A revision of my earlier post, "Poems of Eclipse for Ramesh & Wayne", to update the verse formatting. These were written in 1999: a sequential dialogue of Ramesh's Advaita teaching with the ongoing difficulties of life. ** 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 every sight and containing everything. Such is tantra, web of the universe, the sparkle of its mountains and rivers 11 July 1999 A high tide at Alet in Brittany ** .. 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, is prayer which is silence, making the primrose shine. It shines because there’s nothing to stop it shining. And nobody. . . .. 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 soften it open. 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 .. ** .. 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 (as accused) 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, the nature of the river bed is stones. 7 July 1999 . . Ramesh at Home - a sketch from life ** .. 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. In this “write” 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 this 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 . ramesh at home ** .. . EASE OF JUST BEING SHIFTED If you 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 role 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 .
Tarot Fool & Priestess
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 or 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 waves' 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 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 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 poole, 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, 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
I found a pressure point in my left hand, whose sore signal probed, released a tingling trap in 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 bring you home. Honesty pulls up my taproot with the mouldering weed. Leaning on the points of life, that 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. Nothing in the web of days, months, years, changes, or gets better, or what ever. 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
Ramesh at Gut Schermau
UNKNOWN FACTORS OF FASCINATION
Loving you in the being-with way, could, through frameless window touch him, here and now! Our separateness is a myth. The unknown quantum A appears in B through souls C, D, F or X, like electron's double rotation. Positive and negative "spin" through virtual and manifest seas are our polarised probables. WE KNOW NOT WHAT WE ARE - (but are "known"...) and I certainly am not those 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 the probe upon that place, why not? Who cares if I get tired and sore and obsessive over tasks and way the wrong things?
11 July 1999
See also the earlier blog in this series – “A big Peach of Yin and Yang – Advaita Poems”
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