This is not easy…( for par, or us three boys, read at his funeral)
This is not easy…
There you are.
Laid out so neatly,
There you are.
Laid out so neatly,
(you were never anything neatly,
In your taped up sandals).
Under crisp white sheets and hospital corners.
Careful, though full of care.
But not neatly,
For do overs,
it is much the preference… or paint over.
I can stand here,
And look at you (I have stood here for days).
But I cannot touch you,
not now.
I will carry on from here,
“Thanks”
One less painful thing –
Without knowing the coolness of your skin.
They want to take your blue, blue eyes-
We said they could.
But in the end –
Some joke played by an answering machine,
Left them with you.
I think I am glad of that.
That you were too late, again.
But, you couldn’t have waited,
One more hour, (this night,… That night).
We were on our way in… To see you sleeping,
To see you rocked gently by a hospital bed.
You know…
The first thing I wrote about you was “not an easy man to love”.
But here, there, then,
Looking down at you,
I suppose you spared us something,
Spared us that-
Not to watch you Passover.
From all that pulling of breath…
to…
not.
I think I am glad of that too,
Now.
We had to talk to the Docs on the first night.
Tell them “no”,
That it was okay.
Your little old body,
Sodden by years,
And your blood,
Tricked by medication,
into not clotting.
It was about the size of a lemon,
By the pictures on the computer screen.
Front, right hand side, higher function, personality, memory and…
We thought it was food poisoning.
But that’s why you had been sick.
We thought you’d be out in a week.
So we pulled out that disgusting old kitchen.
The second night we said no to the antibiotics.
The third didn’t see the return of the feeding tube.
We had that beautiful moment.
We three at your bed.
And you looked at us.
You cried one tear.
Smiled one smile.
I am so glad of that,too,
Though it brings a lump to my throat,
And wets my eyes.
You know, you smell, awful.
But you get use to it,
One gets use to it.
The lilies didn’t have a chance.
You were asleep nearly a week,
We avoided saying Comer.
Then, you slip away again… Into the long night.
And that smell, of “organic processes”.
You slipping away again,
One more reminder that you are going,
Quickly, and slowly, in so many ways.
And tomorrow, we put you in a box,
And into the fire.
And you will be gone again,
In another way.
And of course we get used to it, one gets used to it.
We will acclimatise to your absence,
Again.
I hope you hear in these words,
How angry I am,
How I will miss you,
And how I love you.
Par.
In your taped up sandals).
Under crisp white sheets and hospital corners.
Careful, though full of care.
But not neatly,
For do overs,
it is much the preference… or paint over.
I can stand here,
And look at you (I have stood here for days).
But I cannot touch you,
not now.
I will carry on from here,
“Thanks”
One less painful thing –
Without knowing the coolness of your skin.
They want to take your blue, blue eyes-
We said they could.
But in the end –
Some joke played by an answering machine,
Left them with you.
I think I am glad of that.
That you were too late, again.
But, you couldn’t have waited,
One more hour, (this night,… That night).
We were on our way in… To see you sleeping,
To see you rocked gently by a hospital bed.
You know…
The first thing I wrote about you was “not an easy man to love”.
But here, there, then,
Looking down at you,
I suppose you spared us something,
Spared us that-
Not to watch you Passover.
From all that pulling of breath…
to…
not.
I think I am glad of that too,
Now.
We had to talk to the Docs on the first night.
Tell them “no”,
That it was okay.
Your little old body,
Sodden by years,
And your blood,
Tricked by medication,
into not clotting.
It was about the size of a lemon,
By the pictures on the computer screen.
Front, right hand side, higher function, personality, memory and…
We thought it was food poisoning.
But that’s why you had been sick.
We thought you’d be out in a week.
So we pulled out that disgusting old kitchen.
The second night we said no to the antibiotics.
The third didn’t see the return of the feeding tube.
We had that beautiful moment.
We three at your bed.
And you looked at us.
You cried one tear.
Smiled one smile.
I am so glad of that,too,
Though it brings a lump to my throat,
And wets my eyes.
You know, you smell, awful.
But you get use to it,
One gets use to it.
The lilies didn’t have a chance.
You were asleep nearly a week,
We avoided saying Comer.
Then, you slip away again… Into the long night.
And that smell, of “organic processes”.
You slipping away again,
One more reminder that you are going,
Quickly, and slowly, in so many ways.
And tomorrow, we put you in a box,
And into the fire.
And you will be gone again,
In another way.
And of course we get used to it, one gets used to it.
We will acclimatise to your absence,
Again.
I hope you hear in these words,
How angry I am,
How I will miss you,
And how I love you.
Par.
Journal entry, 15 February 2015
My life pushing,
Like the start of the ‘main feature’.
All my wishes find a place under the arc of the stone I cast into my future.
Today, I dream of being a drifter,
Or a pilgrim.
On the road to nowhere,
Simple repositions of a transient life.
28th feb 2015
Like the start of the ‘main feature’.
All my wishes find a place under the arc of the stone I cast into my future.
Today, I dream of being a drifter,
Or a pilgrim.
On the road to nowhere,
Simple repositions of a transient life.
28th feb 2015
Why….winter 14/15.
This is a commentary on the end of Zen! The collapse of a community, the retirement of a teacher and the impact thereof. About shame, storylines, justifications, the value and the enduring message of a teaching.
It’s a message, and a call again to raise your head and be counted. It’s a story, or a chance to remember there is recovery and there are wounds.
The second part I wrote, as I typed out these lines, a reflection after more years pass, the lives of people I’m still connected to (however abstractly). It’s also about looking back from where you stand- A chance to acknowledge the impact of the past on who we are in this moment.
And as I write this forward, I realise there are many verses yet to write! I have so much more to say and explore and I have only just started to look.
Why…exponential reactions.
There must have been a look, once…
Then the ripples spread from there.
And all the lives you wore, wore out,
Then this war broke out.
Then you broke out,
And the casualties still lie in the wake of your fine strides.
Pulled along behind in your absent vacuum, are all these lives.
Trying to find their place again in the shadow.
Trying to recapture something they shared with you once.
Not there heart in the stillness,
But the fragments you hold your noble head away from.
Not piously or harshly,
Or for lack of duty filled.
But moved away from nonetheless.
And I don’t believe the stories.
I know what your pain was payment for.
Do not be confused about who left.
And who left who, before you turn back and say well,
No one is here.
***
And a score of years later still,
I watch where roots had grown in cracks,
These once young trees,
Now grown, half grown, restricted at the root.
Have need to free those habituated bonds
Perhaps…
Winter ‘14-‘15
“In the end, only three things matter
How much you loved
How gently you lived
and How gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.”
Gautama Buddha.
All Change sept '14.
It happens all the time in heaven, and Some day, it will begin to happen again on Earth. That men and women who give each other light, often will get down on their knees, and with tears in their eyes, will sincerely speak saying,“My dear, how can I be more loving to you; how can I be more kind?”Hafiz.
It happens all the time in heaven, and Some day, it will begin to happen again on Earth. That men and women who give each other light, often will get down on their knees, and with tears in their eyes, will sincerely speak saying,“My dear, how can I be more loving to you; how can I be more kind?”Hafiz.
you cut me with your words (20th march '14)
You cut me with your words,
Those thoughts you've kept for years,
All those tears your body fears,
And oh, so many hearts I lent my ears.
Hung up or hobbled,
hamstrung,
Locked up- Achillean,
give my strength and length of chain.
Some contrived benchmark,
but no Voice to protect the quick
You cut me with your words,
Those thoughts you've kept for years,
All those tears your body fears,
And oh, so many hearts I lent my ears.
Hung up or hobbled,
hamstrung,
Locked up- Achillean,
give my strength and length of chain.
Some contrived benchmark,
but no Voice to protect the quick
The Ides of March: this is really the start of my personal New Year. An always poignant moment in my year.
so, I have decided to put many of my poems from my leather bound book on here for safety and Prosterity (and in case I lose this book). The first poem that I can decipher I'll wait on the 20th of March 2014. The first poem that I can decipher about on the 20th of March 2014.
I know less - 15th May'11
I know less -15th May '11
I know less...
Now there is only feeling.
I can not shout.
I would not know the words
Like a root growing in the earth
There is only the world that
Presses in at my edges.
-if I only new where my edges were?
I know less...
Quote by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
'The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.' Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
Two short poems...
I wrote this durin a time of big shifts in my life. I remember feeling like was un pealing like a banana. And not being sure if I liked or even new what tender bits of me were going to be revealed.
This is a re hashing of a poem by Abbot Paul Haller from the Tassahara Zen Center -"impermanence"
If it's tricky to read/ decode my hand writing please comment bellow and I'll type it up.
Xxx
East Coker – excerpt (from Four Quartets) by T. S. Eliot
I especially love the last six lines of this.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away–
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing–
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
A poem by David Whyte that I have enjoyed.
When your eyes are tired the world is tired also.
When your vision has gone no part of the world can find you.
Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize its own.
There you can be sure you are not beyond love.
The dark will be your womb tonight.
The night will give you a horizon further than you can see.
You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.
Give up on all other worlds except the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness
to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.
― David Whyte
― David Whyte
Cohen- Sept '11
Cohen 4th Sept '11
I wake, as if from a dream.
The world appears....?
...and the world appears!
Clarity squeeze,
Diluted fragments of other peoples minds.
Convinced recollections are mind no more,
Nor are they yours.
With this incessant merging,
Clarity may be viewed as confused.
Reality is no longer a reference point.
Judgments, intentions, obsessions,
Where do these worlds exist?
Statements made unknowingly.
Ethereal conversations behind the eyes.
Someone else's world thrown forth in front of you,
Echoes of rule books, penance and half forgotten mantras.
The buzz that makes me me and you you.
All sense of truth is lost in the noise of the collision.
But that is not all.
There is always so much more.
Nature beats at her potential.
The quiet room is always still,
The movie screen lays blank beneath the projectors image.
And all these concepts of 'I' hold no wisdom.
For I am free, I am aware, and I know myself,
I know this body.
It is my vessel on this voyage through existence,
It is me.
It is the truth, I am the movie image,
And the space between.
I am the experience,
I am the conditions,
I am the rememberer,
the projector,
the forest pool,
the awakened,
The dreamer, the lover, the hated and the kind.
For all are shadows, moments on rice paper walls.
They are our potential,
Each wait for there moment to be expressed.
They are our reality, they are the truth,
The collision is the moment.
The chaos is the beauty.
NOTES-23/7/12. The end of things
We learn, all things have there own true nature.
We have set out on a journey, to discover our own internal potential- to realise our nature.
In life so much happens, at times we may convince ourselves that these are hinderences to 'the way we know to be true'. Just as that is our nature our nature is also to know ourselves. And through this 'knowing' we discover that we are always able to achieve our potential.
Brittany and the start of a new chapter.
So, I guess first I should give some background and explain why I've decided to start this blog...
Well for thoughts of you that do t know me my name Raphael and I am 34, I'm a builder and a shiatsu practisioner. I've been working as a builder since I was 18 and nearly 4 yeas ago I started training in shiatsu- a type of Japanise massage therapy. For the last 10 years I've followed a zen meditation practice, and through out it all I've written poetry. I am also dyslexic and am having to put lots of faith in my iPads pell check, so do enjoy my spelling but if wouldn't get too hung up on it!
I am still not sure how exactly this blog will take shape. It is sure to have lots of poetry. Some of mine and others that have inspired me. I plan to add a few short films of my travels and things I write on the way as well as start writing up my old note books.
....and now... I am sat by a log fire in Brittany France, listening to Nick the gardener softly snooze. James tailor has just come on.
I have started a journey, I guess it's a kind of pilgrimage or 'tudhong' or a quest or a chance for a Dorset boy to get out of the shire. I think I'll be on the road for a year and a day and who knows where it will lead. I have packed up and moved out of the little cottage Amy and me have lived in for the pst 9 months. Made my tearful good byes to my beautiful girlfriend and to my friends and family.
I can't always remember why I am doing this trip. At the moment I'm just trusting that it feels like the right thing to do. There is a whole chaotic world of connections, memory's and lesions that need some time to chug through the system, to processes them selves. Already some things are alive and calling for reflection, while other things are settling and finding a place inside me.
I am sure I will come back to these what's and whys, they have certainly chage over the last few moths- since I started planning the trip. But that is another post I think, this one is quite long enough as it is!
Much love Raphael. X
Hope to remember.
Brake your heart again on the rocks,
And cry for love of the sun set.
Stretch yourself thin against the world,
-beat back a sigh, roll up your sleeves and hope to remember
All that moon light on your lovers neck.
That crisp frosty morning,
Clean shaved and the smell of wood smoke on the air.
The bite of a winter sea,
And all thoughs long summer nights.
Your first kiss,
And all that time when every memory of them bit like a jagged saw.
Every touch of there name draws your lungs cold.
The feel of this book,
And the echo of these words in your head.
The thought of coffee,
His reaction next time you wear that little red dress,
The words you'll say that will make them faulter.
The holiday and anouther bloody Monday.
Endless yesterday's and tomorrow's.
All held firm, belived utterly, forgotten completely,
As the magnifying glass pulls into focus every now,
After every now.
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