Yeh, I sent watchmen to guard the walls,
To watch for wolves amidst the sheep,
To watch for the enemy riding on the dawn,
Yet when watchmen fall weary the holes appear,
Holes in our hearts, holes in our souls,
Holes in the fabric that holds the centre in place,
Holes in your families, your leaders, your protectors all,
When the watchmen fall weary the stains appear,
Stains on your floors, stains on your uniforms,
Stains on the reputations of those I sent to keep you,
Stains in your dreams, your words, your conscience all,
And the wolves are amongst you, ravaging and wild,
Where were my watchmen?
Where was the anger that seals my sacred chamber?
Where were the locks, the barricades on my holy house?
For all are guilty for the good they did not do,
Where were my watchmen?
Where were my watchmen?
When the wolves kept on coming, kept on coming,
And where is the one who has the faith?
The faith to see the totality of darkness on the land,
Yet still believe in the light that the darkness hides,
Where is the one who has the courage?
The courage to see the totality of darkness on the land,
Yet rise up with with the anger of a thousand guilty memories,
Declaring the axiom of the new age,
'yeh tho thy passed this way, thy pass this way no more'
'yeh tho thy picked my pockets, thy pick them no more'
'yeh tho thy corrupted me with thy serpent eyes, thy are now blind'
'yeh tho I slept on His duty, I now stir with His strength'
'yeh, tho I was lost, now am I found in His love'
'yeh tho the darkness reigned, it did not capture my heart',
And in the distance I spy the wolves gathering once more,
Approaching the walls of Jerusalem in droves,
Not knowing that today we fulfil the dreams of Isaiah,
Today we strike down the wolves at our doors,
With authority and with justice and with the might of the meek.
Today we lift the veil, today we claim the truth.
( This poem was inspired by a coaching session I was holding some months ago where the coachee suddenly exclaimed 'This reminds me of that passage from Isaiah!'. To which I replied with some astonishment 'Which passage?' 'You know, Isaiah 62:6' 'Oh yeh, that one' - 'I have posted watchmen on your walls O Jerusalem, they will never be silent day or night'. After the session I read the passage (which I had never read before). It then then took me to Isaiah 56:10 -'Israel's watchmen are blind, they all lack knowledge; they are all mute dogs, they cannot bark, they lie around and dream they love to sleep. They are dogs with mighty appetites; they never have enough'. Next I was writing and I was reminded of this poem last night whilst presenting on the theme of accountability. I was talking of the rising tide of accountability in the world right now - MP's expenses, Sirless Fred Godwin, Stephen Hester's unbonus, the Arab spring,.... It as if we have collectively let things happen on our watch, stuff that has crept up on us in our societies and suddenly we are waking up from a collective trance, looking around and saying 'What the hell happened round here?' Holes have appeared. Stains have appeared. Locks have been picked. Yet suddenly we see it so clearly and we know it is not acceptable any more. There is anger in people's hearts, a witch-hunt afoot, a wolf-hunt. Yet be careful for the trail may lead to your own door. For as we call out the wolves amongst us let us not forget that we were the watchmen who slept, who did not bark, who couldn't get enough when we could get it and who failed to protect that which needed our protection.)
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Sunday, 8 January 2012
Dissociation
Collapsing into peace and relaxation,
Brick by brick the old house falls,
They say it was brave to destory this lair,
But it felt inevitable in every way,
For is it brave when a rusty leaf falls to the ground?
Is it brave when the caterpillar cocoons itself in darkness?
Or is it just nature following its ceaseless course?
Necessary endings are the norm you see, you hear,
For in this way is the soil tilled for seeds of future growth,
In this way our hearts are scoured of the crust of pride,
That which tempts us into a false magnificence,
Today our grip on the wheel is loosened at last,
So collapsing into peace and relaxation,
We admire the view from the Director's chair.
(This poem was written in a time of personal change. A time when it felt like things were collapsing around me. Others felt I was being brave in choosing change but that is not how it felt to me. It was just a natural process governed by the heart. Also, I was being humbled (again!) having got used to the status and the status quo of an easier life. To build something new can often involve demolishing something old along the way - that doesn't always feel great at the time. But if we had the faith of a caterpillar, the faith of a leaf, then we would trust the ultimate outcome of a process of transformation. Endings are part of the cycle. The 'letting go' theme runs through this poem strongly as it does with others I have written. I love the idea of being able to take up a perspective from the 'Director's chair' - as well as the religious connotation the image reminds me of the NLP technique of dissociation and hence gave the poem its title. If you dissociate from an experience then you step outside of it and observe it from a distance. This is a good technique for reducing the emotional impact of bad memories. In contrast, it is great to associate with good memories - step inside them and look at the scene through your own eyes. For more info see http://www.nlp-mentor.com/submodalitytechniques/association-dissociation Caterpillars must be great at disassociation as they sit in that cocoon wondering what the hell is going on, don't you think? :-) )
Brick by brick the old house falls,
They say it was brave to destory this lair,
But it felt inevitable in every way,
For is it brave when a rusty leaf falls to the ground?
Is it brave when the caterpillar cocoons itself in darkness?
Or is it just nature following its ceaseless course?
Necessary endings are the norm you see, you hear,
For in this way is the soil tilled for seeds of future growth,
In this way our hearts are scoured of the crust of pride,
That which tempts us into a false magnificence,
Today our grip on the wheel is loosened at last,
So collapsing into peace and relaxation,
We admire the view from the Director's chair.
(This poem was written in a time of personal change. A time when it felt like things were collapsing around me. Others felt I was being brave in choosing change but that is not how it felt to me. It was just a natural process governed by the heart. Also, I was being humbled (again!) having got used to the status and the status quo of an easier life. To build something new can often involve demolishing something old along the way - that doesn't always feel great at the time. But if we had the faith of a caterpillar, the faith of a leaf, then we would trust the ultimate outcome of a process of transformation. Endings are part of the cycle. The 'letting go' theme runs through this poem strongly as it does with others I have written. I love the idea of being able to take up a perspective from the 'Director's chair' - as well as the religious connotation the image reminds me of the NLP technique of dissociation and hence gave the poem its title. If you dissociate from an experience then you step outside of it and observe it from a distance. This is a good technique for reducing the emotional impact of bad memories. In contrast, it is great to associate with good memories - step inside them and look at the scene through your own eyes. For more info see http://www.nlp-mentor.com/submodalitytechniques/association-dissociation Caterpillars must be great at disassociation as they sit in that cocoon wondering what the hell is going on, don't you think? :-) )
Thursday, 29 December 2011
Falling down that Hill (From Sense to Nonsense)
I listen with my conscious mind,
I explore with searching questions,
To help you recover your deeper truth,
Which is your truth not mine, that's right,
I validate your world with all my being,
Seeing you,
Hearing you,
Feeling you move,
And then when it is my turn to speak,
I switch off my conscious mind,
For all it wishes to do is tell you how clever it is,
I turn on my unconscious, all knowing mind,
With poetry, imagination, vague artistry and sleight,
I speak to that part of you which also knows and believes,
English for the English,
French for the French,
Different languages for different people in different lands,
Dancing pairs that glide and exchange and flow,
Balancing on one leg with arms outstretched,
A physical crossing and re-crossing of arms and square pegs,
In square holes, round pegs in round holes,
That's right and this is all that is left behind,
For how else could you walk or recognise my face
(Union Jack and Jill went up the hill,
To fetch a tumbler of water,
And they didn't fall down,
For they were wearing crowns,
And they lived happily ever after).
(I had fun writing this! It is just playing around with the concepts of the conscious and unconscious minds which is my current fascination in coaching. More and more when I coach I try to listen with my conscious mind and speak with my unconscious mind and this poem tries to explain why. The conscious mind is great at paying attention to things, focussing upon the words, the sights and the personal impact of the coachee. The conscious mind can also design searching questions that prompt the listener to recover the more detailed and specific experience of their personal reality. As you listen so intently then it is easy to drop into a trance. As the coachee drives deeper into their internal experience it is easy to drop into a trance also, that's right. Then when speaking, do not disturb the trance with the vain posturing of the conscious mind. Switch it off and speak from that place where we all write poetry - the unconscious mind. French for the French. English for the English. Find the balancing point of conscious listening and unconscious speaking to trigger the awesome resources of the coachee's unconscious mind - the resources that taught them how to walk without a user manual and enables them to recognise up to 10,000 faces ( see http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2004/dec/13/sciencenews.research ). The last portion of the poem in brackets is either nonsense or it is a distorted nursery rhyme with a hidden meaning or it points a way forward to a better way of being that doesn't end in tears. You decide.)
I explore with searching questions,
To help you recover your deeper truth,
Which is your truth not mine, that's right,
I validate your world with all my being,
Seeing you,
Hearing you,
Feeling you move,
And then when it is my turn to speak,
I switch off my conscious mind,
For all it wishes to do is tell you how clever it is,
I turn on my unconscious, all knowing mind,
With poetry, imagination, vague artistry and sleight,
I speak to that part of you which also knows and believes,
English for the English,
French for the French,
Different languages for different people in different lands,
Dancing pairs that glide and exchange and flow,
Balancing on one leg with arms outstretched,
A physical crossing and re-crossing of arms and square pegs,
In square holes, round pegs in round holes,
That's right and this is all that is left behind,
For how else could you walk or recognise my face
(Union Jack and Jill went up the hill,
To fetch a tumbler of water,
And they didn't fall down,
For they were wearing crowns,
And they lived happily ever after).
(I had fun writing this! It is just playing around with the concepts of the conscious and unconscious minds which is my current fascination in coaching. More and more when I coach I try to listen with my conscious mind and speak with my unconscious mind and this poem tries to explain why. The conscious mind is great at paying attention to things, focussing upon the words, the sights and the personal impact of the coachee. The conscious mind can also design searching questions that prompt the listener to recover the more detailed and specific experience of their personal reality. As you listen so intently then it is easy to drop into a trance. As the coachee drives deeper into their internal experience it is easy to drop into a trance also, that's right. Then when speaking, do not disturb the trance with the vain posturing of the conscious mind. Switch it off and speak from that place where we all write poetry - the unconscious mind. French for the French. English for the English. Find the balancing point of conscious listening and unconscious speaking to trigger the awesome resources of the coachee's unconscious mind - the resources that taught them how to walk without a user manual and enables them to recognise up to 10,000 faces ( see http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2004/dec/13/sciencenews.research ). The last portion of the poem in brackets is either nonsense or it is a distorted nursery rhyme with a hidden meaning or it points a way forward to a better way of being that doesn't end in tears. You decide.)
Sunday, 13 November 2011
Letting Go
Every day you're dying,
Yet some days I feel fine,
Every day I'm dying,
Yet some days you feel fine,
Every day there's weather,
Yet some days the wind blows hard,
Every day I think these thoughts,
Yet some days I let them go,
Like so many colours,
Like so many shades,
All the tones,
All the gradients,
All the textures,
All the fragrances,
All the moments,
All the spaces,
All the fragments we have,
Yet some days I let them go,
In the play of the relative,
Do we find our experience of life,
That which we love and crave,
In the play of the relative,
Do we define a concept called 'I',
Yet one day will 'I' let go.
(Increasingly, as I study hypnotic communication and how this can be used in coaching, I realise that poems are essentially hypnotic scripts. Poems use a lot of the techniques of hypnotic communication to confuse the conscious mind and therefore to open up a channel of communication with the unconscious mind or minds -the many 'mini-minds' as they are referred to in Havens & Walters fascinating book 'Hypnotherapy Scripts'. This simple poem contains some good examples of these techniques. First, it uses a repetitive number of what are known in hypnosis and NLP as 'universal quantifiers' - words such as 'every','some','all'. Universal quantifiers are vague and non-specific hence they prompt the reader to seek for their own interpretation of the words from their own deeper meaning - it is the unconscious mind that provides this meaning by throwing up a picture, a sound or a feeling into the reader's conscious mind. In hypnosis this is referred to as a 'transderivational search' whatever that means - ha, ha. The poem also contains what linguists refer to as a 'lack of referential index'. In plain English what this means is that in the phrase 'Every day you're dying' it is not clear who the 'you' is - is it referring to the reader? Is it referring to a friend or relative of the poet? Is it being used as a generalised term to refer to all people? Again, it is not clear hence the reader is prompted to provide their own meaning and the unconscious mind will provide that, hasn't it? ('tag question') Then there are things known as 'nominalisations' and an example of this is the noun 'weather' - weather does not exist in the real world, it is a made up concept. You can test for 'nominalisations' by asking the question 'Could this noun be put into a wheelbarrow?' A book can be placed in a wheelbarrow but the weather cannot and neither can love or learning or knowledege, etc. The poem also has an 'embedded command' within it 'let them go'. The idea of embedded commands is that by this stage the conscious mind is well confused, the reader is in a mild trance and therefore this command goes straight into the unconscious mind bypassing the filters and biases of conceptual thought. You are much more likely to obey such commands than if they are presented directly to your conscious mind. And then there are metaphors - in this poem the weather is used as a metaphor, the changing weather that never stays the same and therefore is continually letting go. It would all be very clever if these words were written by the conscious mind but of course they were not and that is what ultimately makes for the difference between machines and man. Now let go.)
Yet some days I feel fine,
Every day I'm dying,
Yet some days you feel fine,
Every day there's weather,
Yet some days the wind blows hard,
Every day I think these thoughts,
Yet some days I let them go,
Like so many colours,
Like so many shades,
All the tones,
All the gradients,
All the textures,
All the fragrances,
All the moments,
All the spaces,
All the fragments we have,
Yet some days I let them go,
In the play of the relative,
Do we find our experience of life,
That which we love and crave,
In the play of the relative,
Do we define a concept called 'I',
Yet one day will 'I' let go.
(Increasingly, as I study hypnotic communication and how this can be used in coaching, I realise that poems are essentially hypnotic scripts. Poems use a lot of the techniques of hypnotic communication to confuse the conscious mind and therefore to open up a channel of communication with the unconscious mind or minds -the many 'mini-minds' as they are referred to in Havens & Walters fascinating book 'Hypnotherapy Scripts'. This simple poem contains some good examples of these techniques. First, it uses a repetitive number of what are known in hypnosis and NLP as 'universal quantifiers' - words such as 'every','some','all'. Universal quantifiers are vague and non-specific hence they prompt the reader to seek for their own interpretation of the words from their own deeper meaning - it is the unconscious mind that provides this meaning by throwing up a picture, a sound or a feeling into the reader's conscious mind. In hypnosis this is referred to as a 'transderivational search' whatever that means - ha, ha. The poem also contains what linguists refer to as a 'lack of referential index'. In plain English what this means is that in the phrase 'Every day you're dying' it is not clear who the 'you' is - is it referring to the reader? Is it referring to a friend or relative of the poet? Is it being used as a generalised term to refer to all people? Again, it is not clear hence the reader is prompted to provide their own meaning and the unconscious mind will provide that, hasn't it? ('tag question') Then there are things known as 'nominalisations' and an example of this is the noun 'weather' - weather does not exist in the real world, it is a made up concept. You can test for 'nominalisations' by asking the question 'Could this noun be put into a wheelbarrow?' A book can be placed in a wheelbarrow but the weather cannot and neither can love or learning or knowledege, etc. The poem also has an 'embedded command' within it 'let them go'. The idea of embedded commands is that by this stage the conscious mind is well confused, the reader is in a mild trance and therefore this command goes straight into the unconscious mind bypassing the filters and biases of conceptual thought. You are much more likely to obey such commands than if they are presented directly to your conscious mind. And then there are metaphors - in this poem the weather is used as a metaphor, the changing weather that never stays the same and therefore is continually letting go. It would all be very clever if these words were written by the conscious mind but of course they were not and that is what ultimately makes for the difference between machines and man. Now let go.)
Saturday, 1 October 2011
Facing it Down
This enemy I am fighting,
Believes it has its teeth in me,
With its final desperate strike,
Believes it can haunt my soul,
With its premonition of darkness,
It taunts with mocking grin,
'Just who is the ruler here?',
It fears that I am about to spill and speak,
About to escape from this dirty prison,
And it is right come win, lose or draw,
It is right that this is the showdown,
Let us face it now why not?
For one of us must be right the other wrong,
Let us have it out now why not?
For my only sickness is doubt,
My only weakness is clinging on,
To the vain idea of my body's reality,
I will not cower in the presence of evil,
I will not shrink back from the truth,
If I fall I wish to fall on a warrior's battlefield,
Charging towards love with a scent of steel,
If I fall I wish to fall laughing at my little self,
Declaring an example that inspires my kin,
Blesses their future path with a showering gold,
So I pull out the fiery darts that pierced my chest,
Spit on the ground that still withstands my frame,
Summon the hordes who have waited this day,
Since paradise was lost and inferno's burned,
Let us take this citadel of our lifetime's fear,
Ransack and plunder the demons within,
In the name of all who tonight shake and weep,
Let us cry 'Release!Release!' in unified roar,
Let us burn every shred of the imposter's lair,
Grimacing at the ruthlessness of virtue's claim,
And waking with a pledge never to relinquish again.
( I wrote this poem in a period when I was experiencing panic attacks about my health. I was driving to a hotel near Oxford and I started getting stinging pains in my chest. I had had these pains over a couple of weeks and it was frightening me. I had started to create dark images in my mind; images of heart attacks and ambulances and the like. As I drove, I played out these vivid fantasies in my mind and I got more and more scared. When I got to my destination I gave myself a good talking to and said 'Right, I am making a stand on this here and now! Let's face this down' So I went to the bar, bought a pint and wrote these words. It was like breaking an evil spell that had got a hold of me and it was time to show it who was the boss of my mind, the boss of my thoughts - ME! Ultimately, I worked myself into an equal and opposite frenzy of courage and defiance amidst a glorious honourable death. In effect, I was creating a new movie in my mind and, through this poem, making it vivid, inspiring and real. As is often the case in my poetry, the words move from the personal to the collective as I broaden out the message from my own puny panic attack to all the worried and the doubting and the frightened in the world. It gives me strength to do this and I hope it gives you strength too. Of course, a few days later I went to visit the doctor and was diagnosed with the not often fatal condition of 'acid reflux'! And I am OK for you to have a good laugh at my expense at this point .....so long as you can put your hand on your heart and tell me you have never, ever had any crazy little fears that have remotely ruled your life.)
Believes it has its teeth in me,
With its final desperate strike,
Believes it can haunt my soul,
With its premonition of darkness,
It taunts with mocking grin,
'Just who is the ruler here?',
It fears that I am about to spill and speak,
About to escape from this dirty prison,
And it is right come win, lose or draw,
It is right that this is the showdown,
Let us face it now why not?
For one of us must be right the other wrong,
Let us have it out now why not?
For my only sickness is doubt,
My only weakness is clinging on,
To the vain idea of my body's reality,
I will not cower in the presence of evil,
I will not shrink back from the truth,
If I fall I wish to fall on a warrior's battlefield,
Charging towards love with a scent of steel,
If I fall I wish to fall laughing at my little self,
Declaring an example that inspires my kin,
Blesses their future path with a showering gold,
So I pull out the fiery darts that pierced my chest,
Spit on the ground that still withstands my frame,
Summon the hordes who have waited this day,
Since paradise was lost and inferno's burned,
Let us take this citadel of our lifetime's fear,
Ransack and plunder the demons within,
In the name of all who tonight shake and weep,
Let us cry 'Release!Release!' in unified roar,
Let us burn every shred of the imposter's lair,
Grimacing at the ruthlessness of virtue's claim,
And waking with a pledge never to relinquish again.
( I wrote this poem in a period when I was experiencing panic attacks about my health. I was driving to a hotel near Oxford and I started getting stinging pains in my chest. I had had these pains over a couple of weeks and it was frightening me. I had started to create dark images in my mind; images of heart attacks and ambulances and the like. As I drove, I played out these vivid fantasies in my mind and I got more and more scared. When I got to my destination I gave myself a good talking to and said 'Right, I am making a stand on this here and now! Let's face this down' So I went to the bar, bought a pint and wrote these words. It was like breaking an evil spell that had got a hold of me and it was time to show it who was the boss of my mind, the boss of my thoughts - ME! Ultimately, I worked myself into an equal and opposite frenzy of courage and defiance amidst a glorious honourable death. In effect, I was creating a new movie in my mind and, through this poem, making it vivid, inspiring and real. As is often the case in my poetry, the words move from the personal to the collective as I broaden out the message from my own puny panic attack to all the worried and the doubting and the frightened in the world. It gives me strength to do this and I hope it gives you strength too. Of course, a few days later I went to visit the doctor and was diagnosed with the not often fatal condition of 'acid reflux'! And I am OK for you to have a good laugh at my expense at this point .....so long as you can put your hand on your heart and tell me you have never, ever had any crazy little fears that have remotely ruled your life.)
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Lamentation
England's great heart bleeds tonight,
Heavy tears roll down her cheeks,
Her eyes burn like a sad destitute,
She lives in a ransacked home,
Her windows are smashed, her pockets picked,
Her back yard a blazing din,
Her children run wild like dogs unleashed,
Her neighbours keep peering in,
The fragile veneer of a civilised life,
Punctured, pierced pulled apart at the seams,
Like a one armed rag doll left to rot,
In a puddle of stale petulant dreams,
Where once was a cause worth fighting for,
Now consumes a paradise emptiness,
Where once was the cross a rallying call,
Now in exile unpleasant land caught,
Green only with envy for the cele-bratty plight,
A mere shadow of her former life.
(Lament, lament, lament,
Children of the golden calf,
Smashed tablets, PC's, correct politcale,
Repent, repent, repent,
Children of the grafted vine,
For the authority you so disdain,
Is soon to attest its might.)
((Some words dedicated to the fourteen year old looters who are springing up in towns across the country like wild mushrooms overnight. The first lines remind us that this is our country, we all make it what it is and what shames one shames us all. This is my house, your house, our back yard, our children running amok whether you like it or not. The poem migrates into a skit on the hymn Jerusalem with its 'green and pleasant land' and points at an idolatry that has taken root in the soul of the country - the worship of a consumer paradise emptiness. The bracketed lines refer to passages from the bible, specifcally Exodus 32:1-35 and Romans 11:17-24.You don't have to read these if you don't care. The tablets referred to could be tablet PC's or the sacred tablets of Moses - who knows, who cares? The authority referred to could be that of the police or that of God - who knows, who cares? Do you? Good night. )
Heavy tears roll down her cheeks,
Her eyes burn like a sad destitute,
She lives in a ransacked home,
Her windows are smashed, her pockets picked,
Her back yard a blazing din,
Her children run wild like dogs unleashed,
Her neighbours keep peering in,
The fragile veneer of a civilised life,
Punctured, pierced pulled apart at the seams,
Like a one armed rag doll left to rot,
In a puddle of stale petulant dreams,
Where once was a cause worth fighting for,
Now consumes a paradise emptiness,
Where once was the cross a rallying call,
Now in exile unpleasant land caught,
Green only with envy for the cele-bratty plight,
A mere shadow of her former life.
(Lament, lament, lament,
Children of the golden calf,
Smashed tablets, PC's, correct politcale,
Repent, repent, repent,
Children of the grafted vine,
For the authority you so disdain,
Is soon to attest its might.)
((Some words dedicated to the fourteen year old looters who are springing up in towns across the country like wild mushrooms overnight. The first lines remind us that this is our country, we all make it what it is and what shames one shames us all. This is my house, your house, our back yard, our children running amok whether you like it or not. The poem migrates into a skit on the hymn Jerusalem with its 'green and pleasant land' and points at an idolatry that has taken root in the soul of the country - the worship of a consumer paradise emptiness. The bracketed lines refer to passages from the bible, specifcally Exodus 32:1-35 and Romans 11:17-24.You don't have to read these if you don't care. The tablets referred to could be tablet PC's or the sacred tablets of Moses - who knows, who cares? The authority referred to could be that of the police or that of God - who knows, who cares? Do you? Good night. )
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