Make Yourself an Instrument

New Poetry from Jaya

The following poems come from Jaya’s newest collection, Two Mirrors, available now.

The True Artist

The true artist does not paint pictures,

the true artist lends themselves

to be and become a paintbrush

in the mysterious hand

of life.

The true musician does not play an

instrument,

but allows that self to be an instrument

played by the breathing space that encircles

all things.

In this way, my darling,

there is nothing you need to do,

or seek, or find, or become.

No fireworks, no flashing lights,

no grand awakening to understand

that you are not creative,

you are creation.

In this way, my darling, wisdom

is the opening into that very vastness,

to be contained by that which has no edge,

and there, find there is no centre.

It is to contemplate the Great Mystery

and at the same time,

find the Great Mystery

contemplating you.

Make of Yourself

Make of yourself a bridge

for beings to cross,

to wander, meander,

hurry and scurry

over the creeks of confusion.

Make of yourself a vessel

for the living, for the dead,

for the in-between

to speak to, to sail with,

to onboard and navigate

the wide waters of the immensity.

Make of yourself an instrument,

musical, tuned, aged and worn in,

for sweet melodies to dance inside your

belly,

for hands to tickle you,

and for your laughter to be a song that

makes the whole universe smile.

My friend, make of yourself a home

where all is befriended,

where weary sea legs can hang to dry,

where tired faces can surrender their attire,

and the exhausted souls of this world

can find respite.

The Thirsty

You say that you

are the mover and doer

of the actions in your life,

yet, just as the leg

lifts to walk,

who commands it?

The eyes see what is

in front of them.

Who are you to take

the credit?

If a musician strums an instrument,

is it the musician that makes the music

or is it the instrument?

The breath touches you,

and you say I am alive!

I say,

listen closer

to this music,

for only the infinite moves the infinite,

and just as the heavenly music plays,

I am but a vessel for wine

to be poured into the mouths

of the thirsty.