Art from the Subconscious

Poems II

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(More selected poems from the poets 'Mystic Seed' collection to familiarise you.)   Please enjoy   



The  growing mind - impostor
distorts a sacred vision,
clings to the body
as ivy to the growing tree,
as using the strength of  the bole
stifles  the flowering soul ;
as the witness within
with the true branch, reaches
for nothing but the light;
it thinks - to walk on its own ground
set on concrete, but alas,
its self -deception
is composed to decompose,
when it  will find its true self
or die, - as the tree does.

DO  WE ?

Memory  and  amnesia -
to pick out two villains of the plot !
In order to inwardly grow I must remember what I am
but I must also remember, to become what I am not,
a perfect recipe for total insanity
which is the cultivated,  condition of man !
So like Alice  in wonderland-in the garden,
questioning the laughing hatter !
‘Its a party, we are all playing our parts
so what is the matter, -we are  party to the lot’!
Now you see it, now you don’t -
two sides to the same proverbial coin
and who gives a toss  how it falls
on the mad hatters table,
and by the way, who is the March hare
if not us-
do we ever stop to think about it ?


Conservation - me and you -
staying put is all  I do !
July sky, a pristine blue
and round the house the swallows too,
like darts with flight paths everywhere,
seem there, to celebrate the air !
Think subtle painters understand
how purists may delight the eye,
the watercolour in the hands -
the lightest touch to catch the sky,
but high up in the atmosphere
I witness the divided mind -
who fiddles with the biosphere
is mad, and leaves a trail behind ;
we are the stewards of the world
and we demand and we insist
we leave an unpolluted air
so that the children may exist :
And now, my friends, I beg your pardon
the sun is setting on the garden.

Preconceptions paint their pictures
on  my window to the world,
like scraping paint, I try
to clean that window for the  eye;
on  William Blake they must  rely
who do not want  ‘ to live the lie ‘.
           .     .     .

Did my cloth destroy the moth
which was a cleaning duty !
And then I noticed, how it sings
from those unfolded  wings.
There is no strength to compare
with the  vulnerable beauty there.


Old Lao Shan said ‘ life is flux,
follow it, and with trust
travel  light, and be grateful to the moon
that  draws your spirit from your dust,
and  on your shoulder
let dangle from your staff
what you would  prize the most
winnowed as grain from chaff,
and when your sun breaks through
it will gong  the morning.
If you try the mountain, laugh
for the mountain will laugh with you ;
follow life for you are life
as the flow of water to drought, -
a trickle to a pool dried out  -
cup your hands and be thankful.
Do not desire, -
you are the bread of life,
your ancient mill still treads
the way the world goes round.


Grey, the cratered moon -
I read her counterpoint
but not too soon,
constant  companion, haunting,
mourning her dead body,
through  phasing,  to full
lifeless luminescence,
cloudless and clear tonight,
her barren message
warning  a  troubled earth.

I think of that old tree,
( still dear to me,)
like God’s fingers,  clutching the earth -
feeding below the canopy above ;
but what have we made of it
with man’s inhumanity,
slicing the bole, felling as timber
to have lost a canopy of love ?
What have we made of it since then ?
What have we done ?
What shall we ever do -
in the same vein
when the whole forest has gone ?
Plant for a sapling and hope
for someone to kill  and deify ?

Drugged by time, time is the high
the illusion of more than one,
our addiction - to be fixed -
defined as individuals,
as egos, many Gods
leading to duality, to hell !
And here we dwell to withdraw,
cast out as victims in space
with symptoms of our own longing,
yet fear not loss, for here
in each and everyone of us,
each second trips to the eclipse of time
when sacred love will find and bind us.



I  saw the gaol in old Bodmin,    
the inmate dummy in the cell
and for a while I knew the hell
there, and thought, what better way to tell
the cruelty of  bygone days ;
to steal a sheep would get you in
though you might scream or shout
but would old  Bodmin let you out !
And some,  no doubt would end up there -
the gruesome  gallows with it’s drop,
their broken necks beneath the trap ;
our best excuse as we restore
‘we do not do that anymore’
though we, innately proud, display
the brutal justice of the day.
To understand - one never can
for still in our day, see or scan
man’s inhumanity to man.


(Conventional self)

The counter change  ahead
from many air - miles made,
there is no tomorrow
only the light and shade ;

descending from above
the landing lights look strange,
my astral empathy
is ever out of range

and if I really am
invisible as air,
the stamp is ignorant
the passport doesn’t  care ;

to satisfy custom
with that which isn’t there
am  always  in the green
with nothing to declare :

I mirror back my face -
cold water to ennui
and wonder why I have
this false identity.



Kindred spirits  like the photon
swiftly travel from afar,
time and space  part with sorrow -
here today and gone tomorrow,
doors are always left ajar ;
those who little understand
love’s  mystery of two as one,
save old hooks to hang their  coats on,
friends until their lives are done.

Old nails protrude
beyond the rude symbol,
spike the very air we breathe,
the mind to snare the heart -
to stop one thinking from the start;
to thrust his cross on old despair
was this the whole truth, hanging there?
Who built his house upon the sand -
some ancient politics,  perhaps,
some early plot as sleight of hand,
but will we ever understand
his one great truth of merit
that all of life transforms to spirit?
As I turn these holy pages
I see his life betrayed, abused
yet see him smile in many sages.

That old beech held me high
when I was a young boy,
but with these brittle bones
I  cannot climb her now,
and still she stands, breaking
through my lifetime’s  weather,
sturdier than ever ,
her gnarled, transforming boughs
once mine, twisted skyward
with all my  childish  dreams;
old hands touch her bole now,
feel that numb resistence,
impervious to me,
my  wise,  old age to her
a mayfly existence.

Following the droning bee
to the open wings  of the red admiral,
and the seasonal buddleia
waiting as a perfect host:
Uniting the two
beautiful and complete, -
the cause of this, I know
is even more so.
Somehow ghostly, light as lace
sensing no before and after,
peace - that password into heaven
far away from time and space
yet just a breath away, from Eden.

The whole that plays us-parts,  pro rata -
covered in millennial strata,
a mosaic of bits and pieces -
duality that never ceases ;
we are many - the conclusion,
we are slaves to the illusion,
wash clean away then,  see the part
dissolve   into the whole, one heart
that dances our  plurality ;
whirl you to your sacred still point
move you to your non duality.


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All images/artwork and photography copyright © Sarah Austin.
All poems and article text copyright © R.K.Austin.
2006. All rights reserved
No photographs or other material to be reproduced elsewhere without permission.