Poems of Eclipse for Ramesh & Wayne

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TO RAMESH

I do not have to go anywhere else but here
to hold your hand, smile into your laughing
elder dove-hawk eyes

and thank you
for helping my understanding
rock steady ;  whatever rock may roll,
nothing can alter the rock itself.

Jane loves mountains and rivers.
Mountains and rivers
move within the people
and break the outline of her heart.

Who is jane, indeed –
the projectionist – the
indispensibly inefface-able
Tarot card in her long floating dress ?

No matter.
The rock is that
as well as the mountains and rivers.

Companionship when the outline
which separates us, breaks
is indescribable.

Companionship
when there are no persons is indescribable.

The companion ship of being
is indescribable.

The companionship of no earth, no trees,
no people and nothing to think or see or be
in any direction, is indescribable

naked of sight
and containing everything.

Such is tantra, web of the universe,
the sparkle of its mountains and rivers

11 July 1999

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A high tide at Alet in Brittany

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      WHEN YESHUA WENT UP THE HILL TO PRAY

Thunder draws the bow
across a barometric current.
It shouts.

Thanksgiving trembles in
my string when she is tuned,
like light from primrose spilling
bright stars in a grassy bank,
dazzles the camera,  a blur.

Wild flowers are light sources.
They answer the sun.
They pulse.

Bluebells in a photo,  fade
to a hint of amethyst,
too bright.

See how we connect
through what we
do not see.

When YESHUA went up the hill to pray,
leaving his lambs asleep,
he rested from the multitude.

In the soul’s deepest rest,
as Eckhart says,

the prayer which is silence,
makes the primrose shine.

It shines because
there’s nothing to stop it shining.
And nobody.

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Daisies through shadow

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       RIGHT ANGLE CROSSING OF NODAL RIVERS

Certain types of stress
may be removed for good,
but what remains is variable

                                … (as Swami Liquorman would say).

.

For instance :  a relative integration
into the herd of sheep,
their concerns with wool ;

For instance :  release from the drama –
to clarity, peace,
but the gears still turn my wheel ;

For instance :  One who is free
recognises another,
unobtrusively.

A line of destiny shivers,
at crossroads. ‘Rivers’
renouncing the known
may in one another, drown.

Conception’s silence is the GAP
where streams of current
in one another’s wave, fragment
to an interference that doesn’t add up.

From the gap,  as death exhumes,
a flowing mystery resumes.
What is your and my cross
of life ?   Awareness !

.

Shock plummets through
the shivering ship
reaction, flinching, from the nails,
strata sagging, breaking timbers,

as before sleep
sudden stumblings on the rock,
fog of nerve-ends jangling bells.

The secret of soul shock
is to open and soften.

Let it be.  Let the alarm be not
walled up or out.

As Robert in Arizona used to say,
it is preordained while you lie asleep on the gears.
Awakening has no preview, nothing, no way.
No-one knows where the car might go.   Who cares ?

7 July 1999

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         STONE IN THE RIVER BED

If God removes a rock or obstacle
upraising the wave of standing-over,
the understanding coming strong, itself
rolls the rat that sat in the river, away.

So, what happens ?   Why !
The whole standing-over lot falls down
to the bed of the river, melts as
the ever it was, the river, the river, the river.

Dislodging a stone from the bed of a river
is a wondering weight to feel.
My language is not flowery
but applied, precision tool.

The words dropped in the gap are not mine.
They come.
Then I polish the pebble,
inward casting, better to see.

The corner stone I yesterday heaved, and could not place,
and wanted to cast away,
today shifts into true, the treasure
exposed,  the Stone.

See how the water rolls away, and on ?
See water, stone, stone, water, wall of stone,
fluid, all of stone, cold, hand in water, solid current
presses my hand
just like stone, which it is,
flowing, chuckling, splashing, racing
river, mountain, stone, sky, space.

Hand in current, ‘cross the river flowing
imagines a solid surface, pushing it.
My hand, now rivering rivulet,
the current itself is showing.

The standing-over wave resounds
high over the stone,
a curve of space and time and planets

into the hidden presence of stone,
tickle the stone,

guddle it like the sides of a fish,
tease

gently from bed if the time has come,
to chuckle and roll.
The current does that, not I.

Should I move before its time, one stone, there are others;
the nature of the river bed
is stones.

7 July 1999

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Ramesh at Home

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            FISH

My standing-over sounds and choirs,
and cries out DOH RE ME
(from the depth we cry to Thee …)

but a smoothly flowing
river, you’ll note, is quiet.

As I wrote, a stone became
a fish.

No sound uplifts the hidden matter,
it swims,

receiving opening halls
of flow, upstream or down,
or across the stream, does not
resist.

Like a bird in the breeze, the
fish is aqua-dynamic, may come to the surface, you see,
hello little fish, then gone again.

I don’t want to guddle my
fish or flip it onto the bank
for its natural element
is my teacher ;

but
open the root,
where I am right now.

My pipeline into earth
is not behind closed doors.

Ah yes !

Ah yes !

Got you ! … but let it go again.
Never seize or trap the fish or it will die
and be your belly-concept only,

in all your dreams
a flavour far too strong for life.

.

I think that’s
enough for now.

7 July 1999

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ramesh at home

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            EASE OF JUST BEING SHIFTED

If I drop a rock into a pool
shakti rises, turns
it into a fish.

If a Fool patiently all day waits,
the Moon arises to the bait.

Weary, by noon’s end,
felt my dowsing around with fish
is foolish.

The leading part of my masque,
disapproving the task,
scolds my lethargy – not
a kind friend.

Yet as
the bed where it lay, levels,
the Stone itself unravels:

a hollow that held
soft silt embedded,
the sky has seen.

I hope
that if my follying sits a-fishing all day still,

a High lunar Priestess will
my following entice, beyond the fringe capacity
of my Foolish cap-&-bell capability
to “cope”.

Here in the living-room, meanwhile
my unsuspecting spouse
serenely contemplates within our house
his intelligent Companion –

quicksilver Knight by sleight
of holy Bishop, the Rook to pit
computerized ‘pon black and white – a Master pantheon,
in shades of courtly grey to dance , the winsome imp beguile.

My rocky river stone brought to rest
gently today, is only shifted
to an ease of being, solidity just
coming alive, watery bed sun-bright uplifted.

8 July 1999

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Fool & Priestess Tarot

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DOG DAYS AND FISH-HOOKS

When the pores close up
and rain pours upon unforgiving stone,
my tell-a-vision is left to herd
the leaking word.

Unable not to spin the top,
gone is all I saw so clear
to a blur of mere
foolishness, mine alone.

In the piglet’s trough where they feed,
how stupid indeed
my words: “Oh! now there’s peace and light
on wave’s crest, here in sight !”

All my boast can see
is troughs at sea.

The way got blocked again with stuff half seen
and over-workings on the screen.

Let it be –
does the cog which clogs the wheel
care what consciousness
does or does not do today?

If it is honest, it cannot miss.
In service to ME, it is coffined,
In service to Being, it is defined:
a limitless clogged-up-ness.

The way of the American Al Anon hero
paved with sonorous  “Oh
Mother fucks and Holy Shits”,
with jovial laughter roars
giving scant ear to choice bits
of sentiment that blister at the oars.

Salt of the alky tank, his sage sobriety
helped to reduce his popularity.
The people went off feeling edified upon the wagon, but
a little sad.

Cloud with brightness shining round or through the edge
is my depression with tiny tasks of clothes and teeth,
and a simple life’s a weary hedge, toiling at my archival debt.
I hate hot weather, I boil and sweat.

Lonely ?   Can’t stop chattering ?   monkey moans
feeling bored, tired, fidgety, drones.

Stuck.   Life too full – fool,  foolish,
heavy chatter.
Stuck.  And curious it is,
alive and stuck,  to own my issues.
Personal behaviours are wearyingly irrelevant.

When stuck, light floods in and chimes,
There’s nowhere to go.
The way she feels obliged to spell it out
at all times !

..

The truth is stuck, stuck up and bored.
Consider day after day this song
crossing a river (no banks to board)
with a staff, a pole, a pen to feel me along.

Of what accord my tiny gleams, the triumphs few ?
Step, then step, then step, don’t slip,
foot forward, the view
is walking –

strange it is to be me, like being you !
an insect, deep beyond belief.

Nothing can “help” – not this
writing, not a teacher, not anything.

Life,
I’m a ravening basket-case.

This to realize, awe inspires
for nothing can help the water of life –
no hope.  No end in sight.  No goal.
No change.   No charity.  Why ?

This is real – not badges
with sages upon them to wear.
With no fantasy to prop my spirituality up,
what progresses ?

Ow ! my ankle
misjudged the hidden rock,
tumbles into and as the flowing river !

Caught, I am, as  fish
on the hook, this open-ness.

8 July 1999

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devotion

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water … stone

PRESSURE POINTING

I found a pressure point
in my left hand, whose sore signal
probed, released
a tingling trap in the upper arm.

Like this, a teacher
gently penetrates the core.
The kink slowly slow uncurls ;
by ancient acupunctural science.

Wherever the sore signal manifests,
apply the gentle there, there – let it tell.

Pull up the core with the seed.
Your patterns take you home.  Honesty
pulls up my taproot,
with the mouldering weed.

Leaning on points of life, the touch is unavoidable.
I till the field for decades.
The meridian comes out and up,
and seasonally discharges.

There are parcels undelivered
from the post-office of my
Under-being.
In sight is seeing.

Seeing doesn’t mean seeing something.
It moves the finger to write.
I learned this,
exploring tantra, art of touch, of love.

You see, nothing, in the web
of days, months, years,
changes, or gets better, or what ever.

The touch continuously
taps the combination
here, there, everywhere, the same place.
I have my ideas, but what are they ?

How can I see the ineffable
except that it is,
through crest and trough ?

11 July 1999

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Ramesh at Gut Schermau

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UNKNOWN FACTORS OF FASCINATION

Does loving you
in that being-with sort of way,
through frameless window
touch him, here and now!

You see, our separateness
is a myth.

The unknown quantum of A appears in B
through other souls, C, D, F, or X,
like electron’s double rotation.

Positive and negative “spin”
through virtual and manifest seas
are our polarised probabilities.

We KNOW NOT WHAT WE ARE –
(but are “known”…)

and as for the
crotch-forks in the street
going to parties, to dimly drink
unanimous uni-formity …

What am I?
Which hidden part
proliferates, up-rises, ripples?

Which of you, within those I see,
seeks out and touches me?

Under the ground
the life sparkles, warms, is husbanded
in ways we cannot conceive.

Indifferent to the container,
and spilling unique into each and every one,
each and every one thinks he or she
begins or ends !

and we play these unknown factors,
ciphers of fascination to one another, in T.S.Eliot’s
four quartets
till we close the book –

the mystery breaks here on the beach
in wave after wave after
wave after wave unending
from the mist :  out of dingy daily mist.

If a gentleness comes through that probe
upon the place, why not ?

Who cares if I get tired and sore
and obsessive over tasks, and say the wrong things ?

11 July 1999

A Sequence from Poems of Eclipse

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open

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See also the earlier blog in this series – A big Peach of Yin and Yang – Four Advaita Poems

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.

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