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Posts Tagged ‘distraction’

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A Summer Lament

Summer, the dream we so soon forget.
Feeling the bones of winter beneath,
Its bleak branches bleached
Upon a cold, dark sky.

Green folds the small roads here
And the rain is warm.
But in the heart of the cities,
In the hearts of the powerful
Burns always a welded light
Wedded to words of war.

The cold is never far
And simple goodness
Too easy to be proud of,
As simple as breathing in and out.

So on the long days of a short summer
They will still wish for the clear pain of winter,
Something to rail against.

For they cannot let go of being more,
Though they are nothing
That the world will not allow
For a moment or two
In the brief shadowed sun.

To be a cause of pain is not power.
It is a road that promises,
But falls to void and oblivion.
Hedged with narrowing views
When the marrow melts
And blood burns free
To its coagulation
And the bitterness of hollow words
And the leaves curl
And an end that is not peace,
A bitter question, a hollowing answer.

We so float upon this thin skin of summer,
Longing it eternally, and as vague as holiness.
A glorious relaxation of edge and purpose.
The dive and long sighing arc of swallows,
The endless warm rivers of lark’s song,
The murmured chanting of a million bees,
Forgetting ourselves for a while,
Melting into being, nested in spirit,
Lazy in directionless, dreaming light.

Til the bite of the cold night
Returns us blinking
Wondering and hungry
And small in the face of almighty things.

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A RIDDLE OF BELONGING

Bright fragment of morning,
this view,
not all,
but sufficient to pause and breathe,
soaking in time,
a flavour hardly remembered,
orbited.

The layers of this, a riddle
Unfolding, rambled,
Conjured, tranced,
Misdirected.

Fleeing far from home,
We wander about
Nostalgic
For pastel dream.

Unable to re-insert,
Wriggle into that,
We cluster, eyes dreamy,
Around flaming fires
‘Til they smoke and splutter,
And we stretch, ache-limbed,
Search for farther fuel.

To stave the rain
We coccoon in caves,
Freeze dust and mud,
Roof in stone,
Limit light,
Fabricate, imitate, colour,
Desire to own our own,
Where, we say, the heart is.
A hope more habit,
More prison, more excuse,
Than our tiny world allows.

Somewhere
To return to
After filling time
Wasting time,
Validating use
In useless works.
A headlong career,
Slippery, cold, gravy train,
Glutinous, pasting days,
Covering over the cracks,
Crevasses of blue depthlessness,
Fractures within the slick logic.

To avoid that rupture
The mind replaced, time left over filled
With the chattering jingled dreams.
No need now to think,
All image offered up:
The screen of wisdom
Around whom we
Are satillites,
Moths
Failing to see
Our own burning wings,
The flicker of time
Eating timelessness,
Eating alternatives.

Clouds fill the day,
Sun and moon
Tell us all.
We float, evaporating,
Watching weather forecasts.

We have slipped between words
Singing inane hymns
To drown silence.
We who were born
To swim
The silences
Between moments
Between stars
Between heavens and hells,
To be at home,
Though homeless,
Silent
And singing,
Simultaneous,
In and out,
Seer and seen,
A field flowering,
Fragrant perception.

No longer fighting angels,
We become surrogate.
Subdued, swaying,
Conveniently untroubled,
Pacified.

****

sparked by a quote by Derrick Jensen, and a post by Ruth at:

http://inscendence.com/making-ourselves-at-home/

These words consider the layers of shell, of desire for a tangible home, a longing for belonging, the dreams fabricated within dreams. Mazed, chasing butterflies off cliffs….

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Surely it cannot be sustained,
This comfort resting on the back of lies.

Etiolated, we stretch tall and wan,
Straining to leave behind every root, even.

Hungry for withered light,
This forced flicker of cloud vapours, this promise of better,
This regurgitated psychology.

Every home in each mausoleum city:
A crowded tomb where the living stumble mummified,
Salivating new updates.

All the small gods gone,
Growing potatoes and beans in hidden valleys, forgotten,
Resigned to wait.

Only the blustering bullies remain, the greedy,
Insistent on their protocols, their visions for growth.

A short experiment. Forced fruits. Temptation
Of full ripeness turning to ash, turning to dust.

Make way. Make way. We study the death of stars,
Anaesthetised, unaware of irony.

Remove from us our craft
And we shall all become beggars, lost, drowning sorrow
In rainbow-stained pools, slow and viscous folds.

They stretch tall and limp, loud, enabled.
Their magic: monotony and ennervation.
Their ropes, their chains: the promise for better times.

Inertia, the slow, wearing away, the blocking of roads,
The pinching, the slighting.

We retreat from day, back to our tombs.
Too tired, even, for our own dreams, we collapse into parody.

Etiolated, we stretch thin and will soon wither.
Redundant.

Somewhere near,
The small gods dig rocky soil and wait.

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CHÖD

There is no artifice to the morning,
No allegory, no metaphor.
It is a clear road, known,
Never before travelled:
A cold wind streams from the North,
A dissolving moon sliding slowly down.
My purpose for existing,
Maybe only to be a friend
Of this little cat (future Buddha)
And to offer comfort where I can,
Watching the light grow and spread.

A flood of fast despair boiling tragically,
The collapse of possibilities, the revealing of wounds.
A world that is not enough, cast away.
The wonderful gods we have chosen,
Radiant with omnipotence, turn out to be
Exaggerated parodies of our own neuroses,
Given all power and now driving sanctioned insanities,
Mitigating circumstances for all atrocities,
All excuses sinless and shining.

In a high field the ice winds
Flow around a young girl dancing,
Naked, spinning a drum.
She has no possession, nothing of value
That she has not given away.
Her breath, her flesh, her voice, given away,
Her dance, to feed the ever hungry,
To clothe the ever despairing,
The hungry ghosts and tragic gods,
The parasitic demons, the lost children,
The bright feathered ones.

Within a vessel of silence,
With words of silence,
With melodies of silence,
She gives it all away
Until she has everything and nothing.

Drum like a heart at the heart of reasons,
At the heart of reasons not to,
At the heart of simply no other options,
At the heart of no choice.
Giving it all away.
All the language, all the fabulations.
Here,
This is yours, this is yours,
Feed and be satisfied.

There are no paths here to this field,
Nor are there any roads that lead away.
A road is an excuse not to stay where you are.
No future has ever been laid down by a road:
They simply return us
To where we have already trodden –
Debris of an old campfire, burnt cans,
Strewn plastic, shredded in tatters on black branches,
Whiff of ordure and wet ashes.

Do not follow the ones that say follow,
The bright parasites, shining destroyers of choice.
Pioneers of novel disaster, slaves to habit,
Recycled, irrefutible logics.
Step off the road, just step off the road.
If it is a new destination you seek,
Step off the road.
Return to the silent grasses, wordless whispers,
Mycelial clusters of small symbiosis
That feed the hungry ghosts
The roots and white fingers of dirt and dark.
Step off the bright road
That heads for war,
The bright road to a bright future.
Step off, sink down, be silent.
Refuse to be moved by impatient passions,
Goaded by entrepreneurs of stolen honesty.
Give away all the excuses that tell the reason why not,
Feed them to the subtle beasts.
Open to the cold north air, itself of itself.

A hollow, ringing emptiness:
Words that are of less value
Than last autumn’s torn, sliding, burnt brown leaves.
Heard only by those already listening,
Maps to those already on that path,
Validation of shared insanities.
Chanted the chanted spells,
To wake the world with word and song.

I shall sink to silence,
Sink to silence
Where the spinning drum
Calls the hungry demons,
Who, satisfied will turn flakes of laughter,
Sink to earth and dissolve.
A word to silence,
A thought to breath,
A soul to the winds,
The cold north winds.

Chöd is the Tibetan Buddhist/Bon practice of offering oneself as sustenance to all beings, a stripping away of owned existence, owned energy, owned thoughts, owned beliefs. This piece emerged from a pre-dawn slushing of phrases and ideas. It started as one thing but changed in the focusing upon it to something else. Machig Labdron is a popular figure, portrayed as a naked young woman with long, flowing hair, chöd drum in hand, dancing. She was an influential yogini.

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