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.)
Thursday, 29 December 2011
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. )
Saturday, 2 July 2011
The Dogs are Coming
Nothing is subversive nothing is sacred,
All the lines are blurred the scenery shifting,
You don't know where you stand,
Because what you stand on is sinking,
What you are breathing is a mixture,
Of this and that, that and this,
You are hypnotised, yes, you are hypnotised,
Entranced, in trance and goggle eyed,
Your conscious mind is asleep,
So in flies the buzzing host of lies,
Your doors are swinging open unhinged,
It scares the horses this whispering wind,
That you let in, let in, keep letting in,
You are hypnotised, yes, you are hypnotised,
Unprotected defiled by a daily diatribe,
Bent double by undigested flik and flak,
Pummeled flat by a stampeding herd,
Who heard that you were easy fare,
Ropeless, hopeless, loves shattered pride,
Left in the gutter with nothing to hide,
Are you now satisfied that,
Unlike this poem,
Your dream,
Will never,
End?
(Sometimes poems just come and there is no stopping them. Its like having a bad case of the runs. This was certainly true for this poem. I was on the 9.20 train to London just pulling into Euston musing about Beyonce appearing at The Glastonbury festival 2011. 'Nothing is subversive any more' I thought 'not even Glastonbury' ....and then I heard someone else in my head say 'Nothing is sacred either'....And then I heard 'All the lines are blurred..' and I hurriedly got out my iphone and started writing. The problem was that the train had come to a halt and I needed to get off but I couldn't stop so I was walking down the platform still tapping on my phone ... 'What you are breathing is a mixture'...then I was on the underground trying to stay on my feet as the carriages swayed...'defiled by a daily diatribe'..then I was waiting for my client in their office reception...'Left in the gutter with nothing to hide'. All the time I am thinking why can't you wait? Why can't you wait? Well, I got my answer because after my coaching session I met a friend and found myself reading this freshly born poem to them. I finished reading it and suddenly declared 'Maybe this poem is for you. Yes, it is for you but it has no title'. 'The Dogs are Coming' my friend replied as if stating the blindingly obvious 'The title is The Dogs are Coming'. 'Yes, bang on' I replied 'The Dogs are Coming - that is the title'. So that is it. That is how poems are made. A very personal poem for a very specific person. As such it is private and I am not going to explain it any more to you, so there :) )
All the lines are blurred the scenery shifting,
You don't know where you stand,
Because what you stand on is sinking,
What you are breathing is a mixture,
Of this and that, that and this,
You are hypnotised, yes, you are hypnotised,
Entranced, in trance and goggle eyed,
Your conscious mind is asleep,
So in flies the buzzing host of lies,
Your doors are swinging open unhinged,
It scares the horses this whispering wind,
That you let in, let in, keep letting in,
You are hypnotised, yes, you are hypnotised,
Unprotected defiled by a daily diatribe,
Bent double by undigested flik and flak,
Pummeled flat by a stampeding herd,
Who heard that you were easy fare,
Ropeless, hopeless, loves shattered pride,
Left in the gutter with nothing to hide,
Are you now satisfied that,
Unlike this poem,
Your dream,
Will never,
End?
(Sometimes poems just come and there is no stopping them. Its like having a bad case of the runs. This was certainly true for this poem. I was on the 9.20 train to London just pulling into Euston musing about Beyonce appearing at The Glastonbury festival 2011. 'Nothing is subversive any more' I thought 'not even Glastonbury' ....and then I heard someone else in my head say 'Nothing is sacred either'....And then I heard 'All the lines are blurred..' and I hurriedly got out my iphone and started writing. The problem was that the train had come to a halt and I needed to get off but I couldn't stop so I was walking down the platform still tapping on my phone ... 'What you are breathing is a mixture'...then I was on the underground trying to stay on my feet as the carriages swayed...'defiled by a daily diatribe'..then I was waiting for my client in their office reception...'Left in the gutter with nothing to hide'. All the time I am thinking why can't you wait? Why can't you wait? Well, I got my answer because after my coaching session I met a friend and found myself reading this freshly born poem to them. I finished reading it and suddenly declared 'Maybe this poem is for you. Yes, it is for you but it has no title'. 'The Dogs are Coming' my friend replied as if stating the blindingly obvious 'The title is The Dogs are Coming'. 'Yes, bang on' I replied 'The Dogs are Coming - that is the title'. So that is it. That is how poems are made. A very personal poem for a very specific person. As such it is private and I am not going to explain it any more to you, so there :) )
Saturday, 25 June 2011
Cloying Vines
Cloying vines of guilt,
Trip you up,
Hold you down,
Keep you small,
Tempt you into responsibility,
Tempt you into carrying other peoples burdens,
Whilst they sleep light and flutter free,
Cloying vines of guilt,
Bred from a crime you did not commit,
The crime of the hungry wolves,
Who devoured your innocent soul,
So you could cover their tracks,
And dress them up worship them serve them,
Free them from their tears through your fear,
Of living in a godless loveless world,
Cloying vines of guilt,
A jungle of rampant undergrowth,
Yet one in which you have built a lonely home,
A sense of shrouded security,
A prison for your dreams and divinity,
Until the scales fall from your eyes,
And the catastrophic truth sets you free,
I did not crucify Gods son,
Neither did you,
The redeemer redeemed,
And the ascension prevailed.
(It is timely for me to post this poem following a conversation I had with a friend yesterday on this theme. We were discussing our needs and how we feel when we stand up for our needs. For both of us this feels difficult because we feel guilty about appearing 'needy' and we fear the reaction and judgement of those with whom we are in relationship. Somehow, somewhere we learnt that to express our inner needs and expect these to be met was not our right. No, this was the right of others and it was our duty, our loyal duty, to meet the needs of others. This is what we were taught as the natural order of things exept it is not natural at all. Yet if this is how we define love and care in a mutual relationship then this is what we will get. If this is all you have known then how can you imagine more without triggering the 'cloying vines of guilt'. This is a truly devious lie and one which it takes great courage to unravel and to face. For who's guilt is it that you are choosing to carry if it is not yours? Who originally 'outsourced' this guilt to you and tempted you into accepting it if not someone who you thought you could trust? Hence, as you follow this trail you arrive at the 'catastrophic truth' - there have been 'hungry wolves' in your life and you did not recognise them and you still do not recognise them for to do so leaves you without your dream. Hence you wander along, niaive and hoping it won't happen again; attracting those very wolves and their ravenous desires. The last four lines of the poem contain the keys to unlock this prison. I have expressed them in religious terms yet this is only one way of phrasing things. In essence, these words are the instant release from guilt.)
Trip you up,
Hold you down,
Keep you small,
Tempt you into responsibility,
Tempt you into carrying other peoples burdens,
Whilst they sleep light and flutter free,
Cloying vines of guilt,
Bred from a crime you did not commit,
The crime of the hungry wolves,
Who devoured your innocent soul,
So you could cover their tracks,
And dress them up worship them serve them,
Free them from their tears through your fear,
Of living in a godless loveless world,
Cloying vines of guilt,
A jungle of rampant undergrowth,
Yet one in which you have built a lonely home,
A sense of shrouded security,
A prison for your dreams and divinity,
Until the scales fall from your eyes,
And the catastrophic truth sets you free,
I did not crucify Gods son,
Neither did you,
The redeemer redeemed,
And the ascension prevailed.
(It is timely for me to post this poem following a conversation I had with a friend yesterday on this theme. We were discussing our needs and how we feel when we stand up for our needs. For both of us this feels difficult because we feel guilty about appearing 'needy' and we fear the reaction and judgement of those with whom we are in relationship. Somehow, somewhere we learnt that to express our inner needs and expect these to be met was not our right. No, this was the right of others and it was our duty, our loyal duty, to meet the needs of others. This is what we were taught as the natural order of things exept it is not natural at all. Yet if this is how we define love and care in a mutual relationship then this is what we will get. If this is all you have known then how can you imagine more without triggering the 'cloying vines of guilt'. This is a truly devious lie and one which it takes great courage to unravel and to face. For who's guilt is it that you are choosing to carry if it is not yours? Who originally 'outsourced' this guilt to you and tempted you into accepting it if not someone who you thought you could trust? Hence, as you follow this trail you arrive at the 'catastrophic truth' - there have been 'hungry wolves' in your life and you did not recognise them and you still do not recognise them for to do so leaves you without your dream. Hence you wander along, niaive and hoping it won't happen again; attracting those very wolves and their ravenous desires. The last four lines of the poem contain the keys to unlock this prison. I have expressed them in religious terms yet this is only one way of phrasing things. In essence, these words are the instant release from guilt.)
Saturday, 18 June 2011
Freedom to Live
Wingspan unknown this golden bird,
Colonies diverse in stale undergrowth,
Leaves that sway, reeds that bend,
Sounds of the deepest, bluest seas,
Gait of the man with nothing to lose,
Ripple of the water in a cup of tea,
View from the bridge, the mountain, the pier,
Taste from the spice, the sauce, the lube,
Touch of an angel, still by my side,
Glimpse of a future, certain and free,
Blessing of a son who is taller than me,
Beating of a heart deep inside of thee,
Fingers in the pie, pennies in the stream,
This the rising chorus of a sensual parade,
This the flooded plain of my consciousness,
The glory, the beauty, the sheen of pain,
This the puzzle, the picture, the place inbetween,
The sense, the nonsense, the proliferate world,
The panoply, the pandora, the gaping box,
Bulging, splitting, stretching from its full countenance,
Timeless, endless, wordless peace,
The freedom to live,
And the freedom to die,
Asleep in your arms,
Asleep in your arms,
The freedom to live,
And the freedom to die,
Asleep in your alms,
Asleep in your alms.
(This poem is an indulgent play on words. It is a rush of phrases that initially appear to have no real connection. Yet it is immensely sensual - sights, sounds, tastes, touches. It is uplifting in its scale and range. The reader feels like they are being taken on some grand tour of natural reaility - a thrilling perspective, a sensual parade. With this airborne lightness comes a bursting, exhilarating freedom - the freedom to live. As in many of my poems, the unconscious is siezing its moment to take over the controls and 'flood' the mind with its unique, mysterious, eternal vision. It quickly sidesteps words and subtitutes a level of real experience that is excruciating in its intensity. Finally, the conscious mind is overhwelmed and falls asleep. A deep sleep. Asleep in your arms - who's arms? Asleep in your alms. Alms? - 'In Buddhism, alms or almsgiving is the respect given by a lay Buddhist to a Buddhist monk, nun, spiritually-developed person or other sentient being. It is not charity as presumed by Western interpreters. It is closer to a symbolic connection to the spiritual and to show humbleness and respect in the presence of normal society.The visible presence of monks and nuns is a stabilizing influence. The act of alms giving assists in connecting the human to the monk or nun and what he/she represents'. ). Bless you.
Colonies diverse in stale undergrowth,
Leaves that sway, reeds that bend,
Sounds of the deepest, bluest seas,
Gait of the man with nothing to lose,
Ripple of the water in a cup of tea,
View from the bridge, the mountain, the pier,
Taste from the spice, the sauce, the lube,
Touch of an angel, still by my side,
Glimpse of a future, certain and free,
Blessing of a son who is taller than me,
Beating of a heart deep inside of thee,
Fingers in the pie, pennies in the stream,
This the rising chorus of a sensual parade,
This the flooded plain of my consciousness,
The glory, the beauty, the sheen of pain,
This the puzzle, the picture, the place inbetween,
The sense, the nonsense, the proliferate world,
The panoply, the pandora, the gaping box,
Bulging, splitting, stretching from its full countenance,
Timeless, endless, wordless peace,
The freedom to live,
And the freedom to die,
Asleep in your arms,
Asleep in your arms,
The freedom to live,
And the freedom to die,
Asleep in your alms,
Asleep in your alms.
(This poem is an indulgent play on words. It is a rush of phrases that initially appear to have no real connection. Yet it is immensely sensual - sights, sounds, tastes, touches. It is uplifting in its scale and range. The reader feels like they are being taken on some grand tour of natural reaility - a thrilling perspective, a sensual parade. With this airborne lightness comes a bursting, exhilarating freedom - the freedom to live. As in many of my poems, the unconscious is siezing its moment to take over the controls and 'flood' the mind with its unique, mysterious, eternal vision. It quickly sidesteps words and subtitutes a level of real experience that is excruciating in its intensity. Finally, the conscious mind is overhwelmed and falls asleep. A deep sleep. Asleep in your arms - who's arms? Asleep in your alms. Alms? - 'In Buddhism, alms or almsgiving is the respect given by a lay Buddhist to a Buddhist monk, nun, spiritually-developed person or other sentient being. It is not charity as presumed by Western interpreters. It is closer to a symbolic connection to the spiritual and to show humbleness and respect in the presence of normal society.The visible presence of monks and nuns is a stabilizing influence. The act of alms giving assists in connecting the human to the monk or nun and what he/she represents'. ). Bless you.
Friday, 10 June 2011
Against the Grain
Carrying torches with purple flames,
In a circle of white robes,
My hand steady on yours,
Fear not the hidden world of shadows,
Where nothing is quite as it seems,
Though you are wide awake yet you sleep,
Amongst the radiance of life's creating forces,
And one click of my fingers is all it needs,
One dipping of the bread and casual aside,
For these powers to rupture reality's sheen,
Your faith will heal you, your love remains,
All else slips through our hands like sand,
On the shores of an infinite impossible sea,
Gold and blue and red with cherubs and more,
We bask in the profound mysteries of our forefathers,
And glory that a grain of knowledge itches so.
(I was talking to my wife, Jane, last night about the unconscious mind. Not your average 'over the dinner table' conversation but it did seem to grab our interest for a while. We got onto the phrase 'poetic license' and whether this means being given permission to talk nonsense under the guise of being artistic. Naturally, I felt compelled to share one of my poems with Jane at this point so I read her 'Against the Grain'. At the end of a very dramatic and fluent recital, I looked up and Jane said 'That's nonsense!' and I replied 'No, its poetic license'. She said 'Well ,what does it mean?'. And I said 'Well, its a poem about the unconscious mind and the hidden yet powerful role its plays in our lives. 'Fear not the hidden world of shadows, Where nothing is quite as it seems'. Because even when we think we are operating from our conscious mind the unconscious is still at work.'Though you are wide awake yet you sleep,Amongst the radiance of life's creating forces'. Under hynposis or in the presence of a great spiritual teacher then a simple physical gesture can trigger a trance. 'And one click of my fingers is all it needs, One dipping of the bread and casual aside,For these powers to rupture reality's sheen'. We suddenly question what it is real and who is really in charge.'Your faith will heal you, your love remains,All else slips through our hands like sand'. And we are dazzled by the amazing possibilities of this colourful new world. 'On the shores of an infinite impossible sea,Gold and blue and red with cherubs and more,We bask in the profound mysteries of our forefathers'. This glimpse of something different, something endless and beyond our grasp.'And glory that a grain of knowledge itches so'. Does that make sense to you?
In a circle of white robes,
My hand steady on yours,
Fear not the hidden world of shadows,
Where nothing is quite as it seems,
Though you are wide awake yet you sleep,
Amongst the radiance of life's creating forces,
And one click of my fingers is all it needs,
One dipping of the bread and casual aside,
For these powers to rupture reality's sheen,
Your faith will heal you, your love remains,
All else slips through our hands like sand,
On the shores of an infinite impossible sea,
Gold and blue and red with cherubs and more,
We bask in the profound mysteries of our forefathers,
And glory that a grain of knowledge itches so.
(I was talking to my wife, Jane, last night about the unconscious mind. Not your average 'over the dinner table' conversation but it did seem to grab our interest for a while. We got onto the phrase 'poetic license' and whether this means being given permission to talk nonsense under the guise of being artistic. Naturally, I felt compelled to share one of my poems with Jane at this point so I read her 'Against the Grain'. At the end of a very dramatic and fluent recital, I looked up and Jane said 'That's nonsense!' and I replied 'No, its poetic license'. She said 'Well ,what does it mean?'. And I said 'Well, its a poem about the unconscious mind and the hidden yet powerful role its plays in our lives. 'Fear not the hidden world of shadows, Where nothing is quite as it seems'. Because even when we think we are operating from our conscious mind the unconscious is still at work.'Though you are wide awake yet you sleep,Amongst the radiance of life's creating forces'. Under hynposis or in the presence of a great spiritual teacher then a simple physical gesture can trigger a trance. 'And one click of my fingers is all it needs, One dipping of the bread and casual aside,For these powers to rupture reality's sheen'. We suddenly question what it is real and who is really in charge.'Your faith will heal you, your love remains,All else slips through our hands like sand'. And we are dazzled by the amazing possibilities of this colourful new world. 'On the shores of an infinite impossible sea,Gold and blue and red with cherubs and more,We bask in the profound mysteries of our forefathers'. This glimpse of something different, something endless and beyond our grasp.'And glory that a grain of knowledge itches so'. Does that make sense to you?
Sunday, 20 March 2011
The Gold
Behind the guilt I found the anger,
Behind the anger I found the gold,
The gold of courage,
The gold of peace,
The gold for which I had long dug deep,
The gold that glistened,
The gold that stung,
A thousand memories,
A thousand truths,
Behind the guilt I found the anger,
Behind the anger I found the gold,
The gold of courage,
The gold of peace,
The gold of redemption,
Forever ours to keep.
(Feelings are tricky characters, aren't they? Forever hiding under layers of intellectual thought and scurrying away when you try to track them down. You grab them by the tail and they twist and squirm trying to avoid being pulled into the light of day, preferring to skulk in the darker recesses of your being and pounce at their own choosing and in their own disruptive way. This simple poem describes trying to chase the emotion of guilt, focussing upon it very hard until it passed away and was replaced by a deeper and more fundamental feeling of anger. When this was in turn focussed upon and allowed to express itself then it too passed away and behind that - the gold! A positive feeling suddently emerged - a feeling of courage and peace. These deeper feelings are often older in their origin yet can only be felt when other more recent feelings have been given their due notice. They can also be more powerful like a classic vintage that has been kept for a special day. Yes, funny old things these feelings.....)
Behind the anger I found the gold,
The gold of courage,
The gold of peace,
The gold for which I had long dug deep,
The gold that glistened,
The gold that stung,
A thousand memories,
A thousand truths,
Behind the guilt I found the anger,
Behind the anger I found the gold,
The gold of courage,
The gold of peace,
The gold of redemption,
Forever ours to keep.
(Feelings are tricky characters, aren't they? Forever hiding under layers of intellectual thought and scurrying away when you try to track them down. You grab them by the tail and they twist and squirm trying to avoid being pulled into the light of day, preferring to skulk in the darker recesses of your being and pounce at their own choosing and in their own disruptive way. This simple poem describes trying to chase the emotion of guilt, focussing upon it very hard until it passed away and was replaced by a deeper and more fundamental feeling of anger. When this was in turn focussed upon and allowed to express itself then it too passed away and behind that - the gold! A positive feeling suddently emerged - a feeling of courage and peace. These deeper feelings are often older in their origin yet can only be felt when other more recent feelings have been given their due notice. They can also be more powerful like a classic vintage that has been kept for a special day. Yes, funny old things these feelings.....)
Sunday, 2 January 2011
Friend or Foe
My mind unravels like frayed cotton,
It jumps, it stumbles, it starts, it stops,
An unreliable witness and a faltering friend,
It gnaws at the bone of my identity,
As if it's activity were the key and the touchstone,
My, it is so high and mighty,
Yet perched on the cliff edge of it's own arrogance,
My, it is so convinced and convincing,
Spinning out half lies and half truths half heartedly,
We fall together wrapped in stale question marks,
Fall together forever poking at our pointless wit,
The 'I' and the 'me' and the grasping for the future,
Like Job and all his learned, impassioned friends,
Casting out pronunciations on this, that, the other,
Like we know, like we could even touch the hem,
Of the intricate blazing glory that doth surround us,
The crushing detail of each second's magnificence,
The sea of heaven's complexity in which we swim,
Yet we dare not drown, dare we?
We who are lost, so lost, in the supremacy of human ideology!
(This a poem about the human mind. it asks the question whether our mind is our friend or our foe. It challenges our habit of forming opinions based on limited data and yet holding to these opinions as facts. it reminds me of the work of Professor Chris Argyris on what he calls the 'ladder of inference' ( see http://www.solonline.org/repository/download/ladder.html?item_id=456358 ). Argris states 'We live in a world of self-generating beliefs which remain largely untested. We adopt those beliefs because they are based on conclusions, which are inferred from what we observe, plus our past experience. Our ability to achieve the results we truly desire is eroded by our feelings that i) Our beliefs are the truth ii) The truth is obvious iii) Our beliefs are based on real data iv) The data we select are the real data.' Why does this human habit get in the way of us achieving what we truly desire? I think the clue to the answer to this question lies in the last five lines of the poem ('Like we know...') - our mind needs to create boundaries and limits in order to give itself a separated identity. It has to do this in order to form any opinion at all because it needs, at an absolute minimum, a subject and an object. It needs an 'I'. Yet the moment it seeks this identity it loses its sense of awe and its sense of unlinmited possibilities. As we set our New Year goals and resolutions let us be aware of this tricky character - the monkey mind!)
It jumps, it stumbles, it starts, it stops,
An unreliable witness and a faltering friend,
It gnaws at the bone of my identity,
As if it's activity were the key and the touchstone,
My, it is so high and mighty,
Yet perched on the cliff edge of it's own arrogance,
My, it is so convinced and convincing,
Spinning out half lies and half truths half heartedly,
We fall together wrapped in stale question marks,
Fall together forever poking at our pointless wit,
The 'I' and the 'me' and the grasping for the future,
Like Job and all his learned, impassioned friends,
Casting out pronunciations on this, that, the other,
Like we know, like we could even touch the hem,
Of the intricate blazing glory that doth surround us,
The crushing detail of each second's magnificence,
The sea of heaven's complexity in which we swim,
Yet we dare not drown, dare we?
We who are lost, so lost, in the supremacy of human ideology!
(This a poem about the human mind. it asks the question whether our mind is our friend or our foe. It challenges our habit of forming opinions based on limited data and yet holding to these opinions as facts. it reminds me of the work of Professor Chris Argyris on what he calls the 'ladder of inference' ( see http://www.solonline.org/repository/download/ladder.html?item_id=456358 ). Argris states 'We live in a world of self-generating beliefs which remain largely untested. We adopt those beliefs because they are based on conclusions, which are inferred from what we observe, plus our past experience. Our ability to achieve the results we truly desire is eroded by our feelings that i) Our beliefs are the truth ii) The truth is obvious iii) Our beliefs are based on real data iv) The data we select are the real data.' Why does this human habit get in the way of us achieving what we truly desire? I think the clue to the answer to this question lies in the last five lines of the poem ('Like we know...') - our mind needs to create boundaries and limits in order to give itself a separated identity. It has to do this in order to form any opinion at all because it needs, at an absolute minimum, a subject and an object. It needs an 'I'. Yet the moment it seeks this identity it loses its sense of awe and its sense of unlinmited possibilities. As we set our New Year goals and resolutions let us be aware of this tricky character - the monkey mind!)
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