Roots and Sky

 

 

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You are the drum,

deep, resonant, grounding.

 

You anchor me

into the beat

with your resounding presence.

 

I can sing

into the world

my heart’s melody

when your careful rhythms

envelop me.

 

When you root me

the way

you do,

my love,

I am free to reach

for the sky.

Your Voice

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I hear you talking in another room.
I know immediately that it is you.
I am an instrument tuned
to the rough melody of your voice;
the low masculine register, the gruff, rhythmic intonation.

Just hearing the sound of you speaking
makes my limbs sing
with receptivity,
my body tremble with excitement.

I am in wonder
at the lyrical contrasts:
man and woman,
hardness and softness,
action and passivity,
self and other;
the delicious tension
of our meeting.

Come here, my love.
Play me your spoken words
like a lullaby
and whisper me to bed,
make your touch deep and resonant,
like the fingering of complex chords upon my skin.
Play me in your skillful hands
until I release an ecstatic orchestra of sounds,
breathy music from the realm of pleasure,
loud and full,
until I crescendo into the waiting silence of sleep,
ravished by our duet.

Hamza Al Din

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Nothing in this world is as amazing as something that is neither clear not unclear.

I was contained
within the hypnotic rhythm of the desert
the way cloudy wine of the Sufi
floats within a clay vessel.
My heart danced
and inside it the Nile was a whisper of majestic hypnotic sound,
a winding river
meandering on a musical journey
through mysterious Time.

Beat of the tar,
shimmering curtains of reverberating strings, thickly woven skeins of melody
that I channeled through my fingers as they plucked oud.
Materializing complex tapestries of ancient sound,
evoking magic
out of thin desert air.

I can tell you
that there was a richness to this life.
It was a richness
like the sheen upon the surface
of a pot of Turkish coffee.
It was the richness of date syrup;
how sweet it was!
It was a quality of light,
like the delicate dawn some mornings
of my childhood,
the sun’s rays spread in gentle waves over the desert, billowing,
like my mother’s skirts
in the breeze.
And behind the whistling play of hot wind I heard within my own Nubian ears a twisting symphony
of flutes.

Between each note,
silence speaks.
Music quivering upon the depths of the quiet.
My gentle song was always soft whispers,
intimations
of what lay beyond
in invisibility.

Like the fragrance of jasmine,
so subtle, yet so sweetly aromatic.

Reach beyond the bounds of yourself, the thin curtain, into the depths…
and there you will find me, your own ancestor,
archivist of the human heart,
a greater library than ever thrived in Alexandria,
where the spark of knowledge
emerges out of the void
and sacredness lives beyond simple light
and sound.

Baul

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I am:
Baul.
I am
mad for God,
crazy for journeying
through the world
within,
singing my inner song
to the wind and the dirt grooves of the road,
to the stubbly grass and ancient watching trees,
to the blossoming flowers that grow
along the way.
A wild string of
heartfelt words,
each note
a cry
from the depths.
please return to me.
I am seeking the
“moner manush.”
The man
of my very own
heart.
So I will walk the path that knows no bounds.
I will keep playing my ektara,
plucking the strings,
desperately,
pouring out my soul
in one ephemeral moment
of delicious touch.
I will wander like a minstrel
through the faraway lands
of my own consciousness.
she has learned what she wanted to know,
but only she understands.