Instead, I am referring to "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran, a late-19th century/early-20th century Lebanese-American, poet, artist, and writer. If you haven't read his poems, I can only highly recommend them to you by pointing you here. You may read my poems first, then his, or vice-versa, but I hope you get a chance to read all of them. Without further ado, here are two poems inspired by his works.
On
Absence
-inspired by “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran
And as his boat pulled out of the harbor mouth
the crowd called out: and what of absence?
What of the days we shall live with you
walking through our memories, instead of our streets?
And silence followed him.
The man, after all, was gone,
already into the ocean where voices drown.
-inspired by “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran
And as his boat pulled out of the harbor mouth
the crowd called out: and what of absence?
What of the days we shall live with you
walking through our memories, instead of our streets?
And silence followed him.
The man, after all, was gone,
already into the ocean where voices drown.
Like waves the silence tossed back and forth
as each one in the crowd looked each other in the eye
and
dispersed, alone on their paths home,
without a
prophet to speak at each footstep.
Yet even as they pave their way,
the word absence repeats its hollow knell
in the chambers of their minds.
The carpenter, sanding new cabinets, hears
if absence chaffs at you,
Yet even as they pave their way,
the word absence repeats its hollow knell
in the chambers of their minds.
The carpenter, sanding new cabinets, hears
if absence chaffs at you,
let it
smooth your affections to those still around you
until
you open easy
and soft to the touch.
The farmer plowing his rows of wheat remembers
I am absent from my family for the day,
and then, returning, I am absent from the field.
The grocer, bagging bright oranges, hears
absence is shared, juice-filled,
The farmer plowing his rows of wheat remembers
I am absent from my family for the day,
and then, returning, I am absent from the field.
The grocer, bagging bright oranges, hears
absence is shared, juice-filled,
sour when we taste it on our lips and
sweet
because it reaches a cavity far within.
When a child begins to go away,
first for hours, then for nights,
the parents think of the unruffled beds
perhaps absence is good when it leads
to learning and understanding,
when the child is unharmed and smiling,
though we each pay a price for knowledge
and if we never let them go, as we must,
then we shall grow, but not to our height,
and love shall dig into us, but not touch our depths.
Soon, years pass and many others go the way of the man.
But as they enter the dreams of the people
at sudden moments, their images appearing,
bringing revelations and new words,
they wake up with a song balanced on the lip of their heart,
between who they’ve known
and who they have become,
because it reaches a cavity far within.
When a child begins to go away,
first for hours, then for nights,
the parents think of the unruffled beds
perhaps absence is good when it leads
to learning and understanding,
when the child is unharmed and smiling,
though we each pay a price for knowledge
and if we never let them go, as we must,
then we shall grow, but not to our height,
and love shall dig into us, but not touch our depths.
Soon, years pass and many others go the way of the man.
But as they enter the dreams of the people
at sudden moments, their images appearing,
bringing revelations and new words,
they wake up with a song balanced on the lip of their heart,
between who they’ve known
and who they have become,
as if the man, long gone, had answered:
do you miss the hands that first helped you walk,
or the sunlight in your eyes
after
it pries you from sleep?
Yea, you may
miss them,
but now you know
to take others by the hand
and now you
know the importance of waking.
Indeed, these days, walking and waking,
the crowd does not look back to the harbor,
but at each other longer, closer, kindlier,
as if the prophet had never left.
On Decisions
Adrian sat down like a student,
hands clasped, body slanted forward,
and asked me – How do I make decisions?
I knew he wanted a one-track answer,
the kind that chugged the first trains west,
but I said:
The train is coming
and you are at the lever.
Take a moment. Stare
down each fork,
pull out maps that
have been drawn
full of color,
landmarks, topography,
and know your
destination.
The train is coming
and there are many switches,
but few that truly
change your course.
Left or right, forward
or straight,
I cannot tell you the
diverse ways to move forward,
but know your
destination.
Keep your eye on a
distant peak,
or the shadow of a peak,
for your decision will
be a mountain,
steadfast and
unbreakable.
Yet your decision will
also be river,
pulling you onwards,
cutting through stone,
when filled with the
water of your passion.
And if there are no
rains, no inspiration forthcoming,
dig trenches for the
water to go.
Prepare a path for
your passion,
lest it overflow,
spill out, and is lost.
To dig is your
decision,
though it pulls out
your sweat
and to pull the lever
or not
a choice you must
learn to live with.
But if your decision
is to learn,
then you will feel the
freshness of the rain
course through you
and your years will
pass by you
as the scenery from a
train
moving swiftly and
surely
until you arrive where
you planned,
that beautiful,
satisfying place at the end of the line
where only one track
remains.
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