Here are some truly gorgeous bits of poetry from Rumi, the Sufi mystic who lived oh, about 800 years ago (born Sept 30, 1207!); in the angst-ridden, loving-the-boys mood I've been in of late, these poems just spoke to me today of Sam and/or Sam and Dean's bond, sigh; so I wanted to share them with you peeps.
Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Walk out like somebody born into color.
Do it now.
You're covered with thick cloud.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you've died.
Your old life was a frantic running
The speechless full moon comes out now.
(To me this speaks of Sam needing to 'die' not only to the person he was in season 1 as he was still immature then and has seen and experienced so much since, but to die as well to the darkness now inside him and to in a sense be reborn to his true, innately GOOD nature, found inside the stillness of his true soul.)
The Diver's Clothes Lying Empty
You're sitting here with us, but you're also out walking
in a field at dawn. You are yourself
the animal we hunt when you come with us on the hunt.
You're in your body like a plant is solid in the ground,
yet you're wind. You're the diver's clothes
lying empty on the beach. You are the fish.
In the ocean are many bright strands
and many dark strands like veins that are seen
when a wing is lifted up.
Your hidden self is blood in those, those veins
that are lute strings that make ocean music,
not the sad edge of surf, but the sound of no shore.
(This one speaks to me superficially of Sam now being, in Dean's words, something to be hunted almost, but on a deeper level it speaks of the intense depths and complexities of Sam's spirit and how he is not just the blood--ie, the DARKNESS--within those exposed veins but the strands, the veins, themselves, mysterious and beautiful and limitless as the ocean. Other hunters want to see him as merely the dark edge of the surf, to confine him into a box of being purely evil now; but I think Dean still sees within the tormented figure of his brother that infinite, sweet sound of pure ocean waves rushing with the sound of no shore, free and unbound by darkness and in a way eternal.)
Who sees inside from outside?
Who finds hundreds of mysteries
even where minds are deranged?
See through his eyes what he sees.
Who then is looking out from his eyes?
(Sam feels villified and misunderstood as the demon blood slowly takes hold of him; he only wants Dean to understand, but who can truly see from behind Sam's tortured gaze? And as he grows darker in his soul, who really IS looking out now from his eyes?)
You have said what you are.
I am what I am.
Your actions in my head,
my head here in my hands
with something circling inside.
I have no name
for what circles
(To me this speaks of Sam tired of Dean's black-or-white diatribes against his powers, Sam thinking back over Dean's selling his soul, Sam dropping his head so wearily into his massive hands as he tries to make sense of the shattered pieces of his bond with his brother and of how both have changed since Dean's deal. And what is it that circles so perfectly inside Sam's head? That could be so many things, from his growing powers to his stubborn sense that he IS making the right choices to the still-strong love he has for his brother.)
SAM AND DEAN
(and yes, these could definitely be construed as wincesty, ha, unless you want to make them just really really spiritually close! I just find the following selections to be gorgeous and I DO delve into wincest sometimes so for me these are just gorgeous affirmations of their bond.)
We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute
of eternity. We are pain
and what cures pain, both. We are
the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
I want to hold you close like a lute,
so we can cry out with loving.
You would rather throw stones at a mirror?
I am your mirror, and here are your stones.
When I remember your love,
I weep, and when I hear people
talking of you,
something in my chest,
where nothing much happens now,
moves as in sleep.
All our lives we've looked
into each other's faces.
That was the case today, too.
How do we keep our love-secret?
We speak from brow to brow
and hear with our eyes.
We are the night ocean filled
with glints of light. We are the space
between the fish and the moon,
while we sit here together.
We have this way of talking, and we have another.
Apart from what we wish, and what we fear may happen,
we are alive with other life, as clear stones
take form in the mountain.
IN THE ARC OF YOUR MALLET
Don't go anywhere without me.
Let nothing happen in the sky apart from me,
or on the ground, in this world or that world,
without my being in its happening.
Vision, see nothing I don't see.
Language, say nothing.
The way the night knows itself with the moon,
be that with me. Be the rose
nearest to the thorn that I am.
I want to feel myself in you when you taste food,
in the arc of your mallet when you work,
when you visit friends, when you go
up on the roof by yourself at night.
There's nothing worse than to walk out along the street
without you. I don't know where I'm going.
You're the road and the knower of roads,
more than maps, more than love.
A secret turning in us
makes the universe turn.
Head unaware of feet,
and feet head. Neither cares.
They keep turning.
I am so small I can barely be seen.
How can this great love be inside me?
Something opens our wings. Something
makes boredom and hurt disappear.
Someone fills the cup in front of us.
We taste only sacredness.
Dance, when you're broken open.
Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you're perfectly free.