The moment doubt dies poetry is born. Doubt creates philosophy — trust creates poetry.
Philosophy has to be discarded. It is all rubbish: it only burdens the head. It does not give wings to the heart, and to know reality and to live reality wings are needed.
One has to be capable of flying against the whole gravitation of the earth; that’s what poetry is.
Poetry means something upon which gravitation does not work. Poetry means something miraculous. Poetry means something which should not happen in reality but still happens — the unbelievable.
Poetry is not the logical approach towards reality.
And you have suffered from logic enough. It is time to get rid of that old disease. Enough is enough.
It has wounded you enough, and the time has come to be healed and to be whole again.
By “poetry” I don’t mean literal poetry, because to me if someone lives lovingly his whole life becomes poetry. Whatsoever he does is poetry; he cannot do otherwise.
Poetry is a totally different orientation from logic, just the opposite of the rational mind: it is the intuitive mind, the feminine in you.
The logical mind moves step by step to a conclusion. It is very cautious, very careful; hence its achievement is always trivial. It cannot take quantum leaps; it moves very gradually. It crawls, creeps; its attainment is not much. It is so cautious that it remains confined to the world of security.
It never risks — and life is risking. And the more you risk, the more you live, the more alive you are; the less you risk, the less alive you are. And a person who never risks has not lived at all or has lived in vain.
Sannyas is a risk.
But only through risk is poetry born. Poetry is the flower of risk. It blooms only through risk.
Risk means sacrificing the past for something unknown, for which no guarantee can be given.
I cannot give you any guarantee, I cannot promise you anything.
All that I can say is this: that all that you have known up to now will be taken away, all that you have been up to now will be destroyed, that I am going to be a fire to you, but only out of that fire… the purity.
OSHO
