Salim Gold
To the Poets
A poet should be raw, so Passion chafes
And hurts him to philosophies as black
As ink. To be as definite as Death is
The foolishness of prophets, says Rumi.
Love is always squander, not a hoarding;
One wallows in the squalor, swallows wine
And grapes, as the poet takes blood as ink.
A poet must make Beauty weep with joy.
Press lemons into ink or medicine;
Transmute stone into gold: That’s what Love does.
No king or jailor can lock down these whims.
A poet knows this, just as lovers do,
Creeping into beds to build their temples.
Poets’ milk is ink; the heart’s milk is Love.
Salim (Pure) Gold!
Wonderful Salim! Beautiful images roll into one another as the lines unfold:’We shine best when we melt most’