This wild shaggy creature fills me with joy and smiles.
Veteran readers of the Ramana Foundation journal Self Enquiry (1993-2004) may recall an exchange of letters from our very own correspondent in Tiruvannamalai. He reflected on the Guru scene, and took the plunge himself. Nowadays, tucked up in a delicious French valley – or rather, in the Yeti’s own words (which he prefers): “tucked up ‘n fukked up in his petit coin, suitably located among the desirable caves where his ancestors nibbled their fleas among the shady trees of mittel France” … while wintering in India to pedal his astral bike from Arunachala to Alaska – the poet in the Yeti sings. We just started to write to each other again.
This might be a Post without an end in sight.
16 January 2014
Dear Kev, just a word to say I loved reading ALL YOUR WORDS for Xmas and to smell India again through your descriptions, and those sadhus and bird noises, and to have a good ketchup with you generally. With much love to you, Xx Jane
Thanks Jane, good to hear from ya. Those words were rough and unvarnished as they fell through my head. Rash to dump ’em like that, but communicating sometimes gets huffy and puffy and won’t wait. Your blog is too big for me . Do you have time for owt else? Sometimes I see lovely stuff there, but to try and read it all would be like being the guy who constantly must keep up with the 24 hour surveillance camera. Life throws so much in my face that I can’t offer so much time to the inside of another head, even when it pours out gems. I look forward to a selection of the best, which I can sink into like a warm bath. A lake of dancing fresh water may gladden the eye and soul, but it’s too much to drink and I fear it’ll drown me before I get to the other side or find the bottom. Love from Kev.
Don’t let it worry you, Kev. My stuff might not be your cup of tea; you poets have your cups full with Life anyway! – as you say. And I’m glad the Great Teapot in the sky keeps pouring through you its bounteous brew. Those who settle for bread and butter with my blog find their own bits of jam here and there: maybe even a Devon cream tea with scones if they are lucky – nobody reads it all, but it is there for a large table. I’m glad you’ve sunk such rich deep roots in france, and thankful that I don’t have to cope with all them ants in India. I read about your adventures with them, with awe. Much love, Jane x
Book of IS: Mt Sandford, Alaska.
The poems inside, may step on a banana skin,
then slide, so far, within the deeps,
they meet the stars,
as they examine simple things
from bits that Darwin missed,
to mysteries like why this all exists,
or who, or what, we are.
“This cover blurb is meant to sell the book,
but if you want to check it out,
just step inside, and take a look.”
(“Is” – by Kevan Myers
published 2009 by Dancing Yeti Books)
Dear Jane, I ain’t complaining about the flavour of the tea, though must confess the details of the esoteric and symbols can be wasted on me. I love stuff I read when you reflect on this or that, and of course I have enjoyed reflections of your past, particularly where Peter comes up, but my cup runneth over fairly soon when you are pouring from your bottomless jug (s?). I am amazed by your fecundity and glad for you that it is.
When in UK I sometimes buy a saturday or sunday paper to check TV progs, and then “enjoy ” reading the bloody thing for at least the next ten days as the nesting boxes in my brains get filled with tweeting terribly fast. Thus it is very much more volume than content that leaves me peering over the vastnesses of your bloggery like stout Cortes viewing the Pacific. Like I say, I really look forward to the shortish book of selected gems unthreaded from the kilometres of golden chains where they presently dangle, so sparkling …
Much love, Kev
Dearest Kev, as I canna yet stopper the fall of tea from the sky, I leave it to you to identify and assemble a few concise leaves of best earl grey for your pot, you lazy old poet! However I am indeed delighted that you do deign to dip toe & wade a little – say from San Francisco bay area to the bridge, you know it is all pacific really – and especially that you have located and read my outpourings about my Pa, which I value. Never mind about the Hesoterick, just look at the pictures. The pictures are there for our tired old eyes to rest from all the wordzzz.
Peter now 91 and a little frail, has email at last – I hope to see him later this month, braving winter gales along the Tarka Bike Trail to Torrington, and then steep hills up and down to his piggery. He lives in elegant grandeur in The Old Piggery … (in case your cyberwhotsit breaks down.) He would love to hear from you, and definitely needs practice with his email/Ipad, and he keeps nice biscuits in his tin.
I am seeing Quince and John next month here in Blighty. Much love, xJanex
PS we have been having a lot of rain.
Gawd bless, yer, dear,
I have unloaded Peter’s edress and have good intentions to use it. Just got briefly hassled by Authorhouse, offering to print my wurkz. I took a rain cheque, but should really set them on your trail, since yo wurdz are bustin’ out all over. Are you planning to huff and puff your way to Torrington by bike path? Remember I once did it from the Grey Wen to Land’s Sakes and back, which is fine along canals and suchlike, but once confronted with steep and wiggly Devon lanes, big roads are safer and quicker, because you don’t lose downhill momentum at the bottom by savage wigglies or charging pantechnicons or harvesters suddenly blocking the whole lane.
It’s very gracious of Q and J to touch your feet in salubrious w. Hampstead, but high time you hauled your sorry backside over to see them in the gorgeous part of France where they and I offer such splendid horse-pit-alities, and where I also met your fine mama.
Anyroad, enough of this blether. You could have probably filled at least five pages of blog in the time spent soaking in these worthless sentiments.
I remember your Great Ride, Kev, and when you turned up in your dayglo cycling gear in the rain – my pa thought it was a bloke from Mars selling spin-driers, and nearly shut the door.
The trouble with canals and nice flat trails, is the winter monsoon mud in those parts. To avoid this, I shall have to turn off from the Puffing Billy at Torrington into steep cow-patted lanes; and huff up and down the wigglies amid splatter from tractors, till I reach the noble abode, hopefully before dark, & in time for tea & scotch.
Now I have a proposal for thy wurdz and mine, Kev: How about, I create a post for them, in the calm clear waters of me bloggery, like we did those years ago in SE. It may burble along quietly for as long as it likes, ever deepening the single post which stands by itself in the reflecting lake, O Sake, until we are distracted and fade away elsewhere, like sweet birds run out of twitter.
Do you agree? I would add a few snaps from the album of happy times, and a verse or two of yourn. I think I have a photo of you dancing, on that memorable night in Dorset. I can’t wait for your venerable observations, you chattersome Gemini. Love fr jane
Into my morning space, haunted by squirmy gut, drops intrIguing offer. Most kind suggestion calls for response from this laziest of beings, when it comes to manufacture and broadcast of his emanations. I am most honoured to be thus prodded, and can happily supply you with wurkz old and new, as well as appropriate snaps, of which I posses many, so there be no need to drag forth fotos of bizarre blackmajickry under the greenwood trees of Hardy’s backyard, most particularly since I got no memory at all, of any such prancings among the yokelry.
But to be simple I dinna comprehend the meaning of this here “post” thing you proposeth, though I vizzalyze it well casting its long reflexion over your pool and impeding the crystal currents with its squat nether region. Yea I’m sure I agree, with gratitude and brass knobs on, but need a deeper understanding of how this post is approached, how it will look, and what it demands of me.
As you perceive my observations are hardly venerable yet, as my parts are presently pure, but given time they may acquire the necessary vintage and putrefact desirably.
Which brings to mind the announcement this day received that The Bard is about to imprint the holy dust of my neighbourhood with his esteeming presence, so I shall be dragged forth to receive his lofty Darshan, as he towers like some giant, scrawny monkey puzzle , eclipsing the diminutive form of the holy hill`.
Ah me! Oh yea, and the muddy lanes of Devon will no doubt “ooo arrr” as your comely person huffs with astonishing puffs between its unending hedges as combine harvesters bare their teeth and lurk round every corner, while Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all, lurch their way down the steepest, bestest bit for gathering momentum, linking arms with jugs in hand and flying smocks, as the sheep stare.
O yes, you old Kevvery – don’t you remember this? That’s yo’ face yeti dancing.
Delighted about your spiritual exercises by the Holy Hill – along with the squitters, a healthy antidote to chomping on the Lotus in fair France, which was bound to bind you up.
Now Kev, here is what I have in mind. A Post in a blog is simply an entry – the day’s musings or landfill – whatever. But of course it can go on and on being added to: for a Post is an ever lengthening scroll to the deep, an unbottomed and never ending Mystory.
Here is what I have in mind for me and ‘ee: to offset the rather Serious atmosphere of me Pacific Posts, methought to plant a Merrie one, to cheerieup my patient Readers. And I thought this post might be your and my plain wurdz back and forth, just as they are, beginning last week, and continuing: coz I double over with joy at yours. Each new item gets added to the bottom, dives deeper into the lake, needs just a finger-flick-fone for the curious to scroll it all …
We might get tired of it, or if it gets rather long, create its very own be-a-blog, which we both access from each side of La Manche, and put pictures in. You might take the project over completely, and make it bristle with verse… That is up to u. You might come to your senses and publish, you slothful scribe.
You asked I believe, what this yur post will look like, and where will be its squat nether end. Well vizzilize a big pond, lake or pacific bristling with wind farms – they all are posts. Here and there a noble ship sails in and out among them, piloted by Magellan or Cortez or a migrating Albatross. Our little post will extract the michael and mind its own biziniss, and may become a popular port of call, particularly if you include Mr (for gawd) Sake’s observations on the Teaching Scene, while u are in Indiar.
photo by r.nial bradshaw of posts in salt lake
I attach a draft with a few awful snaps. I might attempt a passable sketch of a yeti.
Am enchanted that you shall see and be inspired by the Bard so very soon.
dancing yeti in dorset
Thanks for sending me your sample. I shall study it extensively before conveying it to the lab for professional analysis. How dare you resurrect the nauseating name of Sake, which I never requested though it may have generated some passing amusement among the hissing cauldrons which you shared with the lofty presence, as you popped in livers of pontificating swamis. I am well aware that Self Enquiry may have been scattered with pseudonyms to disguise the authorship of many dubious passages penned by the grey eminences, in an attempt to fool the 30 subscribing miserable seekers of NW3-6 that a plethora of bespectacled academics could be counted among the contributing lunes, but I have so far braved the attention of assassins in never seeking such masks to my reality, beyond the one I have long borne, which carries the much bemyred sobriquet of Kev, and with that I am content. So awa with such as Ma Tarocardananda or the new age Elvish Delvish of the Blackdowns, whom I presently address. Your Jane will never be plain to me. However when it comes to yetis, my fondness for my shaggy leaping hide still warms all the trembly parts of my soul, as I hop skip and polka before the holy hill, so occasional appearances of the.Himalayan bigfoot would not be unwelcome.
As I said I have some excellent snaps and can certainly provide the gorgeous yeti donated by my cartoonist brother.
But I should be amazed if such correspondence raised more than the occasional rarified eyebrow, among the divers necromancers, tea-leaf readers and other exotic fruits from your private tree of life, who must comprise the bulk of your readership, already soaked as they are by your daily voluminous brilliancy.
Thus I am honoured by your offer and pleasured to concur, though noting with displeasure the many typos among my previous offerings.
Dear Kev, I just happen to be up and unable to sleep – moan – but cheered by your twink. Sake was offered only as a protective hide, but the Yeti’s is much better. Well then, I await the lab results. Much love xxx Jane
I go dancing too
“Self Enquiry”, Penultimate issue
It was indeed a day of infamy when that Lady Chatterbox left her lovers and other glitterati of the spiritual universe rubbing their bewildered spectacles as their deluging weeps created a nouveau Saraswati to mingle its rarified tears with the nether reaches of the less salubrious but very Kosher meanderings of the Brent.
O weep and beat your inconsolable teats, all lovers of spiritual passions and other heats, lest we forget her ladyship, unburied yet and due to rise again when her creating organ, the chief necromancer, forsakes her unending beat, that adds each day another set of rings that newly tingalings the wrinkled foreheads of the tree of life.
While Mistress Jane Attempts To Kip
Ah the wee small hours of West Hampstead,
when even the Jubilee Line slumbers,
as it meanders
the passing snores!
Where acres of cemetery
thrust monuments that grope for heavens
high as Whitestone Pond.
While worms sleep gentle sleeps
in many cloistered gardens,
well communally maintained,
beneath the central-heated walls,
well-hung with polished souvenirs,
nudging the heart from half-forgotten
terraces of long ago, before
the robberies inflicted
by more recent times,
that tower high above
the petty wounds
of self-inflicted crimes.
dive spiral arunachala
More poetry from Kevan …
I really have nothing to say.
Been saying it for years,
but nobody hears
Ah the joy of wurdz,
where nothing makes a universe
and diamonds sprout from turdz.
mike – a very dear friend – on a visit from holland which is FLAT
As dreams go by …
23 January – From Kevan: “Here attached find yetis …”
I love ‘em. Those cuddly toys in ye mail. The Hill must be doing you good (and the wurdz). So shall I make a post at the weekend? No hurry, just when you like. Love, J
Yo, go ahead and carve yer post whenever you have a spare mo, but please check my do-dos for typos afore ye posteth as they can udderwize confyouse. Love Kev
Dunsbear Halt on the Tarka Line Trail
Yo, u Neti neti (arunachala generated), Yeti yeti, of course I willeth check yore spellings and notyets, I thought they might be done on purpose, I don’t meddle with Poet’s Purpose except I be given strikt instructions. I can’t go to Devon Oo-arr this weekend, and indeed not till February, because the railway line from Taunton to Exeter is closed for repairs and the replacement buses don’t take bikes. Love from Jane
PS Mr Sake is sacked.
Alan Jacobs and Kev, in 2004
Enough mit these excuses. Who needs train and bus when you could leap on your steed in west End Lane and start pedalling. These Adamses are a muscular lot with mighty shanks, just made for this kinda thing.
As foR typos, me deliberate unspellings are obvious, but typos confuse the head by usually missing a letter, reversing them or inside-outing them as dyslexic affect rather than failing wit-exercise. Would you like me to hi-itify some. Here comes an oldish one now: …
(and so forth.)
cows near buckland filleigh
Been delving among recent werkz and made some dubious improvements , which might lead you to chooze these newer vershuns, unless you feel advershuns, of coarse! Kev
A Trespass On Your Moments
I have undone what I oughter have done
And there is no good in me
Under the sun, but that which has sprung
Out o’ my own unhoed earth.
Do I ask for praises unsung,
Songs to be sung
The strainings of my birth?
Rather I say forget it
Get on with your own undoings;
Love, as you will, your screwing
Under the ungod eyes
Of the skies of mirth.
Ah men! That we have become!
Ah, the becoming of the end
The dance of life
Pours through the snores
Of the blind-eyed conveyors
Of I-pads on their endless tube run
Into the blank.
May the skies split and run
As the sewn up of everything
Let’s tear off the hoods
“Back hoe” that’s a JCB in Yankspeak
Seems like “Front Hoe”
if there am, should wear
a kinda “Hiyo Silva” ‘n cut
this backward crap
cos hoeing up your backdays
seems to me to be
a little short on mileage,
even though, old Uncle Ho,
may be the ghost that lurks
at tunnel end,
if days along the furrow
were lengthened out
to miles of the killing fields
of Napalmed ‘Nam.
groovin on that memorable night in dorset
Forgive my mind
that trespasses in lands
where any visitor
would once have opted for
the white stick of the blind.
I’m lost and wander off
so many tracks,
you cannot blame me
when my ankles land before my toes,
because I’ve yet to find
the way to open up
the eyeballs on my back.
The nothing was blessèd and long… ‘til dimly aware of the soft, warm liquid, and distant muffled sounds..strange roaring and words in another tongue…
I flinch and kick, and kick. Memories of pain of body..always pain..but more ..the tearing of thorns.. the agony of wrists splintered and bored..trying to focus on love while shredded by hatred and the dumb hope of eyes not knowing what to with themselves, staring at what?
Let it be gone forever. Give me nothing, nothing, beautiful nothing.
Everything is intrusion in this nothing. Even this warm, safe pool that seems to be me.
I want no memories and no present. But this warm, liquid body of me will not obey, and now I am being forced inside out, squeezed and squeezed, driven out of myself, struggling and blinded.
Not again! Not again!
Poetry in this post is copyright (c) Kevan Myers.
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.
All art and creative writing in this blog is copyright © Janeadamsart 2012-2014. May not be used for commercial purposes. May be used and shared for non-commercial means with credit to Jane Adams and a link to the web address https://janeadamsart.wordpress.com/