u/EchoFernRhosyn

The cup was never full, yet there was enough.

The road wandered through dust and wind, yet it carried me onward.

I asked for a miracle and was given another morning. I asked for a sign and was given bread, water, friendship, and song.

The things I longed for appeared in ordinary clothing, and because I was looking toward the horizon, I nearly failed to recognize them.

The Beloved was not hidden in heaven. The Beloved was hidden in the day itself.

Praise the Giver.

Praise the gift.

Walk on.

Hello everyone.

I'm not Muslim, but I've had an interest in Islam for many years. In college I took three semesters of Quranic Arabic, and for a time I studied with the local Imam in my community.

One thing I remember is that he would often warn me to stay away from the Sufis. Naturally, that only made me more curious.

Over the years I found myself drawn to Sufi poetry, especially Yunus Emre, Rumi, and Hafiz. There's a tenderness, longing, and love in their writing that speaks to me in a way few other spiritual traditions do. I often return to these poems when I need to quiet my mind or remember that love is larger than the boundaries we create.

My own background is a mix of Christianity, mysticism, and a lifelong love of spiritual poetry, and reading Sufi poets has enriched that journey tremendously.

I'm curious how others here first encountered Sufi poetry. Was there a particular poet, teacher, or poem that opened the door for you?

Peace and love to all.

Hi. I'm a 45 year old nonbinary writer living in the New Mexico desert.

My hobbies include writing stories, listening to Ween, watching Degrassi, feeding cats, drinking too much coffee, and surviving increasingly improbable life situations.

Looking for friends who enjoy weird conversations and aren't scared off by people who have actually lived a little.

Bonus points if you like music, books, recovery, spirituality, or telling me about the strange rabbit holes you're currently obsessed with.

Tell me your favorite album and why it's worth listening to.

Please be over 30.

The universe attempted coherence again today.

Fortunately it failed.

A woman I will never see again hugged me for reasons neither of us adequately documented.

A gas station accidentally donated pizza to the ongoing experiment.

Rain crossed the mountains without obtaining permits.

Somewhere behind me an institution continued believing it understood the human condition.

This is adorable.

Meanwhile

ghosts escaped into paperback form,

the dead remained inconsiderately influential,

and tomorrow continued arriving despite repeated requests that it knock first.

I no longer possess a theory.

The evidence has become contaminated.

My friends keep telling me this is a bad idea. Coincidentally, none of them are Boognish.

I live in the middle of nowhere in a very rural area. Today I desperately needed to get to the next town over because the town I live in doesn't have anywhere to buy pet food and other supplies I needed.

Getting a delivery out here is rare. Getting a ride is even rarer.

When my Uber finally showed up, I noticed the driver had he/they pronouns listed. As a nonbinary person living in a place where I almost never meet other queer people, it was one of those small moments that unexpectedly made my day.

We chatted a bit during the ride. Nothing dramatic happened. It was just nice to be reminded that we're out here, even in the most random corners of the world.

I left a tip I didn't have budgeted, a compliment, and 5 stars.

I hope they are having a great day!

I made something strange.

If it means nothing, it's a game.

If it means something, it's a ritual.

I want a poem so dangerous the FBI keeps it in a velvet box next to the severed finger of God.

I want a poem that smells like sex and rain and the inside of a church at midnight, a poem that crawls into strangers’ beds and whispers my name until they wake up thirsty.

I want language that foams at the mouth.

A stanza that makes married women text old lovers. A line that sends every ex I ever had running barefoot through traffic, holding flowers stolen from funerals.

I want a poem that makes the moon feel replaceable.

I want metaphors so beautiful they count as controlled substances. I want critics biting chunks from the furniture. I want professors openly weeping in parking lots. I want someone in Nebraska to suddenly understand why they have always been lonely.

I want a poem that causes minor power outages.

A poem that makes the president resign because for one unbearable second they finally feel every human feeling at once.

I want cats. Hundreds of cats. An impossible biblical weather of cats. Orange cats. Three legged cats. Ancient alleyway prophets. Cats appearing at my door like I am the soft apocalypse.

I want them climbing my body like I am sacred architecture. I want their little engines vibrating against my ribs until my heart finally remembers it was designed to be held.

And when the poem is over I want absolute silence.

The kind that happens after a bomb or an orgasm or a confession that changes the temperature of the earth forever.