|
Poems and Song Lyrics
From the upcoming CD by Timothy Young and Dalyce Elliott
Perfect Harmony
Also as a fine art letter-press chapbook published by
Red Dragonfly Press
PERFECT HARMONY by Ibn El Arabi version by Timothy
Young
I
I had just
kissed the Kaaba
when a group
of beautiful women
rushed toward
me, ritually veiled
and ready to
perform the rounds.
They uncovered
their faces
which shone as
if they were many suns.
Because the
soul can be lost by a single glance
they warned me,
“Don’t get any ideas.”
My heart
adapts to lovers
and to the
forms of love.
It is a
pasture for gazelles,
an abbey for
monks and a temple for idols.
It is the
tablets of the Torah
and the leaves
of the Koran.
And for those
who wish to circle it,
my heart
becomes the Kaaba.
Wherever its
caravan may go
Love is my
religion
and my faith. I
believe
in the religion
of Love.
As they
prepared to leave,
marble statues
and full moons
were packed
into ornate cases
and loaded onto
their camels.
The women
promised me
that they would
return.
But a
girl’s promise—
Isn’t
that an illusion?
One, with
small fingers
and painted red
nails, waved goodbye.
She let me see
her tears.
Now, my
heart’s burning. My ego’s shattered.
I called to
them as they rode away,
“I’m
a refugee, now, because of you.
Share your
wealth of beauty
with me. It’s divine!”
“Don’t
use my passion against me.
I’m
groveling in gutter dust
for you. Look! This is true Love.
Don’t
lead me on.”
II
I tried to
follow their footprints
through the
night,
through the
deepest darkness,
and I never
stopped calling out.
I had no
guide,
no tracker to
help me.
Only an
occasional breath
of perfume kept
me going.
I told the
wind, “Go.
Catch up to
them
in the dense
forest
where they live
in the shadows.
Tell them I
send words of peace.
Tell them a
brother has fallen in distress
because he is
separated
from those
nearest his heart.”
Is there a
road which will take me
to that
beautiful woman
with the
complexion of milky radiance?
Is there a
guide who will show me her tracks?
I’ve
become a such a drunkard.
Is there a
place in the sand dune hollows
where I can
pitch my tent so I might nap
under the Arak
Palms?*
Hey, Troubador and Driver of camels!
If you come to Hajir stop your beasts.
Save me! Or at least take this
message
to the edge of
the Holy Woods.
There, by
their purple tents, say,
“Greetings
from the lover
who yearns for
you.
He’s a
slave of desire.”
Ask them,
“Does the girl with the supple body,
the one who
gives us the brilliance
of the sun as
soon as she smiles,
does she live
in Halba?
III
Oh My! How brilliant
are her mouth’s
fresh pearls.
A new day
begins
with each of
her smiles.
When she takes
down her hair
night
appears—black, thick, and impenetrable.
Yet, when she
blushes, her cheeks
set the red
dawn glowing again.
Little wind,
slight breath of wind,
tell the
antelope at Nejd
that I will
keep my commitment,
and not give
up.
Little wind,
tell the noble girl
to meet me in
the deep woods
on Saturday,
at dawn
on the red
hills of Nejd.
Tell her to
cross the foothills,
to follow the
right side of the brook
and continue in
the direction
of the lonely
landmark.
If it’s true that she feels for
me
the same
obsessive desire
that I feel
for her
then
we’ll meet in secret.
In the
sweltering heat of noon
in her small
tent,
we’ll
completely fulfill
our promises.
We will reveal
the passion
we feel for
each other,
as well as the
harshness
and pains of
ecstasy.
Are these
merely jumbled fantasies
or portentous
dreams?
Or are they
everyday thoughts
on which my
happiness rests?
Gardens
everywhere would allow me
to pluck their
roses, if,
as some say,
it’s actually possible
to get what one
desires.
IV
When we said
goodbye,
you would have
thought
we were a
double letter,
two esses in union.
Even if we are
made up
of a double
nature,
our glances
see only
one unified
being.
Because
I’m absent from my love
desire kills my
soul.
Meeting her
doesn’t cure me.
Desire
persists in her absence and presence.
Meeting her
has produced in me
something I
hadn’t imagined.
The cure is as
bad as the illness.
This is
ecstasy.
I see a being
whose beauty
increases every
time I meet her.
I cannot escape this ecstasy.
Its beauty
intensifies to the point
of perfect
harmony.
Ibn El-Arabi
YOUR
LOVER’S BREATH IN YOUR EAR by Hafiz
Timothy
Young version from James Moirer’s 1823
translation in Hajji Baba of Ispahan
Joy comes like a lover’s breath in
your ear,
and it feels
good, like a fondle beneath apple blossoms.
Why delay that joy, just to become a
better person?
Hurry up, Love! Bring a bottle of wine to the
orchard.
Each hour of joy is a treasure,
but when a man tries to schedule joy
into a 10 o’clock appointment,
he’s a
fool and only pain arrives.
Our lives don’t hang by a thread.
A chain of suffering also keeps us
dangling.
Why deny it and worry?
It’s enough to know misery exists.
Those crazy twins, Love and Wine,
come from the
same source.
Are we to blame? Should we feel guilty
when they come
without restraint?
Why should I ask forgiveness if my mind
is clear and my
heart in the right place?
How can you, a slick-talking,
guilt dealer
say I’ve sinned?
Hermits drink from wild springs.
Good poets enjoy champagne from a bowl,
And until he’s judged by God
above,
Hafiz will keep drinking, singing and
going to the orchard.
THE SPECIAL LOVE Ibn el-Arabi T.Y.
version
As a full moon appears from the night
so her face
appears amid tresses.
From sorrow comes the sense of her,
eyes shedding tears on a cheek,
like the black
narcissus weeping onto a rose.
Mere beautiful women are silenced,
so overwhelming
is her fairness.
Even to think of her harms her subtlety.
Thought is too coarse for knowing her,
for her
fleeting wonder eludes thinking.
If this is so, how can such a clumsy
organ
as the eye
correctly see her?
She’s beyond the rainbow of
seeing.
Cease these attempts. Such trying is futile.
Yet if someone seeking her lowers his
aspirations
to feel ordinary love, there are always
others
who continue through the night
across the sea,
with eyes longing for her.
Snow Has Fallen
by Young and Yata
Released May 1, 2008
All words and music by Timothy Young
and Yata Peinovich
© 2008
Audio Sample Now :http://cdbaby.com/cd/youngandyata
OUTSIDE LAS VEGAS
after Kabir
Why do you, my twin, have the
jitters?
If the Holy One cares for squirmy
otters,
dung-dipped cowbirds, and locusts
who clatter in the trees,
if He held you while we
were still in the womb
why wouldn’t He hold you now?
How could we have ended up
in a ’69 Rambler, living outside Las Vegas?
We’ve made too many friends
who sit all night at the slots,
waiting to perform in casino shows.
We’ve left the Holy One for
poker chips
on an empty
green table.
MUSICIAN
MARRIED
Today the musician married,
the long score plays and replays,
toward that
moment his wife knows far
better than he.
Wave after wave of music has courted her,
motion flowing
out of his fingers.
And she rustled, as leafs do.
Yet only in silence, so seemingly empty,
is there
fullness. They know it,
in their
souls, their bodies and kisses.
Only stillness can carry their marriage boat.
Only silence can generate music.
Only a musician who finds it, can give his music
to her
No matter her busyness,
no matter his attention,
she feeds
him stillness and he lifts her into his world.
Nothing else needs to be proved.
The song its flurries and rests,
its brightness and arbors, will generate greatness
in the two,
and
whichever third is coming.
SWEETNESS
AND CONTENTMENT
Outside
the window
peony
buds
are
about to burst
into
red bowls
of
fragrance.
I
hear wrens whistling
in
the soft rain.
I
hear water spill
as
my love showers
in
the dark bath.
My
heart fills
with
sweetness
and
contentment.
I'm
quiet, and
near
peace
with
the gray rain,
the
dark trees,
and our iridescent life.
Forgive
me.
Tonight,
ugly chrysanthemums
of smoke
spewed
from the bug-eyed,
flare-nosed
gargoyle
in my heart.
Forgive me.
PILGRIMAGE
1
It’s still dark on the road,
after forty years of working.
What do I have? Curiosity, fear?
Camping gear and a big car?
Let me
call this thing Emptiness.
2
I’m alone with the mosquitoes
at the Mississippi headwater,
in the parking lot called
Cemetery Circle
My car won’t start, the battery’s
dead.
Tomorrow seems as thick as a
black spruce
swamp
3
At the Deerwood Motel an old woman smoker
in a too-tight bra and lipstick job,
flips on “No Vacancy” as I arrive.
All the rooms are empty-- except one with a
trucker .
I smell Old
Spice in
the lobby.
4
The big river slides beneath Brainerd’s
bridge,
where meth-head painters
sign their names.
They tattoo pentagrams on the pylons,
pick their scabs and give up on all choice,
They’re following that long,
long road
like ghosts
5
The ground is trembling from nighttime
explosions
at Fort
Ripley’s
artillery range
I didn’t go to Nam, but Roger
and Steve and Dennis came back
and blew themselves away one
way or
another
6
Pig’s Eye is a wasteland, but it’s not
dead.
Prisons hunker up and down this River.
I’m not really a pilgrim
like Parsifal or Quixote
but there’s a rosary of sorrow
twisting in
my head.
7
Old paddlefish feel the river with their lips.
They never see more than the dark current.
Their scales hum the world’s oldest songs.
Their skeletons wash up on the sands
Eight vultures wobble
upon
the updraft.
8
The Qawwali singers of
the birds
are chanting in the woods.
Who are you, you wild song birds
whistling above poison ivy?
Why are you singing those sweet
songs for me?
MISSISSIPPI RIVER CHANT
M
ISS ISS
IPP I (3#)
Come down the river
aboard the Houseboat of Hope
Follow the blood through the homeless heart
Chorus:
Follow
the River
Follow
the River to the Sea
Follow
the River
M ISS ISS IPP I (3#)
Drift between the Great White Bluffs
Slide beside large beaver lodges
In and out of lily pad lagoons
Chorus:
Follow the River past the years of abuse
Follow the River through the tears and racism
Follow the River into the flow of Forgiveness
Chorus:
BEST
BLUES
The best blues come from old men,
men like Skillet Walker.
Bent-over piano man
in a tux among the bikers
His piano has a linoleum sound
but his sidekicks solid on guitar
Chorus:
Skillet's voice is worn out
like that Persian rug
I hear moaning through the frayed
ends
weeping on the bare threads
The old man pulls the blues
from deep in the earth
His licks are twinkling
like old sea fossils
asleep in a limestone bed.
There's no traffic in this small town
so I stand in the middle of the street
The moon's a bone over the road.
Tonight no dogs will sleep.
The best blues come from old men,
men like Skillet Walker.
His body leans into a crooked song,
there’s dust on his road to love.
Blues seep out the open screen doors
of this rivertown Star
Café
Chorus:
JULY STORM
I never kissed her cranberried lips,
I only listened to the bees
guarding her heart.
She said to me—
How long must I play for you?
Shake off your shyness.
I said—
Your smile is lightning
across the sky of my heart.
She said—
Your hesitation is a storm
ready to
rain on my zinnia garden.
JANUARY STORM
I carry
hay to the white-eyed,
wind-loco
horses
as they
jolt from the corral
to the
feeding shed.
Their
hooves skid
on the
gray ice
and their
rumps shiver
with
uncertainty.
The
temperature’s dropping
and the
wind feels
like many
small razors
skipping
across my face.
With so
little snow,
dust blows
off the bean fields,
coats the
frozen ice patch,
and
dirties all my windows.
It’s
so cold
even
angels and demons
leave me
alone.
I’m
on my own.
GLASS BRICK
I was dreaming.
I was so happy.
I knew your love
would hold me forever.
Now I can’t remember you.
My mind is a glass brick.
Light and shades enter,
but not your face.
My heart knows you,
but it’s pierced
by my forgetfulness
and I can’t stop aching for you.
MY HEART IS YOUR HOME
If you
drive a John Deere
if your
teeth are sore
if you can’t
afford your health care
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME,
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME,
If
you’re losing your house
‘cause
you’re back with the Guard
and
you’re sleeping in the sand with the fleas.
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME,
If your veterans benefits have fallen far short
if your
nightmares have started to come back
If
you’re walking a strike line, if you’re pension’s at
stake
if
they’re breaking their promises again
If you live beneath a bridge,
if a box
protects you from the rain
if you have
to beg for a one or a five.
If you
love someone
who
doesn’t fit their mold
if you
have to hide your love for your safety
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME
If Santa
has your number
and you
didn’t get a present
if the
snow covers your toys,
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME,
If
someone touched you wrongly,
if you
weep through the night
if your
life is a river of sadness
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME,
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME,
If brown
clouds are rising and the sun’s fading too fast
If the
water’s dark and angry
If your
losing your work, your children are crying
If your
home is no longer your castle
If you
don’t own your soul
If
you’re looking for a way out
If
you’re ready to hold and be held
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME,
YOUR
HEART IS MY HOME,
MY HEART
IS YOURHOME,
YOUR HEART
IS MY HOME,
MY HEART
IS YOUR HOME,
THE CALL
Oh, my weary way, weave through the dreary day,
Oh, my weary way.
What if
you thought you were called
to help
others, and everyone
you help
begins to suffer more?
What if
your own life spins
into chaos
and difficulty
and is
more painful than
before
you listened to the call,
the call
you heard
after you
stopped drinking,
after you
tore away the steel doors
around
your heart, when you heard
the simple and whispered words--Be Kind.
LOOK FOR LOVE
Because I’m a man
with plenty of scars, I can say,
"Don't go looking for a wound.
Look for love."
Look for love
You'll be wounded anyway.
When wounded, don’t hide.
Look for love
Look for love
Even a lonely robin
with his quivering tongue
sings through the night.
He calls for love.
He looks for love
He doesn't sleep,
he looks for love
and he’s heard
THIS FIRE
Of the thousands of kisses
you’ve accepted
from me,
of the thousands
you’ve given
there was one
like cool water
poured into
my boiling cowboy
coffee.
My
soul’s no longer in turmoil
The frothing quit,
tumbling grounds settled
color returned and in my heart
the dark coffee grew
strong, clear, rich, warm, calm
I love
this fire I am,
because
it lights you up,
and me
and I live
more easily
with your
cloudy scent.
I’ve
worked my nose hard,
and
inhaled
the cedar
bark’
yellow,
resin-drop
fragrance.
Your
sweetness is worth the effort
When put
to your stickiness,
my desire
melts you,
and you
rise
into
small bowls inside me,
where you meant to be.
MY BLACK GUITAR
I want to play
my black guitar
to a God who listens.
He hides in a hammock
that’s slung from the stars
and I can’t find the moon in the sky.
I want to play
my black guitar
to a God who listens
My faith falters
It really happens
and I can’t wake my wife to my pain.
Swans are sleeping in the shallow water
near freezing Alma
A lonesome hound howl
down in the coulee
and the songbirds have long flown south.
I want to play
my black guitar
to a God who listens
I’m a stick in cold ashes,
my heart’s a gray river,
and the fire’s gone out in my soul.
I want to play
my black guitar
to a God who listens
I want to play
my black guitar,
but it’s broken.
SNOW HAS
FALLEN
An inch or two of snow has fallen.
Summer’s earth-born beauties are
covered.
Among the nettle stalks darkness
decays the dead leaves.
Isn’t snow like death?
No one will ever see my prickly face
again.
No one, maybe our curious hound,
will hear me rustling, struggling
with my concerns on the other side.
Yet, because of the snow,
because of seeds and saints
and accident survivors, I sense that,
somehow, the sun’s warmth will return.
I watch the chickadees flit
from stem to dead stem.
They pick at weed seeds
and sing against the cold.
A chickadee warrior
is the bravest of all.
He defends his kin
against any large thing.
He is
steadfast—courageous—
and in the worst winter he won’t
flee.
Gray, white and black, he’s
beauty
with only three tones of his
color.
Joyous—he sings and dances when
the slightest streak of dawn cracks
open.
He’s social and he chirps while
snowflakes
drop, slowly, beautifully, and easily.
Even in a blizzard he finds a refuge.
He tucks himself in and waits
for what is impossible to defy,
to pass.
I’ve watched the gray day
arrive out of black pre-dawn.
Snow begins again. The lawn’s
white.
The sky’s white, and if it
weren’t for
the gray trees and chickadees,
I wouldn’t know where earth
stops
and sky begins.
This Week’s Poem
YOUR LOVER’S BREATH IN YOUR EAR
by Hafiz
Timothy
Young version
adapted
to the contemporary from James Moirer’s
1823 translation in Hajji Baba of Ispahan
Joy comes like a lover’s breath in your ear,
and it feels good—fondling
under apple trees.
Why delay joy just to become a better person?
Hurry up, Love! Bring bottle of wine to the orchard!
Each hour of joy is a treasure,
but when someone schedules joy
to a ten o’clock appointment
he’s a fool, and only regret arrives.
Our lives don’t hang by a thread.
A chain of suffering also keeps us dangling.
Why deny it?
Why worry?
It’s enough to know that misery exists.
Those crazy twins, Love and Wine,
come from the same source.
Are we to blame? Should we feel guilty
when they come without restraint?
Why ask forgiveness,
if my mind is clear and my heart,
right?
How can you, a slick-talking guilt dealer,
say that I’ve sinned?
Hermits drink from wild springs.
Poets enjoy champagne from a bowl.
Until he’s judged by God above, Hafiz will
keep drinking, keep singing and keep
going to the orchard.
____________
The great contemporary poet, Thomas R. Smith, taught
me the form of the Cinquain. It is a purely American form, to
utilize the wonder of American English. It was developed by the Imagist
poet, Adelaide Crapsey, almost one hundred years
ago. The form uses two
syllables in the first line, then four, then six, then eight, and resolving with the last line having
two syllables.
I have enjoyed combining individual cinquains
as stanzas to form longer poems.
CINQUAINS ON A
BLOOMINGTON STRIP MALL’S TENANTS
Massage,
Suntastic Tans,
United Liquors, The
Affordable-Best Caterers,
Barbers,
Mister
Movies, Fresh and
Natural Foods, China
Jade Restaurant; and
then Caskets
& More.
************************************************************************************************
JOY SOUP, the big band composition, premiered in Jazz at Lincoln Center, New York, on May 17, 2006 by the Jazz Band Classic of the New York Youth Jazz
Symphony. The jazz composer, Daniel Cavanagh, used this poem by Timothy Young, as the inspiration for his
award-winning composition.
There are nights when a veil drops
and I see that we’re swimming
in a vast tureen of Joy
Soup.
Our mumbled songs, our hoarse shouts
our gurgling, rambling chants
simmer over Glen’s
flaming guitar.
Our words are fruit grease
wiggling to the surface. Robert’s poems
are honeydews floating in
the air.
With a cherry in his voice David sings
to a goddess, who smacks her lips
at the aroma of our
cooking souls.
Light a match. My poems are just kindling for the
stove.
Let my words be incense thrown on the
charcoal.
Let me be a
sugar cube dropped into the tea.
|
