Yod Heh, Stem & Yantra; didgeridoo & poplar
Greetings to our Belgian friends.
In 1999 I visited Mira de Coux in Brussels. The poem sequence that follows is about the beeches in the forest south of the city. Something in the soil and minerals there, makes them grow very tall.
Ceres and John
This poem is about THE CROSSING to Ostend:
Religion cannot understand how God dies. It occupies itself alive locking up the Mystery in a scroll of dogma, virgin birth and all. Ceres with St John the second coming, feels the new born Child moving through her hush! her finger to her lips. What brings to a verse I write, the bright yellowing fruit of limes last night crisply foliaged - my dream? and crossing the channel to Ostend - waves swell, wrinkling fleets of galleon clouds like ships from horizon unto horizon unbound and vessels on the sea's breath vanish, white beaten gold midst gunmetal shadows, wind driven, and engines of the Sea Cat pulsate, splashed with salt, darkness of approaching rain, fleets of sails along the sky ... Later those same luscious limes recall my dream of stars in the Tree - for within the altar of Van Eyck in Ghent, there gleams their magnet to my soul. "Let us draw together ..."
Van Eyck Altarpiece detail: hermits and limes in the trees
The Beech Forest When the brook begins to flow, a barque of impassioned words appears. First there is no bark, there is the naked pipe of a silver soaring tree unspoken, silence. The standing flows the tap root of my soul upturned.
JHVH: 4our Trees
The Emerald Table at Chateau La Hulpe "I speak no fiction, but only what s certain and most true." They took me to a Rosicrucean garden in October sunlight. I climbed a high Masonic stair of stone steps aslant to a sapphire gap of sky. The way dipped, then rose through treetops to a temple at the highest point crowned with a Zodiac star ... The stoppage of my thought with sky is the Grail. "What is below is like the above; and as above so below for the One Miraculous."
Like a bird whose feathers fall to sky, the Word arises still born. Like a parboiled partridge in pear tree, my plumes from quills release and it is simple to pluck me bare. "The father is the Sun, the mother the Moon. The inner child is carried in the belly of the wind and the Earth is its nurse."
Hierogamos Sun Moon conjunctio
Along the emerald meadow in La Hulpe, slender beech stems by sun's silver slant, extend nubile nobility of elven land to every side of sight, and pure strings chime psalms, the starry soil of fragrant wood - through organ pipes the diptych of a medieval masterpiece - knights, angels, allegories quiver. Time never happened. "It is the seed of all perfection throughout the universe. The power of it is realised when it is reduced to Earth."
There is a power in this Low Country soil. The trees are aristocrats. Denude of blemish or branch, their stems ascend, slender fleshy grey to the woodland sky like clouds. Aeolian strings await archangels' breath. "Discriminate Earth from Fire subtle from gross, acting with prudence, humility and discernment." "Ascend in your heart with Earth's wisdom to Heaven; then again descend to Earth, and unite the powers of Above and Below." Let all ignorance and obscurity fly from you!"
Master R in London, circa 1745, 1760
By the hollowed root of forest giants, deep springs arise. Though too close to Brussels for bears, they bear the mystic fairy tale - an illumined art gothique whose scented pillars sing underfoot old anthems, pungent leafy loam incensed. . Ebony Goddess . "You shall find a greater strength than strength itself; for it masters any subtlety of thought and can penetrate every surface or solid." "Thus is formed the lily in the field. Hence the glory comes, here standing." "And so I am named Hermes Thrice Great, three parts of this whole wisdom here in the Sun's action, my Great Work." . . .
Our footsteps converge along the breaking tide up the sand.
Moving through the Maya-Aquarius relay-exchange of time – time is the baton? – honour the evolutionary revolution. The old jersey worn so close to the chest is full of moth holes. Something moves through here – a golden light. The message of the river is to branch and receive and feed other rivers. Rivers don’t divide into forks do they? Rivers receive Tributaries. Each tributary follows its underwritten destiny through the Ganga, to perfect. The configuration of the mountain landscape holds geological history, time and places, at a glance. All is well.
Window: The big iron key is from a bunch we bought in Tiru market, in 1993
The Tree of Life as a formal garden – an old drawing,1990
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.