The Winds of Change in the Twilit Hours: A Poem

The winds of change
are blowing a gale,
rattling my old sash window frame,
and a draft is sneaking past
the sleepy door snake
guarding my humble parlour.  

A wayward leaf,
its short life spent,
flutters against the window pane —
a timely reminder that
like most things in this life,
this sojourn, too, shall pass.

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A Subtle Reminder: A Poem

I'm burning sandalwood today,
and its fragrance reminds me
of the subtle realm
ever-present behind – and beyond
the cheap plastic façade
and gossamer-thin veils
we foolishly think of
as civilisation
and “the Real World”.

 

Okay, So. But Listen: A Poem

Okay, so ...

The politician
Is a nasti piece of work,
And the oligarch
Really is a callous jerk.

All the world's oceans
Are a filthy toilet bowl,
And the floods and fires
Are raging out of control.

I down two cans of beer
Oh – go on! – let's make it three,
To wash away all
My blues and anxiety.

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.