What do I do with
when none of them
take me home?
Today the tide does not deliver energy and hope.
This surging current is the no mans land.
Deep down, is a well of peace
larger than joy or comfort:
who could place
its unknown value?
My window is filled with the edgeless sea coming in
and this event has wealth beyond my words.
I am open to the world
How else to comprehend
I wait. Hast thou forsaken me? Presence is all there is,
even when it feels just confused.
Upon your brow, furrows appear,
as in water, in sound or on sand
arising, melting as you hear
and after a long while, an answer begins to stir
the fullness of your lips:
“Homeless is home.
There is no place like it.
It hears the exhausted sorrow inescapably.
It is the coin which doesn’t flip.
It is heads and tails at once.”
Walking the dark plank that feels true,
I don’t “go for” anything.
It is the cross that Jesus carried.
It is heavy, gut crushing,
floats on a ripple of the stagnant tide.
My saturated wood adrift thuds into things.
Cast up on shore, bleached grey by sun,
it lies on pebbles, soaked and dried
by sun and salt.
Poems of Eclipse, 1999
20 December 2014
It is solstice, and things that turn, turn slowly, close to the core. Be in this way of moving, low in spirits. Love in the core of life yet wells up through the murk: and yesterday evening I felt very loving towards … I remembered a remarkable little episode, 25 November eleven years ago. (The Croatian guy who sells Big Issue outside Waitrose, and tells me I’m a ray of sunshine – his voice reminded me of him). On that day I was in my favourite spot on Hampstead Heath (the same place where I met a Saluki man six months later) and a graceful vagabond came through the conifer branches, stroked them over my face and kissed me without stopping through the hour. Wasn’t that lovely?
Don’t fret about feeling glum today, and drifting around. Sometimes the cold branches part and through them comes a kiss. He came from Croatia. He loved the winter trees, their gestures and the quirky conversations they have – they told him droll stories . He loved to sit and feel them breathe.
Solstice silence is grey and obscured with collective Xmas greed and hyperactive loneliness; and yet it is a Christmas tree, a conifer with candles lit, and through cold winter branches comes the kiss of life: warm lips and searching tongue.
Why, I am making a Christmas tree – my own in the soul. I have a tiny fire-nest, and I blow on it gently, to kindle.
The Upanishadic symbol is: the fire hidden within the tree … the cream within the milk.
ADONAI thou art God. The dawn comes, silvering clouds through winter boughs: early blackbird chorus and a peal of seagulls. Every day the dawn comes. The fire-nest wakes in heart, hands and feet: the immeasurable fire of Sol, about to rise. I am, you are, made from Sol; and Sol is pulsed from the galactic core – our dark Mother. Each atom is a solar atom. In the stable’s silence in deep solstice night, the Child is born. A wild rose blushes the sky.
“Even as fire is not seen in wood, and yet by power it comes to light as fire, so Brahman in the universe and in the soul is revealed by the power of OM.
“The soul is the wood below that can burn and be fire, and OM is the whirling friction rod above. Prayer is the power that makes OM turn round, and then the mystery of God comes to light.
“God is found in the soul when sought with truth and self sacrifice, as fire is found in wood, water in hidden springs, cream in milk, and oil in the oil-fruit.
“There is a Spirit who is hidden in all things, as cream is hidden in milk, and who is the source of self-knowledge and self-sacrifice. This is Brahman, the Spirit Supreme.”
Gene keys website link
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 also 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). Watch this space.
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