Posts Tagged ‘My Journey’

The Jungle God

The path led through arm thick bamboo,
Up past open glades on that small mountain,
To sit that glad night through
Huddled with Sarah against the wet mist.
Talking on the strange emptiness
At the middle of things.
Pondering slowly,
In the dark Jungle,
On the mysteries.

Then, talking still,
We walked back down
That oriental mount.
On paths worn smooth
By human feet
Through millennia’s use.
Through jungle strange with night,
Sensing our way,
We came upon a dim glade.

We stopped – awe full.
Around us,
Around the central phallic column of stone,
Rising from its Lotus base,
Buzzing power.
Breathless we stood,
Anxious, wondering,
Confronting a sense of death,
An unknown force,
Perhaps a being.

Unprepared, we had stumbled
Into a temple without walls,
A living shrine to a jungle deity,
A god, alive and felt.
Sarah, stunned,
With a presentiment of death,
Stood facing that dark doorway
Known to us all,
Though often mist obscured.
And I, amazed,
And penetrated by the presence,
Stepped slowly forward,
To know it better.
And in its voiceless way it spoke.

It was the timeless jungle life,
Growth, decay, death and renewal.
Forever changing,
Forever the same,
Focused, there in the stone,
Through the ages,
By men and women who,
As we, had pondered the mysteries,
Venerated the stone,
And honoured the traces
Left by past minds.
Traces of perception
And collective wisdom,
Into decay and renewal,
Into life and death.

The forces of the jungle,
And the worshipful mind,
Focused beyond the small view
Of personal existence,
Had glimpsed the great cycles,
The one in the many,
The timeless in the changing,
And fused, they became
This jungle God.
A God evolving and existing
Through countless generations.
The jungle, the collective mind,
Shining through the stone,
In the jungle dimness.

Then it was done.
We were alone again,
In the dark trees,
With the cold stone.

The Interior Castle

I am Recorder.
I record if I can but stand beyond
Personal desire for my own fame,
My own aggrandisement of self.
As recorder I am a priest.
Not a priest in a temple.
Not a priest who needs a building or creed.
I am a priest of life,
Because I am blessed with the ability
To stand naked in the middle of Love.
Imperfect as I am,
I can still stand here as a witness.
Standing in my own weakness,
In the prescence of love,
Naked.

Love is the greatest preparation in realising your Centre,
Your universal spirit.
Love is life, and we cannot set rules and regulations around it.
Telling love what it ought to be doing,
What it should be doing, is ridiculous.
Love is its own law.
It doesn’t need a priest or lawgiver
To tell it what is right or wrong.
It IS life.
It IS the lawgiver, the judge and the goal.
Love carries within it all the magnificent processes of life –
Attraction, repulsion, reproduction, caring and death.

Sometimes all that keeps us alive –
Alive in the sense of having a feeling spirit,
Of having love in our life – even the caring for a pet or a child.
Those are the channels of life in our times.

Finding the depths of Love,
Of Life and its power, is called initiation.
And the first stage of initiation is Opening The Gate.
In this first stage you are allowed into the walled city
Because the gate has been opened to let you in.
And the walled City
Is the secret place of your own being that you,
Out of your own wisdom or fear,
Have kept shut from yourself.
But the city has walls within the outer wall.
So although you are in the gate
You can only move around in the outer circle.
This large part of the city allows you to trade,
To work, to have relationships with other inhabitants,
To make and spend money, and all the other activities of the outer life.
If you live in this first level in a way
That does no harm to other inhabitants;
If you do not proselytise
Or try to get others to follow you as a leader for personal aggrandisement,
Then you are given entrance into the second level of initiation.
This second level is when you begin to see,
Within the ordinary, the strange mystery underlying all things,
And start a quest for it.
And there are seven levels to this interior castle,
Levels that will open to you on the quest.

But I am old.
I am wounded.
And I have trodden the high ground of the interior castle.
I stand here with pride, in my wounds, in my strength,
But mostly in my humility and love.
Those are the gifts
That have been forged through parenthood,
And through the knowledge I have gained.
Blessings to those who shared the land.
Blessings to those who gave to me of themselves
To forge this path upon which I am only a footprint.

It is from this place I wish to speak to you.
I wish to tell you a secret of the High Ground.
It is that Lust transcends all.
It reaches across chasms.
It dares and achieves where the delicate traceries of hope,
Care and succouring cannot exist in the harsh climate.
Perhaps lust throws trace lines across chasms,
Across places previously untrod.
Perhaps it throws a tracery that again and again
May be torn or disrupted – again and again –
Until something holds.
Then, across and through that tiny link,
Life passes, making it a capillary, a vein, an artery.
The artery becomes a thoroughfare,
commonplace and thronged.
That is the life of Pathfinder.

Sometimes lust is enough.
But when we have food enough,
When we have shelter and companionship,
There is time enough for care.
There is time enough to look upon our family
And those near to us and recognise their needs,
And to give of oneself.
That is the first step beyond lust.
This may be called from us by parenthood,
Or by the simple caring for the person sitting next to us,
Injured next to us, dying next to us.
Inadequate as our love may be,
The opening of the second gateway
needs some small measure of love,
Of care, of self-giving.

But beware of large groups –
Of companies – for they take on a life of their own.
Keep your ideals high,
And expect the same from those who deal with you.
To work for an organisation
Is the same as any commited relationship.
If you have given much,
Do not accept being dropped or thrust aside.

And learn from the animals.
Be close to them in your life,
For they are great teachers, and great in love.
Watch the beautiful bitch,
Running, barking in joy at her heat,
But having her eye on a particular male.
There is beauty.
See the horse, running, jumping,
Feeling so free after release from its day’s work.
In that way it is returning to itself,
Returning to the spirit through its free movement.
You too should run thus
And find again the rhythm of your most interior self.

Us little people,
You and I,
With such great loves,
Transcending ourselves
Making us wonders –
Lifting our fearful feet
Beyond our sense of self
Toward some unknown
We dare not tread,
Except through love.

Touched by your
Ever present desire
I am alive
Who was dead.
I am wondrous
Who was ordinary.
I am made
Beyond myself.

The Headache

This headache is driving me mad.
It feels as if my head is splitting.
Something got into my mind,
And it’s expanding so quickly,
My skull can’t hold it.

Hold on though!
I can feel a dent
On the top of my head.
I remember now –
I have been growing so fast,
I banged my head on the sky.

Have you ever done that?
Loved so much,
Experienced in one week,
Enough to last a year?
Then you banged your head
On a cloud?

Well, I hit my head on a star.
Now there’s a hole in my head,
And I’m going to look out of it.
But it’s dark out there.
I’m scared of what I might see.

The sky is so big,
And there are so many stars.
But I am going to look,
Even if it’s dark
And I am afraid.

Oh my God!
This is scary —
I can see my wife,
For the first time in my life.

There are real people out there.
I have never seen them before.
They laugh, they hurt, they cry,
Just like me.
Isn’t that wonderful!

The Code

I had been through
The Beginning
And the Ending of things.
For I was myself all of it.
My birth was my beginning;
And I had just melted into
The Everything
And Known the Ending –
Knowing I am
The death and the resurrection.

Now I had the key to the whole puzzle.
All the years of my life
I have been looking, examining,
Trying to understand.
It was all so much like a game,
The game of Master Mind.
The answer always existing
In the ever-increasing
Information we gather –
In what lies forever right before us.

We would know it immediately
If only we could put it all together,
If only we could see the pattern,
The design of our life experience,
Our education and our relationships.
And then, when we actually see it,
We solve the riddle.
The code is uncovered.
It is all so simple.
So, then, is the process of life and death.

The code explains every part of our experience.
It is the common denominator
Into which everything else fits.
It links opposites.
It explains and resolves conflicts,
And it shows differences
As being only aspects of the one thing,
The other side of the same coin.
But I have seen the code.
I have decoded human existence.

There is no divine plan,
No great preordained future for mankind.
We are integral parts
Of the enormous cycles
Of creation and destruction.
Our existence or non-existence matters not.
And the whole is both infinite change
And infinite being.

What freedom this brings me;
For there is no goal to struggle toward,
Unless I set it for myself –
No place to go,
Unless I desire it –
No task I must perform,
Unless I will it.

And this great maze
Of life experience we meet,
With all its opposites
And opportunities,
Is the wonderful game we play
In learning the code,
In discovering how we have
Created and perpetuated the
Labyrinth of existence
As a metaphor for what we are,
As a mirror for all we have created
And presently give life to.

And Love?
Well, when we see the code,
Love is the precious smile
We know upon the face of things.
It is the gentleness in the moment
Of existence;
The willingness to play
In the midst of uncertainty
And in the abyss of being.

The Cottage

This old Welsh cottage,
That I sit in all alone,
Separating me
With it’s thick walls of river stone,
As I solitary write.

No wife is here to cheer me.
No friends to knock
Upon my door.
No work to make the time pass faster,
Upon a crowded factory floor.

I feel so tired and listless as I sit here.
My feelings come like echoes
From damp walls.
Yet I must find relief from empty feelings
Before an hour passes and night falls.

The tiny garden
Calls for my attention.
The brambles have a stranglehold
From path to tree.
I take the cutters to relieve my tension,
The hacking and the cutting set me free.
The next door neighbour’s children
Run past laughing.
I see their joy shine out
And smile too.

The neighbour shakes my hand.
He’s pleased to see me.
He says the cottage has a lovely view.
I’m pulling weeds out now,
And feeling warmed right through.

A young girl cycles by
She waves to me and I wave too.
I trim the hedge back from the roadway.
The farm dog up the road
Comes down to play.
I throw the stone for him,
He brings it,
And I know that he would play all day.

I go indoors again
And put the tools back.
The cottage feels a warm
And cosy place.
An interwoven part of this whole village,
A haven shaped by every smiling face.

The Body Snatchers

Strange haunting words aren’t they?
You must have heard them —
I love you so much,
That you are life to me.
I cannot live without you.

And I smile,
Because I know what they mean..
I know because
They are my truth.
Without you, I am dead.

My body, you see,
Was taken away from me.
Of course, it was done slowly,
And they started
While I was still very young.

It began with
The loss of my penis.
I had the end cut off.
Mum and dad
Were so nice about it.
They assured me
It was for my own health.

That was confusing,
Because it didn’t feel like that.
It seemed to me I was broken —
A broken teddy bear,
Without a prick.

I was ashamed
To be dragged around
In front of people
Without my dick.
It was broken and dead.
I wanted to be loved,
But I couldn’t ask for love
Without my dickey.

That was why
I killed my father.
That’s why I killed my daddy.
I killed him because
I wanted his prick.
Mine was broken
And I wanted a good one.
So I killed him to get his.

Then they tore my throat out.
I would never be strong,
They told me,
Unless someone ripped it out.

It hurt.
I think mummy and daddy
Really enjoyed this.
They were so nice
As they were dismembering me.
Yet I was dying,
Piece by piece.

Just to make sure
I was really dying,
Mum and dad
Sent me away
When I was only three.

I don’t know about you,
But deep down inside,
I was sure my dad
Would protect me from strangers.
Yet he made no move —
Said no word
To protect me.

I knew then
They didn’t love me.
Small as I was
I would have fought
For my brother or sister.

That took away
My heart.
I had no guts
To go on living.
No heart
To go on loving.

Being dead
I am a body snatcher.
I love you so much
Because I want your body.
I cannot live without you.
I will kill you if I must.

Supposing

Today I noticed for the first time
A small brown mark on my left hand.
True I have been out in the sun,
But I never grow freckles.
This is one of those marks
Old people have on their hands.

I thought – or perhaps it was a hope
That I would never have
Such brown discolourations.
In my imagination of ageing
I had seen my skin wrinkled,
But clear and vibrant.
The mark was something
I noticed in the morning,
Looked at for a few moments
And passed from to other interests.

The day was full of things to enjoy.
At fifty I feel happier
And more vigorous
Than ever before.
Then, in the afternoon,
Sitting among friends
And in the midst of our enjoyment
The thought struck me –
Supposing I fall over!
Supposing I dropped to the floor
Right now.

I was with friends,
Friends to have wild fancies with.
So I followed my mood,
Allowing it to grow leaves and stem,
And remembered,
Though I had never really forgotten,
That my father had – one day –
Fallen over on his garden path.
Busy as ever with things to do
He was walking the path
Fell over
And never got up again.

That’s when I knew
More clearly than ever before
That I am slowly dying.
If I were a leaf on a tree,
The small brown mark would be
The first sign of Autumn
As change touched me
Making me golden.
Then I would fall
From the tree.

But I am not ready
To drop.
Though I am turning brown
There is something I need.
I have a will to spend myself
On my friends,
That I might fall
Feeling well
With the coming of winter.
Of a sudden
I see the face of Death.
I hear its voice.
I know it –
For we have met
Often and always.

Death has the features of
A child I made cry;
The profile of
My loved woman;
Your countenance.
Have I known you?
Then I have known Death.
Have I betrayed any?
Then I have betrayed Death.
And its face is beauty
For it is all things –
Naked,
Undressed of flesh,
Leafless,
Exposed,
Unclad Life –
Without the garment
That our selfhood is.

And the waters in me rose
To tears.
Bathing me in regret
That I had
So often
Forgotten
My love
For the
Naked Beauty.

Silent Music

I heard the silent music again today.
It plays so sweetly sometimes
When I am chopping wood for the fire,
Or standing near the bottom of my garden.
This afternoon it suddenly swelled
As I was near the wood pile,
And I stopped,
Letting my heart fill with it.

I have heard people say
It calls them when
They are near to death.
They are urged to follow it.
But for myself
There is no voice in it
Telling me to be elsewhere.
It is there with me
And the logs,
Or as I walk amongst trees,
Or if hear the echoes of my life’s actions
Harmonising
With its silences.

Dear Rabbit

O rabbit, poor rabbit.
Tremble soft rabbit
And cry, with the
Gentle tears that
Only a rabbit’s heart
Can make.

Rabbit love me
In the snare,
Though my hands
Have put you there.
Though I shaped
Each trembling limb,
Formed the noose
Your neck is in—
Rabbit love me.

This is the loveliest thing,
Dear rabbit, broken now.
The cries your pain let loose
Upon your death,
Have opened up in me,
A sense of pity,
And of love,
Before, that could not be.

Rabbit love me
In the snare,
Though my hands
Have put you there.
Though I shaped
Each trembling limb,
Formed the noose
Your neck is in—
Rabbit love me.

Nosy Neighbours and the Tree of Life

It is one of those days when something changes in the seasons. The brilliant sunshine perhaps? The sudden rise in temperature?

I suppose I have felt it coming for some time, and have been beautifying my house, getting it ready for something I don’t understand in my head, but that I feel strongly inside me.

So this morning I was finishing work in the big bedroom, painting walls and ceiling. It is an old cottage with thick walls, and the windowsill is deep enough to sit in. While filling cracks and holes in this alcove something attracted my attention outside. A couple were on the rooftop next door, looking for somewhere to live – a couple of jackdaws that is. I could see from her movements as she looked down the nearest chimney pot, that the female was keen on this property. The male was sitting on another pot watching her though. He must have seen my slight movement and given her a signal, and they flew off. I seemed to know exactly what he communicated to her. “Let’s get out of here. This place has got nosy neighbours.”

I then went downstairs to find something to open the lid of a can of paint. When I took my toolbox out of the cupboard under the stairs and opened it, something extraordinary happened. There was the shiny little tool I had bought so many months beforehand for just such a need. As I picked it up I had an immense experience of my father, and his father, and all the people who have used tools to create their home — and beyond this the animals that strive so hard to build a nest, to make a den, in which to rear their children. And the wonder was that I knew I am not in any way separated. I am an extension of all they have done or longed to do. Because, there in the small space under my stairs, were all the tools they had left me through their endeavours. And more than that – I knew in those moments, moving me to tears, that my very urge to make my dwelling a place to be proud of is their spirit flowing through me. It is a beautiful clear river of life.

Some days ago I dreamt that I stood before an immense tree. It was old. It was gnarled with the storms and summers of its life. It was wonderful to see. And as I crouched over my toolbox half in the cupboard under the stairs, with tears streaming down my face, I knew that I am the tree of life. I could feel all that has lived before living in me.

It was a precious moment.

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Tony Crisp

Posts Tagged ‘My Journey’