The Gallery, the Doors, the Garden

by Wanda Waterman

(a meditation on the 99 names of Allah)

 

The gallery has endless halls,

Jewelled all along with windows into lesser worlds.

 

And in between the paintings are the doors;

The doors lead to the garden,

And there above each door is an inscription:

Generous, says one, opening to autumn’s banquet.

Forgiving, says another, and opens to a circle of men dancing, arm-in-arm.

Yet another says Gentle Companion, and there I see myself,

A child, alone and ever comforted.

 

I can’t forget that you— the one I love—

Made this! And this, and this, and this, and this!

 

Every picture, sculpture, hanging, carving,

The flowers of the guild, the workshop,

The heart-piercing sweetness of all that wears your print,

Your smudge, your handsome evidence,

All speak of you.

I can’t forget; your signs are everywhere—

(The one I love made this!)

The young fern’s curlicue,

The slender aspen arching in the wind,

The grape leaf’s emerald palm, the dragonfly’s piquant dissolve of light,

The lilac dress of the morning sky,

The mountains set in indigo at dusk like ebony in lapis . . .

 

And I go on in heavy chains,

Not breathing, empty, and the last one standing.

And what if I could reach you—

Heart thrill-tossed— to find an ocean storm

What if you send me off,

My eyes like starving beggars

Panting dogs?

I go on, stumbling, blind, and lost.

 

And then I stop and turn,

And there you are.

Nothing between us— sheer love, intimate and bare.

 

And I remind myself— you accept those who give thanks to you,

And thus the goodness of this world comes flooding in and I know it is so good

To be allowed to touch these roses as they pass me by in time

While my soul’s core, at rest,

Reclines with you forever.

 

Wanda Waterman is a Canadian poet, blogger, spoken word artist and digital nomad. She grew up in Nova Scotia, spent time in Tunisia, and currently calls Montreal home. Read more of her work on www.themindfulbard.com.