A Peach of Yin and Yang – an Advaita sequence from “Poems of Eclipse”



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                        24 June 99


In a sense that   
each engenders the others' seed,   
the polarities are not fixed.   

In a sense that  
a curve is an arc of a hidden sphere,   
polarity is never fifty fifty,   

more like   
seventy thirty.   

In a sense that   
Light and Dark may manifest   
at any point of growth,   

some lives have wide lenses,   
a capacity for the tapestry;   
and some lives can only see at any point   
   a fraction,    
fragmenting wholeness;  and in   
frustration mode, must fumble,   
try to fix.  

With innocence   
the littlest point of light in all the dark   
is the peach.   

There are no localised opposites.   
You cannot fix the flow.   

The attempt to fix right now, the flow   
is a trapped nerve later on.   

I cannot fix life   
any more than I can   
   fix a river.   

Problem solving, therefore   
is a mug's game on a seesaw plank.   
   It spills.

(with gratitude to W.Liquorman)







Getting the wrong end of the stick   
he saw the snail's frail horn withdraw   
from intimate confrontation   

and felt an implacable hostility   
to him personally   

A door appears shut   
to one who tries hard   
to batter it down.   

There is no   
door at all.  It only shows   
what we try to get through.   

Softly, openly   
I know nothing of you,   
being your space.   

Let it be a muddle.   
Let it sink into itself.   
Let it be tenderly obvious   
and obscure.





INDEPENDENCE DAY – A Modern Neo-Advaita Fable    24 June 1999

A brave and tall hero from from the battle   
  propped up bars, until one day   
suddenly his bottle   
  got taken away.   

Oh, Californian tragic tale!   
  Un-propped, and unresisting heroism,   
into a pit of darkness one day fell   
  his pendulum. Orgasmatic egoism   
poured out, both sides, when thwarted.   
  The bottom of the bottle upturned   
fell down. The liquor unsupported   
  is A Anonymous unlearned.   

A giant takes baby steps around this place   
like a beanstalk which has lost its stake.   
Within the boldly sprouting carapace   
is the Sage's empty lake.

'Tis vulnerable to be a has-been, even   
have Jack climb your leafy stalk   
looking for his cat that went to heaven.   
Cut down so far, 'tis strange to walk.   

And yet, the long careful construct   
  to butcher the Californian hero -   
whodunnit, the evidence self destruct,   
  was a thriller a minute, the plot had nothing to show.

The Sage unlearned, found out his learned friends.   
  His hanging glide, to sure destruction bound, 
crashed on the web world wide, and there remains   
  out of depth, an inch or two above ground.   

His pillar now - "no others*" to uphold -
  is a wayward tender plant.   
Talking this non-resistant stuff, the bold      
  stalk itself stalks ... the occupant.

*Advaita-speak:  "there are no others"     



  MORSELS     26 June 1999

  Rose petals turn now   
brown and brittle around the edge   
  of the phenomenon.



            27 June 1999


On a rattling Bombay omnibus   
shunting from Chowpatty Beach   
to Peddar Road, where baking beggars squat, 
the passenger stops.   

It is clear (though still in place)   
that my NAME   
is a veil upon my nose,   

which I cannot remove,   
nor from IT, remove myself.   

Only the sun   
cooke smell of the bus   
and beggars can   

stop the world   
and in my absence   
for a moment,   
bus runs on.   

To be, and to be NOT the passenger   
is where my naming stopped;   
and the in and out of this occurring   
is a key to beauty.



       PONDERING PROJECTIONS :  CLAY FEET     28 June 1999

It is a wonderful thing to discover   
my guru's clay feet walking along in life   

and to ponder projections of perfection that I place   
in my limited way, on his way of living.   

Those teaching truth, are supposed to appear   
like expectant mothers of conformity,   

but they don't.   
They are what they are.   

A controversial deformity   
such as eight mis-fittings in the womb,   
which poor old Ashravakra endured,   

cannot by one jot or tittle   
sway the herd.



             DYING IN THE BAVARIAN ALPS     1 July 1999

When the guru in the rosy cloud is gone   
real peaks appear, rain fresh.

There is a huge   
four-dimensional ripe peach   
of yin and yang.   

The scroll unwinds, mile upon mile   
paints an Alpine amphitheatre:  everything   
that was, and is to be, is here.   

When I step back a way to see,   
both past and future glaciate as now   
upon that mountain.

The face in bright cumulo-nimbus shredding   
paper thin, transforms;   
rabbit in a pink and golden meadow   
burrows home. 

Over every rock of living and loving I climbed   
since infancy, was splashed the difficult obscuration   
of that face in the cloud commanding.   

Rocks re-emerge   
rain washed, bright from the passing   
of inappropriate projections   
of the Beloved sacred muse.   

I think the underlying nature of the change   
is more profound than anything I can say,   
because the Guru was "I want"   
and this I see, is fading. 

Life is - with no   
figurehead to limit it -    
un-personed, a fruity wonder.   

Life is the being of mountains, valleys and rivers.   
My name however tired, does not get in the way.   
My name is a visiting card in the thunderstorm   
soaked right through   
and dying.   Dying.  Dying.  Dying.   

My feet that stumble in the flood   
downhill with tumbling clouds of rain,   
have trodden grape, and in earth's blood   
are drenched with ebony stain   
and dying.  Dying. Dying.   

My bones are melting to the ground,   
to worms, metatarsal   
grace of feet and limbs the dainty step,   
and every one of us in this manner is dead,   
  unveiled skeletally the same,   
and bare mountain veins above the vale   
review indestructible being   
and dying.  Dying. Dying.   

This alone is sure;  that I and you and the stranger   
over the road all, all are bones, and wrapped around   
with one bright cloth of sky, our dying,   
the wine drunk, the end of our tiny lives, of time;   

and birds   
and bare bones of mountains over the vale   
review indestructible being.



            THE WEATHER      1 July 1999

My depression, tiredness   
jails. Yet, my GOLD   
isn't wanting "something else",   
isn't judging it "not good",   

but as if I   
newly arrived in the body   
with no preconceptions   
how this should feel.   

The world-earth is heavy   
or light-foot with   
various weathers.



            SORROWING      1 July 1999

There is no escape   
from my recurring sadness.   
It is the same pole, I suppose,   
  as my joy.   

As Self   
is traditionally said to be   
joy without cause   

can it be, that uncaused   
in like manner   
is sorrow?   

There is no definable reason   
for my state tonight   
apart from her own tendency   
  to groan.

I carry tendencies   
to judge and criticise and   
  cut my cloth.   

Hallo.  I love you   
un-personed, this state of being.   
I love you because   
I AM and discover you.   

You are eye in the dark;   
because I do not know why.   
A baby might grizzle so ... 

grey driftwood   
on a soaring beach of crying gulls,   
wood saturated with salt   
and bleached with sun.



            AND SHARING SORROWING     1 July 1999

The world is a legion of untapped sorrows.   
The air in this room vibrates the Armageddon   
homeless in war zones, and the stricken.   
The air is thick with the universal kind.   

Thus a sad film on the water grows.   
The raft attaches to itself, like a sail,   
some I-thoughts of more local kind.   

My friend Mrs B   
would dance and sing   
and weep her sadness.   
She knows and has it too:   
the humanness.   

Some of the Master's messengers   
don't actually say anything wrong   
but they don't get it right either.   

It is kids' stuff,   
far out bliss, in-speak.



            CATS PLAY      2 July 1999

My problems are an   
for the beloved.   

Cat's paws: mouse play.   
The cat is loving   
the mouse it gently, deftly kills.



            ONLY FOR THE TIME OF MEANING     3 July 1999

I am struck, this afternoon   
by an imponderable - life   
following no formality   
yet precise,   
recognises no penal codes   
  nor morality,   
for these are manufactured flotsam   
needful for their time   
  of meaning.   

Human values require some guilt   
to bring to order;   
but God   
is more often opposed to the   
social capital.   

Comes then no label   
but an act from God willing   
the pregnant void.

A secret glimpse   
through ordinary things   
into the limitless   
stops my voice.



         ABOUT JOHN       4 July 1999

He tells the truth.   
He gives no teaching   
but a way of being.   

His acupunctural point   
upon the meridian discharges Being   
turning tables in the anteroom.   

His razor edge softly opens   
a named and aching contour   
from the nameless   
peace be still.   

This is a perilous   
yet fluid position   
of the Master.   

Ever increasing numbers gather,   
adore, and project upon him   
the moving hunk.   

Because he isn't there,   
I'm not either.   

In the deep and   
inner sense, settle for less,   
he says,  
not more.




Masters upset standard notions.   
They tend to break the world;   
break up concepts and ideals   
that form around them.   

The Rose of many teachers,   
many messengers,   
over-blooms its petals.   

There is no place for me to be but home.   
Home has no script.   
The teaching flits around   
and through it like birds.   

Home is a magic   
mountain being revealed   
by melting clouds.




My adventure invites fellow travellers.  I am a poet, an artist and a seer.  I welcome conversation among the PHILO SOFIA, the lovers of wisdom.

This blog is  a vehicle to promote my published work – The Sacred India Tarot (with Rohit Arya, Yogi Impressions Books) and The Dreamer in the Dream – a collection of short stories (0 Books) – along with many other creations in house.  

I write, illustrate, design and print my books.   Watch this space.


* Advaita-speak —  “there are no others”

1 thought on “A Peach of Yin and Yang – an Advaita sequence from “Poems of Eclipse”

  1. Pingback: Poems of Eclipse for Ramesh & Wayne | janeadamsart

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