Sunday, July 15, 2012

DIARY 153 - Padmaloka Poems

Have just got back from Padmaloka Retreat Centre in Surlingham, Norfolk. Two Order retreats back to back. One more meditative on Sadana, the second a study retreat on the Bodhicitta. Both were intense in differing ways, and both stimulated me to write. The following poems may give a flavour of what was going through my mind consciously and unconsciously. None of them have been polished, they're much as they came out. Whether I'll do any more work on them, is to be seen. I've got a lot to plan and do over the next couple of months, before Jnanasalin and I have our civil partnership.

30th June 2012
The absent presence
like a ruler, omnipotent
leans over and whispers 
something indistinguishable 
from static
in my left ear
then always gone
gone beyond tangible form.

The absent presence
can make you feel
like you're sitting in his spare seat
a usurper, a pretender, a very minor regent
but if he wont just be there
or be gone for good
what are you to do?
stand up all the time!
mishear things
and come to mistaken conclusions

1st July 2012
As the birds coo what is there
but sadness in the echoes?
a trill of melancholy
whips passed me, urgent
as a swallow
there it goes
off to the heights of Abraham
a traffic jam of crows blare their horns
just to let me know
they are there too, they are with you
they can see what's up ahead
and its baaad, baaad, baaad.

2nd July 2012
Whilst there is a willing bird
cupped in my hands
an upward gesture of encouragement
to take off
makes its talons grip my fingers
all the harder
flying cannot be coerced.

3rd July 2012
in the bee sucking
is there something
as sweet as honey
not collected cordially, but made
from effort and industry
what is sweet
is always born from sweat.

4th July 2012
We are
like a dewdrop
gently resting on a open leaf
small refracting gems
semi-spherical worlds
sufficient unto ourselves
that either drizzle, dribble or drop to earth
or evaporate
into timid humidity
as the day goes by.

5th July 2012
On the matter of the origins
and state of wind
I must remain silent
tight lipped in secrecy
maintain the deliberate mysteriously
inscrutable view
for where the wind comes from
and where it goes, I know nothing
I only see what it actually does
the wind is a creature of circumstance
opportunistic and mercenary, it thieves air
steals the character of the moment
that it cuckolds, like the oceans waves
assaults cloud formations
plays aerobics with the branches of trees
and whispers through the smallest of cracks
a mournful whistle for a weary while
to a prisoner of caves
now breezy and gentle, now gusty and bracing
now storm und drang
origins becomes ones state
and ones state becomes ones origin and source
for all that, is transitory
wind becomes wind becomes wind again
a stream of feathers
sketching forms in the air.

7th July 2012
With love
there is a chance or two
that some might place a bet on
or wager their fortunes to obtain a handful of 
it is unfortunate
it doesn't arrive in a motorcade
or sell itself cheaply on the streets
but enters by the back gate
like a tradesman
come only to fix your plumbing
to drink your tea
and eat your suggestive digestives.

10th July 2012
There is no Lord to lord it over us
but a time of prescience does
weigh down like an angry ghost
squeezing the last air from your chest with a tea tray
you too will die young man, now older
preferring age to stay relative and abstracted
when even joints are seizing
and the heart's palpitations now indicate
not excitement, but dread
a blind man starring into the bottomless abyss
remarking, not on the imminent danger
to life and limb
but of the fresh invigoration
of the updraft.

11th Julty 2012
Disputation angers the anvil
forging a form
with deep impacted body blows
metal pressed upon metal
hammering home
with heat and steam
cold to the touch
and hardened to the heart
is whatever is made
then thrown into the river
to appease the gods.

12th July 2012
I don't understand what happens sometimes
I don't understand what happens ever.
I don't understand what happens to life
when the carriage of death arrives.

13th July 2012
The drilling of water
in bed and before breakfast
rivals the birds
throwing gravel stones at window panes
and skylights, to waken the lover's sleep
'get up, get up, I have songs for you'
listen to the given voice
expressed as radio-static
hitting high hats
in an orchestrated arrhythm
lacking syncopation
like a freely improvised 
cacophony of praise to itself
the confidence of rain is hollow
its strength borrowed, 
its influence fleeting and Pyrrhic 
draining away like the memories of Caesars past
or of peasant lives among the pigs
wag tails and clods of sodden earth.

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