At Ellora, they started with a stone hillside;
carved out everything that wasn’t a temple.
A poem should be like that –
from a vast vocabulary, an eliminating
of words unconnected to one another
until the secret combination is found,
unlocking glimpses of Oneness, the inter-connection.
Words that tremble and hum
when placed together
belong to the realm of the Infinite.
The truth of a poem is in its transparency –
columns of words, sturdy as stone ... clear as glass.
O Lord, take my life. Make a poem from it –
chip away the awkward, the unrelated, the oblique,
the dissonant and obscure. Leave me ...
sturdy, connected, crucial and transparent.
O child of God, the Masters say Truth is not
an accumulation of wisdom but a paring away of the false.
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