Lines Drawn in the Sand: A Poem

Oh, subtle intimations of the hidden world
That grace our dreams by night and inspire thoughts by day,
Every which way I turn I glimpse some deeper truth
And yet – what use to me, if here unmoved I stay?
  
There's an incoming message I must deliver,
A note to myself and “To whom it may concern”,
Things are coming to a head, more storms are brewing;
No time for delay – nor yet to the bar adjourn.
  
In film, book, poetry, art, and common street talk
Blessèd, subversive, kindred souls of secrets hint,
Stirring the dying embers of some age-old fire
Or striking new sparks in kindling with their sharp flint.

  

Secret Friends: The Ramblings of a Madman in Search of a Soul

The first draft of the psi-fi work Secret Friends: The Ramblings of a Madman in Search of a Soul, by H. M. Forester, has just been released.

 

The writer and thinker Idries Shah laid out his contemporary, Western projection of the Sufi Way in a great many books over the years, and Secret Friends draws, in part, on the inner experiences of Robert Llewelyn George in his faltering attempts to follow that mystical path.

The intrepid psychonaut, Carl Gustav Jung also documents his own inner travels in his Red Book, and later in his published journals, the Black Books.

This, then, you might call Louie’s Little Green Book.

The Early-Morning Briefing: A Poem

Eugenie breezed back into my life this morn,
and stirred me from the most sublime slumber.
There I was floating aloft a twilit cloud,
when – “Presto!” – my soul was jerked back down to earth.
 
“This is your early-morning wake-up call.
Rise and shine and show a leg there, shipmate!
Jump out of bed and fling the curtains wide,
rub your sleepy eyes, and turn on the telly.”

Re-enchantment in a Material World

O stars,

isn’t it from you that the lover’s desire for the face

of his beloved arises? Doesn’t his secret insight

into her pure features come from the pure constellations?

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, “The Third Duino Elegy”.

From The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke,

(transl. Stephen Mitchell).

Boiling frogs

It’s said in fable that if you take a frog and plunge it into boiling water, it will experience shock and immediately jump out. But if you place a frog in tepid water and slowly heat it, the frog will not sense the change, will not see the danger, and will be slowly and inexorably boiled to death. More than a fable, this is a metaphor for where we are right now, as individuals, as group members, as a culture, and as a planetary collective – some materialists, illusionists and sceptics might say a slime mould on Earth’s surface, a cancerous growth, or a plague. The mystic and philosopher Gurdjieff would say that we are asleep; his student P. D. Ouspensky, that we are automatons.

Squadron of Simpletons

As psychologist Robert Ornstein pointed out, we are not one single, unified “I” but are largely governed by a “squadron of simpletons” or idiots, between which we frequently shape-shift, each running his or her own sub-program, with an outlook that is often myopic and blinkered, and with little effective central command or coordination. Many of these psychic simpletons were acquired in more primitive times when we were daily faced with dangers that demanded a swift reaction – “fight, flight or freeze” – and which are simply not geared-up to noticing or thoughtfully responding to the sort of slow-moving creep of trends such as nuclear proliferation; global warming – which has at long last been recognized by some as a climate crisis, though of course disparaged by denialists, contrarians and conspiracy theorists who dub themselves “climate realists” – biodiversity loss; and sham-materialism – Shammat, which is documented in Doris Lessing’s Canopus in Argos series of sci-fi novels.

Beyond the Point of No Return: A Poem

For what seemed an aeon, I searched in vain
for the fabled Ladder to the Stars.
With so much loss and yet so little gain,
close I came – but still, no cigars.
 
On I trod in the steps of Greater Men,
with nothing but the goal in mind.
And one mile turned to two, seven leagues to ten;
these greater men guiding the blind.

Lost Soul in a Disenchanted World: A Poem

I approached the regal Lady sitting before me,
and fell to my knees, clutching at her velvet dress.
Salty tears pressed hard behind my eyeballs and welled-up,
and I cried out in heart-felt sorrow and distress.
 
“So many abandoned me for the Sky Gods,” sighed She,
“I, who feed and nurture you and from whose womb you spring.
Dear heart, I nurse you, protect and cherish you,
for I’m anima mundi and in me you cling.”
 

The Cracks in the Concrete: A Poem

“I think I’m losing my mind,” I blurted out
to the only bright-eyed person I could find
in this fathomless sea of darkly-sunken, vacant faces.
A sentient soul in this disenchanted land of the blind.
 
The old man raised an eyebrow and broadly smiled:
“Come, sit a moment while you find calm,” he beckoned.
“Then we’ll take a walk and leave these cares behind.”
I drew a deep breath, and then drew a second.
  

Arcadia Revisited: A Poem

Once upon a time, beyond place and time,
and everywhere you cared to ramble,
there stood a Garden no digger touched,
nor black tarmacked road, nor death-dark mill.

If you use reason, you will be deceived
into thinking it mere childish myth.
But open your heart and you will sense:
though long overgrown, it still endures.
  

The Highs and Lows on the Road to Atonement: A Poem

It all began long, long ago, when I fatefully put my feet up.
Week after week I’d laboured, sprucing house from top to tail.
I’d burnt the candle at both ends, but now I drank a cup,
yet while my body’s work was done, my mind still blew a gale.

Up, up I flew and farther still; to the dizzying heights I reached.
Entranced by associative delight — until fright snatched hold of me.
Symbol, sign and metaphor, the flood my defences breached;
burst and scattered far and wide, connected teardrops in a sea.

The Lovers' Inner Sense: A Poem

Softly-spoken, sentimental words, they arise welcome yet unbidden,
like affectionate rays of sun, through dense woodland crowns.
Lighting up a sacred space in the undergrowth and
glinting in the swirling, gurgling waters of the nearby brook.
  
A rustling in the autumn leaves draws my attention.
“Hello, Lickle Sleepy Eyes”, she whispers, both strange yet so familiar.
And I catch a snatch of a voice I haven’t heard for many moons,
cooing softly: “We, too, love to be recognized and loved.”
  

A Perfect Storm is Brewing

Yes, the COVID-19 coronavirus pandemic is deeply worrying.

However, I’m more alarmist about the bigger picture, of which COVID-19 is just one component; the possibility of a “perfect storm” with other factors in there.

For example:

• the climate crisis and biodiversity loss (and their inevitable economic repercussions);
• mass migration to escape war, famine, degradation; etc.
• the end of the bull market, deregulation since the last market crash, the reduced capacity to stimulate economies, obscene federal and national debt (for which unsustainable growth and consumption are required, in some ways a Ponzi scheme) – aka “late-stage capitalism”;
• protectionist, polarized, nationalist populism and oligarchy (though globalization has its cons, such as complex, vulnerable and eco-unfriendly international supply chains, trade wars); or, for that matter, liberal elitism;
• what philosopher, linguist and poet Jean Gebser calls the late-stage (left-brain), deficient mode of the mental-rational structure of consciousness – with no guarantee that we’ll survive to evolve into a more integral mode of thought and action / being;
• an erosion of the social safety nets (and a reduction in social mobility) that would help many people through these crises, aka neo-peasantry;
• the fragmentation and growing powerless of communities;
• more generally: misinformation, disinformation and its weaponization, coupled with a loss of honour and truthfulness (the era of post-modernism and post-truth);

I’ve probably missed many vital elements out here, but you get the gist.

“Why are you giving away your mystical adventure and sci-fi ebooks?”

I started writing way back, long before terms like “self publishing” and “indie authors” were coined; a time when people still turned up their noses at what they perceived to be “vanity publishing”. Along came the e-book and the Amazon Kindle, and I decided to make the most of this opportunity, and take charge of the publishing and marketing process, using the newly-emergent social media of Facebook, Twitter, blogging platforms, and – to a lesser extent – Google+.

This worked fine for some time, but as more and more joined the indie gravy train; as indie became more and more mainstream; and as marketing gradually became a matter of who could shout the loudest in this new, hustling, bustling marketplace, I became more and more disenchanted with the direction that things were heading, at least for me.

I've always shied away from competition, in favour of healthy cooperation, and much prefer the road less travelled, or dancing to the beat of a different drum, to mainstream activity, fashion and craze. In one of the books, a wise, old character advises: “The mind observes and cogitates, the heart engages, and I would encourage you to engage with the process,” and I've tried to take her sage advice. When your heart is engaged in something fun and hopefully worthwhile, there is no distinction between work and play, and I'd very much like to keep it that way.