Belgian Beeches

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Yod Heh, Stem & Yantra;  didgeridoo & poplar

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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.

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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 ..."

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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."

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Cosmographic Volume

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."

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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."

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Wood 

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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!"

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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.

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     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."

.
.
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August 2012

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.

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Window:  The big iron key is from a bunch we bought in Tiru market, in 1993

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The Tree of Life as a formal garden  – an old drawing,1990

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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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