The Moment of Recognition

The moment is a charged memory
In a now-distant landscape, on a river bank of gravel & stones.

We sit in an arc of practise;
Rinpoche serious, facing us through his black eye shade,

His bell & drum by his side
Shawl looped over his left shoulder, relaxed but intense,

The guardian of  everything
We have sought on our journey, tells us of his dream.

Magic jumps into the story
Across the timelines which we think we know, but cannot really see

& this is really happening,
Not because a story became true, but because stories aren't enough,

The truth will out
In human form, as long as people seek meaning in this world.

Lama Tsultrim's face
& posture reflect the openness, stillness of her contemplation,

Her drum still in her hand,
Resting on her knee & she's silent, but she looks as if she's singing.

Dave has his eyes closed,
His bell in his left hand & resting on his lap, drum between his knees.

Carla's lips are pursed,
Smiling, as if she is about to cry or to break into joyous song.

Christine has her hands folded
As if in prayer, face full of laughter & the shine of smiling.

Anne is turning her head
Towards them with lips parted by silent words of wonder,

Barbara's face is bowed low
A strand of her hair blown free from her  hood during the earlier, auspicious rain.

I'm sitting at the back
Opposite the photographer, wearing a hat from Coventry Market,

Grinning from ear to ear.

Emaho!

June 2007. The Lama announced that he was convinced that Lama Tsultrim was an emanation of  Machig Labdrön herself & he paid her great honours.

Posted on the eve of our departure for another Chöd Pilgrimage, in Bhutan; in honour of Lama Tsultrim, in memory of Dave & with gratitude to you all, you know who you are.

The photo was sent to me by another pilgrim. I'm sorry that I don't recall who.

Lapis Bowl

Delicately carved into a cranial cup
Crazed with convergent
Wriggling suture lines:
A bowl that is a stone;
A stone that is a bowl, it
Needs to be held in the hands
in order to shine.

Blue as ink, it
Need not be washed clean
Never polished, nor repaired, but
It must be brought forth, displayed:
To shine it must be seen.

To hold its cool, solid power
Is to invite, yet again
The danger that is the Muse
To pour your offering
Over Her feet, to
Come out from hiding.

This deep, blue stone bowl
Was made to hold but one substance
The poet’s heart blood.



From a dream & posted here for National Poetry Day.

Everywhere is Everywhere but Some Places Seem to be More Everywhere than Others

Roll Right’s Width Around & within The circle of Their jagged teeth Those crazy characters, King’s Men In slow orbit Without first then In within Grass rustle Marching daffodils & Bird exclamations. This green Of lace Looks so delicate Yet has so much, so many Of sunny strength In the shining fields That edge the ridge Trajectory traced By quiet wanderers, Human planets, who in Trying to number The un-measurable Stumble into years. Due south, Just downspin Of the solar gatepost Suddenly the sky Ceased to be a space Became a becalmed sea-ceiling Projection, so that we sense A sandstone escarpment, A dolerite dorsal fin, A spray of dune sand Upon the wind, A shout of joy, The cry of a shore bird & the not so distant Jurassic Sea Are all present, Here together Like some kind of reunion Except that the whole thing is Just a flower & We are the tiny Circling creatures of a spring day Basking in its light wheel Of starry moony sunny Revolution of our own footsteps Upon the well worn Path of entries. A biker stripped off his armour & laid down, Head against a stone Stone counters were reciting, Dowsers frowned with intent, Music was playing & all were rejoicing, Sweetly nested Among the many curlicues Of gravitation That the cosmos is. The piper is not mad. The dancers however Having abandoned themselves To his smile Beat of feet upon the green Lovingly attended By the never distant dead Slowly settled into The liminal rhythm.

The density Of the texture The busy city is Brightness In tapestries of Humanity’s Age & heritage Flashing forth In the shouts & smells Of our market: Voices, tongues Fruits & pasties; Shop signs Abandoned packaging & Advertisements; Concrete paving slabs & pillars; Food vendors Prams & wheelchairs Bicycles & trolleys, When suddenly This ancient Constellation Winks at us & opens, revealing Every foot-fall Through-route Trans-action; The whole seductive fractal Leading us deeper Into the timeless rindless Rootedness; City life. The coral reef, The colony, Uruk’s burnished wall Are here This minute; Varanasi’s burning ghats Statues & slums Side by side Situation surfaces; Babylon’s West-end, The shops, The spires; Present through Coventry’s Circular Market-mandala With roaring road-ring Where hedges were where The prehistoric Wetland Buzzed. Then Somewhere On Broadgate, After climbing the hill up From the central fountain, Foundation Just before you reach The Age of Godiva You feel it; That sense that Everywhere is everywhere but Certain places of power Are more everywhere Than others & that this City circle Just happens To be One of them.

You can read this as a single poem in two halves or as two poems if you wish, in which case you are reading the columns vertically. It is also possible to read the poem horizontally, thereby integrating the two sections. Maybe the nature of reality isn't what you think it is. If so, that could be quite important.