted upon to read this poem.
O child of God, carry the Beloved with you.
Each step brings you closer to the goal.
A patched coat
Eruch began reading Your fingers
while still a child in Nagpur.
What he considered play,
later became crucial to God’s work.
A patched coat, a bamboo cage,
tins of dhuni ash,
alabaster figurines,
stones from an old post office –
O pilgrim, give up judgments
of treasure and triviality.
Follow Your Master wherever He leads.
Take what He gives You.
Every moment, bitter or sweet, is prasad.
‘Shall I become Your poet?’ I asked.
‘Become my slave,’ You answered.
‘Then, see what poetry you write!’
O child of God, these scribblings are worthless, and yet –
the welfare of your soul depends upon each word.
A caged Lion
I keep You in my heart ... but,
You rarely escape to my lips
with a kind word,
a smile for a stranger,
the sound of Your holy name
blessing someone who has never heard it.
Or to my hands with sincere applause,
a pat on the back, the caress of a cheek.
I keep You caged in my chest like a Lion,
rarely letting You out,
never coming near
Your jaws of annihilation.
O Beloved, Yours is the love
no heart can hold! Destroy this cage
and every cage I build for You!
Devour me, that I may become…You.
O child of God, you hold the key.
Yet, only Grace swings wide the door.
Inner tallies
Enamored of Your words,
I collected them like coins,
stashed in a hiding place;
a miser, remaining dirt poor,
eking out a living,
until You pointed out …
they’re not smooth and round,
but made of letters
shaped like pickaxes and wheelbarrows,
shovels and mattocks,
sprockets and wheels –
equipment used to unearth
and chip away the false,
haul the buried truth into light of day.
O child of God, the value of words goes deeper
than the glint on their surface or the inner tallies
of brain and eye.
A delicate proposition
You pulled me closer by a thread.
What trouble You took! –
drawing me against the current,
until I arrived, at last, in Your arms.
These days – another kind of separation;
it’s I who tug on the thread,
reeling You into my life,
protecting and preserving
the tenuous connection between Your lover
and his most wondrous Beloved.
O child of God, hold tightly to that thread.
It leads from this temporal world into eternity.
Seclusion Hill
I climb Seclusion Hill,
leaning sharply
against the Pimpalgaon wind,
walk the ridge where You
accomplished Your Manonash work
in that little asbestos hut.
Annihilation of the Mind –
throne and root of all this mischief.
Your winds press me now,
Your voice whispering –
‘Climb the Hill within your chest!
Pare down
from the Mind’s duplicity
to your one True Self.’
O child of God, seclusion offers the solitude
wherein the two might become one.
Hollywood Bowl
You vowed to break Your silence
at the Hollywood Bowl.
Instead, You took a slow boat to China!
Your lovers, in tuxedos and evening gowns,
drenched by the big ship’s wash.
If everything You say is true –
beyond our judgment –
how do we follow such a Truth?
Like the ones who served You in the body –
with vigilance and resignation,
waiting in the wings, ever ready,
primped and attired
for utter defeat and humiliation.
O child of God, listen with your heart’s ear,
acutely aware of your own incapacity to understand.
Such vastness
You’ve taken over my house,
Your picture on every wall!
How do I explain You to the neighbors?
How could such vastness ever fit into my mouth?
Infinite attributes ... no attributes at all.
The more I elaborate, the more obscure You become.
Yet, what else is there to talk about but You?
People speak of love,
but what they really mean is gratification.