Kundalini Splendor

Once a year, Sebastopol, a small city just north of San Francisco, presents "Rumi's Caravan," an evening of recitation and music and feasting. I have heard of this event, but was never able to attend until this year, when my friend Kathy offered to drive to Sebastopol. We had not reckoned on the weather. Emily Dickinson referred to "Wild Nights" in one of her poems, and this was indeed such a night. Kathy, a wonderful driver, wove skillfully through heavy highway traffic and pouring rain and wind for a good hour, and never lost her grip or her nerve.

So--that was our dramatic prologue to Rumi's Caravan. This event is a group presentation by what seems to be the entire town of Sebastopol. The hall was packed. There were some five or six reciters of poetry onstage--all were extremely polished and effective in their delivery. One woman offered a brilliant rendition of a Rumi poem in Farsi, his original language, and it was quite moving to hear the words in Rumi's own tongue. The speakers were accompanied by a beautiful ensemble playing Middle Eastern music. And, in addition, a delicious meal of Middle Eastern food was served at the intermission.

It was truly a magical evening. I felt it demonstrated what poetry can do when it is presented in the right context. Poetry in its origins is a sacred art, meant to be spoken aloud and (often) to the accompaniment of music. To be present on such an occasion is a very different experience from silently reading words on a page. It made me think how it must have been to have been there so long ago when Rumi composed and recited his poems aloud to his followers, likely with some musical accompaniment and perhaps even with a bit of dancing (at least in my phantasy). I suspect that they also fell into a kind of trance state, one in which the words become more than mere syllables, and the sounds move through the body as if some invisible hand were playing an instrument within. Yes, this is real poetry, the magic of its origin, why it was said for centuries before crowds of eager listeners, how it can touch the inmost parts of the soul. And also how it can create community among those present. In this state, poetry is not divorced from feeling, heart not separated from head.

A favorite image of the poets of that time was that of the tavern, the place where followers got "drunk on God." I certainly got high on the offerings of this night, and the next morning was still a bit inebriated from that overflowing joy of the evening before. And so I wrote this poem, still in a state of intoxication:

Morning

Morning.
Alone in the tavern.

Everyone else fled
long ago,
while the stars were
still turning.
Was it hours or days?

The sun up long since,
the animals stirring,
people going out
to market.

Still sipping this
delicate wine,
still feeling that whatever it is
flow in my bones.

How can I ever leave?

Dorothy Walters
February 3, 2007






I felt very blessed to experience this rare event.