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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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?
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.