On being Sovereign….

This is a poem I wrote after a profound ceremony, held on a retreat using breath work. It was somewhere where I was held and allowed myself to hold another with deep love, innocence and beauty. I want to name the uncomfortable feelings that come up around holding and being held, how the wounds from my student-teacher relationships mop up the opportunity to share myself. 

I want to be of service fully and step into my sovereign energy. But I am revolted by the arrogance that I have experienced when somebody is drawn to be a leader, to hold another persons vulnerability and the reverence or gratitude that can be expressed by the participant. The revulsion is to the part of me that enjoys how it feels to be told “you are wise.”. 

How will I navigate this? Will I allow myself to shrink back from expressing my gifts? I can barely name them as my gifts, barely own them as my gifts without cringing.  Even sharing a poem feels arrogant sometimes   Someone being moved by something I’ve done feels manipulative, I name this as my shadow. I do not want affirmation, but I do not want to sit here, and let the years pass without being big, sharing my bigness, and not shrinking back or being ashamed, or risk being too much for you…?

Breathing, blankets and the drums.

They move me, these creatures, 

they let me in,

To stand witness,

to hear the heart song.

They called me “safe” And “grounded”.

They saw me, and they said come, 

you are safe and of the Earth.

And we held her.

Everything I have practised visited me___

As she took my hand.

Every gift, every wisdom,

every craft awoke inside me.

And we journeyed 

though, where she went,

I could not follow.

For I was only there to witness____

to sit as still as I ever have,

In that place of man.

And there, in awe, I sat.

As she returned.

I, as the Earth, I was moved around her.

So there was substance.

Ethereal and corporeal coalesced.

We sat for awhile, wrapped in blankets, 

and looked out into the world.

Then she took me back into the sacred space.

And they help me.

And I felt that bond_strong!

So I travelled, with breath, I purged,

In safety, and earth, and joy.

I howled, and wracked.

And they help me.

They bore witness.

And kept safe, my flesh and bones.

Then stopped the drum.

and I was home.

The goddess took me.

Lay my head in her lap.

And I was held.

She needs more zen

Sometimes, 

We think they hide from us.

– those words,

Those thoughts,

the creatures in the shadows.

Sometimes,

We think 

We may know better.

And grasp, and grapple, and think.

Train that pale Demon

that made their home 

under the stairs (to your heart)

But what, if sometimes 

we sat there for a while, 

Our backs resting on the newl.

What if we slowed,

And hummed sweet nothing.

What could distil in the shadows?

What colours could tan that pale skin?

What is enough?

I would like to post this, and leave it to be worked out. But I don’t think it can be. This is one of the poems that flow out and encumbered sometimes, I enjoy the meter and the lack of rhythm. To describe it I’d have to analyse it, I think it’s important to have A mixture of poems – this one holds the space for the bit of us that cares little for hope! However, I hope it isn’t defeatist. 

Sometimes the best thing we can do for ourselves, and those around us is find a little solitude, crawl under the duvet with the remote control. We don’t like to talk about the black dog or when things are hard, and sometimes when we do it all gets a bit dramatic and meaningful. I challenge that, sometimes I feel blue! sometimes, the past, casts its long shadow into the present in interesting ways. Sometimes our present does not match the future we think we deserve. Make no mistake. Life is rich and in the words of Terry Pratchett (and probably someone else with a much wiser) ” it is light that makes the shadows”. These moments are signposts to accept how things are, or to empower us to make a shift. this is written with others in mind, as much as it is for myself.

What balance swings

and encompasses all.

When questions sought

fulfill the many.

And hearts new quest

is barren found.

Or fertile seeded

and nurtured not.

And foreshortened life

of this eternal spark.

And all damned thing 

is fine forsaken.

And copes in some

solitude, a little better.

On being complete

I will take up again

that silver cord.

Find again, 

something once clear cut 

as the new moon.

     And that was only a moment ago!

I noticed this,

as I crave some small wisdom

in a pop song.

Ears pricked 

for something outside of me.

All the pulls, 

all that is somewhat compelling.

And the drifting connections 

you hope to keep tethered.

And then… what is left?

Only that universe inside of you.

6th feb ‘23

I smell woodsmoke and vegans.

I read a poem once,

curled up,

on a sofa made of pallets.

With a beautiful creature,

I did not know.

And yet,

near his heart,

and all its beautiful caves,

and shadows,

and brightness…

I let him hold me,

in his gentle care.

Though that was but yesterday,

it was half my life ago.

Somewhere, in an old hanger in Devon.

Let the road meet you.

 Embercombe! This is a poem I wrote post retreat in January 23.

A joy filled experience with beautiful people. (‘will the sand last’  was a reference to the wisdoms and insights gained running through your figures like sand). And a reminder that after retreat, that one has change, and it takes a while to find your place again in the world.

Landing is weird.

The world is so fast.

Full of butterflies and feelings

will the sand last?

All these connections.

And the love in my heart.

and my quest, 

and my vision, 

and, this is my part!

Let the road come to meet you.

They said as we left.

That which you carry,

Is how you are blessed.

Images of fires and picture of trees

Bright bound red ribbons, 

laughter, and peace.

I want to say love gently.

Because the world, 

 it has changed.

Again_ let the road meet you.

While your feelings are strange!

For the Sanga an introduction and an invitation.

Morning lovely people. 

As most of you probably know i write poetry from time to time. I have done all my life; I am a poet.

At the moment I am at a divergence, hinge moment in life. Things have been fallow, like soil lots going on just under the surface. 

Two thing have layed long in the earthy bed of my body… they need a name and a little light. 

The first is to share my gifts. The second is to tend to my wounds. 

‘Sharing my gifts’ and ’tending my wounds’ is a handle, a phrase to help me access some thing hidden amongst my shadows. I know I need to take small steps, and to be sure of them.

Sharing my poetry feels good. They have been my companions, and an internal guide. But with these type of things, I realize writing them is only part of what they are.  Reading them is part, reading them again later is yet another party still! But sharing them in an open and complete way feels like another step, it’s not a big wow moment, but it has a certain significance for me.

I have more to share and more to tend, and I see that feed me, and feed those I talk to. I have just joined the local community choir. I’m practicing massage and shiatsu and I am have conversations with people. 

An invitation…

I’d like to share my story and hear yours. I have been unpacking lots of stuff around the practice/Zendo. That is part of our story. Some of you I’ve had conversations with and we have been looking into these days together. I just want to say I am available and that is all. Let’s go for a walk sometime.

 With a light and gentle heart. With love and peace, with safety and respect. 

Your Sanga Brother.  

10 years!

 And….. this poem marked 10 years of this note book.  These words mark a new chapter, a chapter of life, where I share. Where I wrap myself in bravery (who are you not to be big, apologies for the miss quote). 

This book started as it set out on an adventure, sold up everything i had off value to pay back debts. Closed down my building business and left my flat. To go on a pilgrimage to nowhere.   

The last 10 year have been a journey. The person i was then and who i am now….

I want to say- this is my gift (to the world).  I cannot say it is well written or contains great wisdom. I cannot say the words here are true, or a complete reflection of me, it isn’t! I have kept certain scribbled lines as ink on page, bound by cream and brown leather.  This book, well used and oft’ neglected. A place where the most secret words could rest un-molested and unfinished. It has been my companion and truest confidant.  I bless this book, but for me the words can not, forever lie confined. I have to name these words as an offering to the world. If they are an offering then they are not mine to keep. 

With love. 

This path is no path

…..ill let you work this one out, i just wrote it….

 this world of clay, cannot be moulded.

-But we are ‘man’ and have these hands. 

you are ‘children’ and the world is for play and dreams. 

-but these hands want to shape, and protect, 

And run figures through the earth. 

and that is why you dream 

It is your heart that moulds the clay. 

 This is for those who need for or yearn to connect, and distract themselves with talk of money or push you away with the clever quips. The last line is a reference to- He wished for cloth of heaven by W. B. Yates. there is an opportunity in connection to talk of deeper things, of dreams.

Do not be scared.

When I touch your heart.

– mine beats just the same.

Though there may be a chill, in this open room.

My ungloved loved body, feels better your naked touch.

And oh!  This clumsy world

We filled with staccato beats.

But under, there lies a rhythm.

Let me feel you with this gentle hand.

And our body music,

 will play on threads of gold and silver light.

Under stones

Under stones,

On this scattered beach.

The curlew turns

the infinite possibility, 

lying quietly under each,

     that makes a liar 

of that busy life.

That says- this barren landscape

Is your forever home.

All the crunch and churning

Feet on pebbles

It does not change

The purpose of your heart.

Stand a while.

Look under pebbles.

Hold my naked hand.

I found this

     Where I forgot to look.

         A poem under everyone.

2nd feb 2022

Jan 2022!

What is it that fills your heart,

In the coldness and desolation

Of your empty room.

What happens

 if you don’t scratch that itch?

    If you just breath——

24th Dec 2021

This life of circles,

And refining loops,

Filled with love so well used.

Woven tapestry,

Folded into layers.

Each strand and crease

A world of its own. 

I need not look out.

I am connected.

I need not crave,

For I am part of all things.

 A couple of things to aid reading, it’s an unpunctuated kind of poem. So the verses are supposed to run in together, one continuous breath. I really like this poem, but the last verse isn’t quite write. But again this is not the place for finished work, I just want to keep writing. 

For reference ‘stop line’ pillbox is a reference to the World War II defenses in the south coast (Uk). There have been analogies or comparisons made between the pulling together of people during the war and lock down. Obviously not in gravity but maybe in community to a degree…

Where I mentioned The Machine is a reference to the government. 

Public health guidelines 

Now, now— in these extraordinary times

Listen, relax, follow government guidelines.

Dig beds or kids cress eggs

While the television briefing begs

Jagged little lockdown says stay home.

We count the days for normal to return

And find new routines to learn

The fragile, pomposity of The Machine will churn

The last of its regrets.

Now forever marked by COVID-19,

Like ‘Stop Line’ pillbox, half unseen,

We touch the world on iPad screens,

And the way we live has changed.

We find our tribe as isolation connects.

We look deeply, to see what the mirror reflects.

These hard times elects,

New ways for us to try.

These tidal days, maybe slip from time,

The allotment patch- reclaimed by vine.

The advertisers drone will whine.

And beg us to forget.

Forget, forget, what is simple is needed.

Consume and replenish what the grants depleted.

There was a time our hearts were seeded.

By devastation, now not repeated.

If we let go the gold found, unheeded

No fields of poppies, no insite greated.

What has this life become?

Conscience.

Roll over again,

I want this to be of hope.

I want to be part of this growing human conscience.

I want, not to write of tear smudged ink.

Because there is a revolution coming…

As we reach out to that “many of us”

As we learn to hold hands again. 

Jan 2020

Here chimes the bell!

Be still, she calls,

Stop in the resonance.

The echoes of decades upon decades.

Time to fall in love again.

Winter 2019

 

I am not quite sure what to write as a forward to this poem. It is somewhat confused or confusing. It was inspired by a tree I know. That I have known all my life. A tree that I have known long enough to see it change from the one in my child’s eye. I have seen it resting gently in a green meadow, standing destitute in a field of brown furos and hemmed in by stalks of maize. I have climbed and seen it climbed by successive generations of children.

It is a marker in time. It is representative of a changing world and a world, I fear is gathering dust. A world where children played in trees and cared about falling limbs. About a tree that was a home, now replaced by bricks and mortar. And I guess a reminder that we as humans are custodians of this natural world.

Mother. 

I think of an old oak,

Bows laid low, like a gentleman's cane.

Tired, a once struck limb falls.

And gives up its wisdom

And nutrients to the Earth and roots,

To feed again, the parent tree.

Part two

We walked as boys into those green green woods,

To build things out of nature, dens and dams and leafy beds.

As young men we went there,

With our clever axes to build homes  

And staves and boundary posts.

Now I am older with boys my own.

And I must remember.

Part three 

Have you cried?

Have you cried for your mother.

She is calling you.

From behind the door.

Yes, from behind the door.

-yes, that door,

The one you do not open.

That door, all the children know.

The door you’re alone to walk through.

       —heart of loneliness –

Part four

She is your mother.

So long, she has held you in her arms,

You have forgot them.

You forgot while you lay sleeping in her arms.

You forgot as you grew in her green green beauty.

You forgot as you fourt your brothers.

And now you are so clever.

With all your clever boxes, 

car box, house box, 

your nice neat, nice separate boxes.

Good for building mazes_confounded boxes!

-Now you worry about boxes.

Stop, STOP, LEAVE THAT BELL ALONE

Remember

Your mother is calling you.

As she drops her limbs.

—x-x—

In this quiet place.

You know what you must do.

Come home, be still,

Help your mother in this grief.

Your mother has grown old. And she needs your care.

21st oct 2019