I sit at my study table
The fire warming the silence of this rainy afternoon
A slender flame leaps out of the place of shadows,
Making me profess that which may not go in vain.
I lift the pen with my right hand
And bring the diary of my life so far towards me.
I ask the flame of knowledge burning before my eyes
Where do I go from here … what is my vocation?
Answer it gave me naught
But its bright words burnt my paper thrice;
Upon the words I wrote it bade them
Leap from slumber and enter within.
Every writer of truth understands
His writings come from that one single fire
That blemishes the red wounds of a sage’s flesh for us;
Every time he lifts his pen
To pour out his hearts yearnings onto the papyrus,
His duty towards mankind is sealed in it.
A writer’s vocation lies within the multitude of souls that can hear;
That taste the sound of the lover of the saints upon his pen nib.
Who yearns by his words for the betterment of mankind
And for the panacea required to soothe that never answered question
within his bleeding chest … who am I, what am I.
To such a writer as this, the vocation is not easy;
It pricks him at every step and stings him at every sentence.
For he does not speak of his own self but
From the flame that leaps out from the core of his blood
And the divinity of His love.
For he speaks the truth which can never be heard,
Of what no one speaks and yet wants to know.
He writes of the misery of death
The simplicity of the pure;
The witness of the Christ and the duty of one’s birth;
Of the rights of men and women….of the blind and of those who cannot see
Of young dying souls and of souls dying young.
Of what is truth in the death of millions and the fuss about external beauty;
Of the abortion of infants and the death of students;
For the flame that burns within the redness of existence the flame that burns up eternity.
These are the words of my vocation I pen down from my study of sacred scripture.
The flame ceases to come towards me.
O that the night never comes
That I may ponder upon the banishment of my lot
To the realm of the green vine
Which no gardener comes to prune;
To the occupation of the material realm
Cast out by the ruby flame.
But … vocation surpasses the winner
And the bride has at last met her groom;
For no man can resist … the flame that resides within.
Copyright © 2013 by Fiza Pathan
The writer and his muse
THE WRITER AND HIS MUSE
“I see you’ve come again to haunt my night and rob me of my sleep. Who
are you, anyway?”
“I am child to your parents and parent to your child. I am your best
friend – sometimes I think, your only friend.”
“What do you want of me?”
“To talk. To speak of times past and future. They are, after all, the
same.”
“But, what if I don’t choose to listen.”
“There is no choice but to listen.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Hear me with your eyes, touch me with your voice, know me with your
soul.”
“Why me?”
“You were chosen.”
“By you?”
“We were both chosen.”
“By whom?”
“That’s not for me to say.”
“Do you know?”
“What is knowing?”
“I don’t know. Tell me.”
“I cannot. It is something you must discover for yourself.”
“But where do I look?”
“You don’t have to look.”
“Then how am I supposed to find this “knowing” you talk about.”
“It will find you when you are ready.”
“Will I know it when it comes to me?”
“If you so choose.”
“And, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Write.”
“Write what?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“If it doesn’t matter, why should I do it?”
“Because you have to.”
“Yes, I have to.”
“We agree, then?”
“Yes, we agree. But why does there have to be such pain?”
“Giving birth has always been painful.”
“Giving birth?”
“Yes. When something new comes into the world, it must struggle to be born.”
“Why?”
“Because it must value its existence. If there is no price, there is no value.”
“Must I value it as well?”
“When you come to know it, you will come to value it as well.”
“What shall I look for? What form will it take?”
“What shape or form is an idea?”
“It’s without shape – without form.”
“Yet is it not ideas which give shape and form to the world as a glass
gives shape and form to water?”
“When you put it that way….”
“I must go now.”
“No, wait. I have more questions.”
19/01/2006
Milt
writer & muse continued
“Next time.”
“When will you come again?”
“When you call me.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You don’t have to know. I will know and I will come.”
“Don’t leave yet. I can’t sleep now. Keep me company.”
“You don’t need me any longer tonight.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Write, just write.”
Found it a long tine ago on the Web
It is an awesome piece Sunil…….touched my heart to the core 🙂 🙂