Category: Poems

There is a fierce altar

not far away

or hard to find

but frightening in its simple design,

its stark demands.

That which you hold dear.

The deep mutton of your beliefs,

drag these live and kicking beasts

or old carcasses,

feel the weight of resistance in your body,

your tears that fall or refuse to,

the secret dreams you would die without

– feel the texture of each offering,

the softness of the silks you have spun,

the jagged rocks of pain,

the breathing, tender, live beings in your care.

Loves and compulsions,

fears and steady joys;

empty your pockets

then take off your pants

– the altar has room

for a naked you.

I have a maiden aunt inside,

her world wrapped up in me,

the niece with great potential.

She barges into lines, unafraid

to push ahead for my security,

has snide remarks for all the other girls

and makes sure I go first.

Her vicarious love

has pushed me onto stages

and curled my hair and whispered words

that sound a lot like praise,

encouraging my extra effort;

has dragged me by the hand

off my couch

to see the world and be something.

Without her bustling confidence in me

I might never have moved,

lost in the rhapsodies of childhood.

And now, thank god, she is weak

… she needs my gentle thanks,

my listening to her grief,

my caring hand to tuck her into bed

and watch her die.

“Life sucks,”

the Buddha said,

scratched and smiling.

The falling makes you bleed,

abrasions in the tumbling,

sometimes broken bones

or even dying,

which you think is someone else’s problem.

And so you perch

on that slippery slope,

angry at the wobble,

trying to find a balance

– no, a perfect balance –

and get mad at your wiggling

and try not to hear the mountain rumbling

because it is terrifying.

The falling is inevitable.

And personal.

Coming soon to a theatre near you.

Very soon and very near.

You can choose to wait for the earthquake,

or the avalanche, or the mudslide.

If you like high drama, cling a little longer.

Or you can choose today,

with its gentle springtime

or lush summer

or auburn cool or diamond frost

… today would be good

to start rolling.

 

When Magdalena bought her oil

to slather on the feet of her beloved

while she could still touch them,

seeing in her knowing eye

the thorns ahead

and cherishing each rough callus

of his travelling toes

… she might have been shocked by their anger,

surprised out of her joy

by the judgement of their fear,

awakened to the limits of their minds.

She might have turned in puzzlement

as they counted the cost,

scared by the rich perfume in the air,

the smell of death and decadent sweet life.

She might have turned up her palms,

surrendered to the flow

that was her liberation,

her deep embrace of celebration,

ushering in more compassion

in her vulnerable act of love,

helpless to make them understand.

In her moment of exposure

she might have also seen her road ahead,

her lonely exile, her incommunicable joy,

her running yearning longing to share.

Facing the angry friends,

she might have doubted for a moment

her own wisdom,

the integrated tingle of her body,

which had moved with love

to give away her treasures,

making room for the expensive gifts

she poured onto his soles,

the abandonment of tears and hair

and deferential reverence wiping at the oil.

She might have stood there for a second,

tear-streaked and laughing,

oil dripping from her stringy tresses,

exultation ebbing

in the face of their incomprehension.

And in that shattered moment,

with its layers of loss,

and its layers of succulent glow,

despair and total satiation intermingled,

she might have turned again,

and caught his eye,

and shared the cosmic joke,

and breathed in one deep breath

before the tidying.

Dawning,

grey sky dipping reverentially

to unseen tremors of bright

hiding below the horizon

passive except in the choice to face east

(or here in the north, mostly east),

accepting reverberations of light

and how they change the dark we know.

Fait accompli

even in a piercing grey

with no visible sun,

the dawning will happen

and happened years ago

and will rise again tomorrow.

The becoming is now in these cool shadows

and now in these streaks of arriving

and now in the disruption of familiar dark by the carnival of glory,

and now in the riot of shining

that warms the heart again

on its journey to evening.

Make your own bell if you need to,

invent a sound that will not let you rest,

one that touches your morning

with bright mourning,

the tragic joy of life that is death that is life,

listen to it

calling you to rise.

Stand to whatever real posture you can,

crumple in to the authenticity

that can carry you onwards,

make room for the tolling of the gong.

Faint or strong,

the carillon of your days

is making music

and longs to be heard.

Lick this ice cream,

feel how it is cold and sweet at once,

notice how eager I am to share,

to let it drip on my fingers

and yours

engaged in the sloppy pleasure of living.

Taste what I offer

in this simple act,

scooping what is here,

my childlike concentration and clumsy grace

savouring another now.

I choose to love you

while you are dying,

which is now…

entropy slowing your cells

without evidence,

the ginger of your hair

flashing on the trampoline,

the inexhaustible passion

of your curiosity,

the soft curls of your white hair on your scarf,

the sexy baldness of your tidal lust,

the delicate blond of my paper bag princess…

all these loves

dying while they live,

and me with the midlife gift

of softening to the tragedy,

letting in the tears

that water each breathtaking petal,

rooted in this peaceful garden,

shrivelling to dust

or some timeless nurturing soil.

I want your light

to bounce along the walls of my soul,

reflect off my hiding diamond

… and yours, and yours…

come let us magnify

the twinkle of our days,

open the dark caverns;

more space

for the intensity,

bright dancing.

My teacher,

this clenching gut

demanding attention

… not the most refined

nor credentialled

but deeply wise

when I get past

harsh admonition

to listen.