Daily Archives: January 30, 2014

Oh Dearest Creation in All of Your Essence, Matiox Chawe
Oh Dear Elementals and Great Thunderbeings Who Represent
The Air, The Clouds, The Wind
Oh Dear PastPresentFuture Ancestors
I/We ask you in all humbleness in your assistance for the Blessed Rain to

Ulan Ulan Bumalik Ka Na  (Rain Rain Come Back)
Ulan Ulan Kailangan Kita (Rain Rain I Need You)
Ulan Ulan Kailangan Ka Namin (Rain Rain We Need You)

I/We first ask for your forgiveness in whatever ways we have helped to
generate this imbalance in our climate, on our earth
We ask in humbleness to help us in our own healing within ourselves -- the
deep blocks, the deep destruction and many other manifestations of our
disconnection from you Pachamama, From You Creation is All of Your Essence
And we ask in the process of healing ourselves- that deep cry, the deep
sorrow from within be released
And we ask for the deep, healing, refreshing cry to manifest without-- in
y/our tears, in our shared tears without-- as the rain.

Ulan Ulan Bumalik Ka Na  (Rain Rain Come Back)
Ulan Ulan Kailangan Kita (Rain Rain I Need You)
Ulan Ulan Kailangan Ka Namin (Rain Rain We Need You)

And as we let all the negative energy go-- may it be released and
transmute as you The Rain

We ask you Ulan/Rain, to come back to us, to come back to purify us, to
cleanse us, to heal us, to bless us, to quench us, to nourish us.

We ask all the elementals, our ancestors, our great allies in all
relations for your guidance and assistance in whatever other causes that
may be preventing for Great Rain to come back.  We recognize and honor
this great cycle and we have missed you Great Rain.  We apologize again
for any ways we have taken you, Great Rain, Great Water for granted.
I/We honor you as I/we honor our own bodies of water.

And So It Be

Matiox Chawe.
Don’t believe our outlines, forget them
and begin from your own words.
As if you are the first to write poetry
or the last poet.


If you read our work, let it not be an extension of our airs,
but to correct our errs
in the book of agony.


Don’t ask anyone: Who am I?
You know who your mother is.
As for your father, be your own.


Truth is white, write over it
with a crow’s ink.
Truth is black, write over it
with a mirage’s light.


If you want to duel with a falcon
soar with the falcon.


If you fall in love with a woman,
be the one, not she,
who desires his end.


Life is less alive than we think but we don’t think
of the matter too much lest we hurt emotions’ health.


If you ponder a rose for too long
you won’t budge in a storm.


You are like me, but my abyss is clear.
And you have roads whose secrets never end.
They descend and ascend, descend and ascend.


You might call the end of youth
the maturity of talent
or wisdom. No doubt, it is wisdom,
the wisdom of a cool non-lyric.


One thousand birds in the hand
don’t equal one bird that wears a tree.


A poem in a difficult time
is beautiful flowers in a cemetery.


Example is not easy to attain
so be yourself and other than yourself
behind the borders of echo.


Ardor has an expiration date with extended range.
So fill up with fervor for your heart’s sake,
follow it before you reach your path.


Don’t tell the beloved, you are I
and I am you, say
the opposite of that: we are two guests
of an excess, fugitive cloud.


Deviate, with all your might, deviate from the rule.


Don’t place two stars in one utterance
and place the marginal next to the essential
to complete the rising rapture.


Don’t believe the accuracy of our instructions.
Believe only the caravan’s trace.


A moral is as a bullet in its poet’s heart
a deadly wisdom.
Be strong as a bull when you’re angry
weak as an almond blossom
when you love, and nothing, nothing
when you serenade yourself in a closed room.


The road is long like an ancient poet’s night:
plains and hills, rivers and valleys.
Walk according to your dream’s measure: either a lily
follows you or the gallows.
Your tasks are not what worry me about you.
I worry about you from those who dance
over their children’s graves,
and from the hidden cameras
in the singers’ navels.
You won’t disappoint me,
if you distance yourself from others, and from me.
What doesn’t resemble me is more beautiful.


From now on, your only guardian is a neglected future.


Don’t think, when you melt in sorrow
like candle tears, of who will see you
or follow your intuition’s light.
Think of yourself: is this all of myself?


The poem is always incomplete, the butterflies make it whole.


No advice in love. It’s experience.
No advice in poetry. It’s talent.


And last but not least, Salaam.

Translated By Fady Joudah