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How do you write The story of a million years? How do you write The story of a river of tears? How do you write The story of eternity? How do you write The mystery of you and me? The whole world's agroaning and travailing in agony Aweeping and afearing as it shuffles towards its destiny. How do you write The story of this tragic throng? How do you write? How do you write? How can you right what's wrong?Barry Long
Goodbye old friend This is the end For you and me The path splits here. You must know It's time to go Old friend, my fiercest foe Farewell. It once was fun To think we'd done To win and lose Reject and choose. But as the youth outgrows the toy Dearest possession of the boy We're through.
In the beginning is the word Now The word is made flesh Now You are born Now You are Now You die Now Yesterday was not or it would be Now See this and you are immortal Now.
The Transcendental Realisation
Nothing. Nothing but I. Origin Black, undistinguished, indistinguishable Being Outside the world Static Forever aware Forever Forever present Forever unformed Forever unable to tell the secret of My being. Yet, not from withholding For I am Origin Source Beginning Everness Now It.
Nothing. I am producing Nothing. And you, My Love, Are producing Everything. As Nothing I am Supreme Being Origin indescribable No-suchness A mystery Of non-stirring, knowledge, ceaseless undetectable presence.
I am Origin of all action and sound And My agency, the lesser being, the creator Is Love.
Love is all. Life is the action of Love Love's business The never-ending tireless endeavour to enact My Being To describe with creation what I am And lovingly creating what I am not. Love fails. Love always fails, yet never tires of failing (Even now, Love groans at its own inadequacy to express in words the Truth I am.)
This the impossible, hopeless task of love The reason why love lives to serve Yet must forever remain sufficient only to itself, that task. Love is the only means I have And the only means to Me Nothing.
I am producing Nothing. An unimaginable substantive endingness More real than even Love. I am the space, the pause, the perimeter of sound and form. I enable Love's beauty to be seen. Where All and the Nothing meet is Man.
Come I will show you a garden Where nothing dies My respite for you When day is done.
Come, I will take you with me Hold my hand My love.
Precious, faintest, sweetest heart Love's subtlety Like purple dust Afloat in light.
Elusive love lay in my heart So light I felt it absent So gentle sweet.
My pen as heavy as my words Inadequate as my tongue To name the namelessness of love.
Can I be so loved, so intimately, so divinely loved? Is it possible for anything to care as much as love?
A screech, I am Out of which Life makes a melody.
Time-honoured am I In my moment, My brief place, Scored by some Mozart Somewhere And played by the pangs and pains Of the earth.
Screeching again I am Abominable poetry ... But dare I, Can I, Judge the Master's Score?
I do not exist But the existence of I is you You do not exist But the existence of you is me. Without me there is no you And there is no existence. Except I. Who do not exist.
Pale frog Cramped still in tadpole garments Waiting for the kiss of life To turn you into Prince Charming. Perhaps the wicked witch herself will die And loose your spell Or the maiden princess Who shares your garden but fears the pond May awake Bathe naked And smile just once in love and passing At your uncomeliness.
The spider of emotion diligently spins her web Urgently repairing every tear That might reveal the truth Since her life depends upon the web. The web the mind The spider the tireless emotion Keeping mind intact Against the piercing rips and tears Of love and truth occasionally perceived Revealing no thing (not even Spider) Behind the web.
Web and spider (horror of the pleasant walk through nature's garden) Rise into existence From that potent place of mind and self Within us pleasant people.
Destroy not nature's spider or her web They are but symbols Of one mighty righteous whole The garden of the earth. Destroy instead The spinner of all wickedness within The spider of my self That spins the web of anguish And does not see the whole The venomous humanised spider Spinning inner dreams and dialogues Of how the garden should be Yet not daring to contemplate the hole The exit from the web Rent by love and truth Lived.
You will not die when you die, poor fellow. God, how I wish that you would. Death is not won so easily. The greatest good takes the greatest effort And your clamour is to live in peace. Die before you die Or you will be stuck with yourself Once again. I have found death But as the hunter not the hunted.
All of the above poems are © Barry Long and arereprinted with permission from his book 'Where the Spirit Speaks To Its Own - The Passion of Spiritual Awakening'
