Al Arabi plumbing the depths of the lowest of the low seals

Even so is the Cosmos preserved so long as the Perfect Man remains in it.
۱- Did the Perfect Man sleep with the lights off?

… Do you not see that when he shall cease to be present in it?
۲- How to see if the lights are off. How?

… and when the seal [on the treasury] of the lower world is broken, none of what the Reality preserved will endure and all of it will depart
۳- Departing is such sweet sorrow, esp. when the lower world seal is broken.

… each part thereof becoming reunited with every other part, [after which] the whole will be transferred to the Final Abode where Man the Perfect will be the seal forever.
۴- If forever is longer than the Final stretch, will the Abode abide by such elasticity?

Quotations (in bold) from Ibn Arabi‘s Bezel’s of Wisdom

The Protagonists

Days Of Yore

19th September marked the 50th anniversary of Mummy and AJ’s wedding.

The year was 1964. A young good-looking man, on his way to work, would pass by a certain balcony on Marriott Road. Unbeknownst to him, a pair of shapely eyes would wait to catch glimpses.

No words nor glances were ever exchanged.

So imagine her surprise when his people approached her people to ask for her hand for him. She saw no reason to refuse.

They were engaged in July, ’64…..

pic59-wedding…….married in September.



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Lesser known mystics of South Asia – III

A repost from way back when (Oct. 2013)…

Gathering just-a-bit-o moss

Abu Tukh Al Malanga

Abu Tukh claimed royal lineage from the Pharoah Hatshepsut. His most famous quote was to ‘do unto yourself as you wish yourself to want to do to unto the other.’ He was a perplexed soul, and his perplexity touched souls far and wide. There were not many in the tiny town of Raiwind in mid-thirteenth century who would (or could) lay claim to the Hatshepsut’s lineage, and that was unfortunate since a bit of extra lineaging wouldn’t have done Hatshepsut an itty bit of harm.

It is reputed that Al Malanga wanted to leave behind some sort of a miracle as legacy. Nothing moon shattering, just something to keep the conversation warm when camps of weary travelers settled down in the evening and exchanged tales of ribaldry and zest. He would have liked that. But this offshoot of Hatshepsut’s progeny was to be denied this legacy, and…

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Tao as Lorde

When I speak of the Tao, I know not
but vaguely I

speak of Lorde       the fruit of my wis-
dom is twenty

                  inches too far from soul, twenty
                  years too large, twenty
                  something, perhaps more maybe
                  much less
When I speak of the Tao, I speak of Lorde

for it is through poetry that we give name to those ideas which are — until the poem — nameless and formless, about to be birthed, but already felt

— Audre Lorde, “Poetry is not a luxury”

V I entrances

I turn towards
the ocean
      It seeks my bark

I am the blitz
that carved
      The ocean – in tears

I rowed allowing
for turbulence
      We split hairs in dismay

I tipped
summer to breathe
      Winter caved in – screamed

I am the sol-
vent, the fuse
      Suppose it were true – truest

where is the limb of my poem?

where is the limb of my poem? stare enough at its shadow, and it will pierce through the glue that makes it all song — what kills me not makes me wronger – this ancient war-call, siren-song of augmented unreals — a long silence weathers the cull — the bread is worn with silver — the tryst is harm is old — where is the arm that sips along with kindred stars — what kills me is wont not to hurt-no-more this subliminal effluent bubbling up to guard the darling of ease and calculated arrow of death — a song is littled off into postulate an etch is broken it is told – what kills me is wont not to hurt-no-more this subliminal effluent bubbling up to guard the darling of ease and calculated arrow of death – artful & fully deceived –

purse mouth, purse king

Purse mouth, purse king, pure
deed of the

totally ravenous     rage heart
rage sing, rage

sun of the morning need     purse
shoe, purse

heart, sure song of an unwilled
sage     sage

who? sage mouth, says I of the
hunger raw –

SHEPHERD’S-PURSE by Mei Yao-Ch’en (1002-1060)

People call shepherd’s-purse food of poverty,
think it’s shameful. But I call it a rare treat.

I’ve watched families gather shepherd’s-purse.
They start at National Gate and head south:

carrying lean iron knives, blades rust-eaten,
frost-battered baskets of azure-green bamboo,

they go plodding out, deep into frozen land,
and scrape around there for roots and leaves.

Hands so raw they can’t feed themselves, they
live in hunger, and you’re ashamed to eat it?

Dining on juicy lamb and red-tailed fish, fine
fragrant meats—that, that’s what poverty is.