As soon as I try to infuse a line With meter and rhyme, I’ve murdered it. As soon as I try to gain Through knowledge what I already Instinctively know, I’ve lost it. Soon I’ll give up everything For this poetry, It’ll drive me to ruin And I would gladly accept it With my hand out, waiting For the next line.
You don’t have to know some Mystical Secret or have a Divine Character to attract nature. All you have to do is take an interest and soon you’ll have birds at your window, squirrels at your back porch, flowers in your garden and fruit on the vine. Suddenly you’re a modern day Pan, you’re a Forest Nymph all because you took an interest.
We are all but a tincture within the alchemy of consciousness.
A Tincture is the essence of some thing. An infusion from the other side, the unknown, the formless. Basho dedicated his life to the tincture of poetry. Einstein to the sciences. What about you? The essence is something that predates you, or me, and it is you and me. Art; poetry, painting, acting, music, hell even the salesman, the sciences, usually it brings joy, which is why we follow it, but it can also bring hell. What about emotions? Those are innate as well and you could certainly say that an emotion is the form that an essence takes. Part of the process is the discovery of what it is that takes you away. Then the other part is accepting it. Giving yourself up to it. I’ve spent so much time carving out these places of self, these self identifiers, laying down markers with material things. Though all of these things can only, eventually, bring me to a place of selflessness. When we are dedicated and focused, where do we go? Do we become infused with the thing we are dedicated to? In death does consciousness turn back into the essence which we’ve spent the most time investing in?
In truth I am not any one thing, I encompass all things Some are remembered from Aeons ago Others forgotten entirely Crushed under the weight of my ego.
I have the capacity to turn like the wind To change course, in the split of a hair.
With my head in the clouds And my feet off the ground I look upon the blue convex horizon And find that all the gods of old are dead.
I’ve heard this bird song outside my window for a while now, but have not been able to put a face to the song. In the afternoon it sort of resembles a phone ringing. In the early morning hours before the sun it sounds like a bird snoring, if birds snored. Yesterday I finally saw her sitting at the tip of a fir branch singing her hazy melody.
When the junco sings, She sings with her whole body.
O to come back as the barn swallow To light up the mid-morning streets With flashes of white as i dive and glide To stop on a dime in mid-air, swoop and cheep To skim the waters top, to nest and be nested And not once think about who or why