Strange anything at all exists.
What is, is!
but I can’t find a curtain to pull
to let me see behind “is”
Wittgenstein snorts like an impatient horse,
“Haven’t you ever heard of getting snared in a language game?”
This is the form fashionable in the West
of what in Indo-Persian lore once was called a “tilism” *
a magical landscape that can pass for real and hold you
for a very long time, even your whole life.
A substantial part of the beam of my attention,
is always held in wonder that a pen can be, that I am,
that a green shirt can be, that light and robins can be…
I’m dazed by what other people take for granted.
I’m a child or a fool or both mixed up together.
The wonder of water and palm trees and the blue of sky
And dark and stars and the ever unrolling scroll of dreams.
I admit it: I’ve been lost all my life and this
is where I’ve lived and this is who I’ve been
An undeclared mystic
*See the “Adventures of Amir Hamza”