‘Reality is always already the case.’ Adi Da Samraj
I don’t know much about nuns.
In my 58-year span, there’s only been two of any note. One was a confessor at the tail-end of a six-week stint in rehab where I had just turned 27.
The other appeared through the mists of lockdown on the web, less than a year ago, when I had decided to make the most of our shared inwardness by taking it seriously.
If ever there has been a time when the divine held up a neon placard to the world exhorting us to turn within…
So this is the drill when you say
you know a little astrology -
can plant stars in their therapy
to make things a little richer -
add frisson and zing, some light
canapés before the
main event when life can
really turn to dark water
as Freud said, the return of the
repressed not a song many will sing-
and even though you don’t draw charts
or gaze relentlessly at stars
they want the magic act
before setting to work & learn
how ugliness can be beautiful again.
It turns out, we’ve all broken
endless priceless vases
mistaken the rope…
and white, I do not
yet feel every word
hear each bite
I am not from here
yet came to test the
By the side
of the road
I sit, carding
before knitting the
of men and women
I was thrashed
clean in the church
long before you came
I am the Atticus Finch
down in the cellar
and on my knees
When your tongue is
ripped out at dawn,
as it surely will be,
I will lay out the map
and handle your shame
My gift will come and
go again, a tinder to ignite
your being, this jewel
I carry, a meteor to come
every thousand years
COPYRIGHT Simon Heathcote
The tongue is in the teeth of some
whiter than a lampshade in heat
lit by the language of others
a palate to place
food on, litmus test
for the health of the lying
How many are now
one-eyed, don’t need
the tongue to hold a fork
just a policeman’s mind to ward off
the inconvenient glare -
there is no home here
Selfhood beware — the gutters are
filled with failed ideas
stillbirths in this age of unreason
trapped in the kernel of the throat,
a knot, a stone, finally
this dead zone
Most let the clouds pass by…
I remember the root and the ruin.
It slips into quiet moments
when I think I’ve forgotten,
curdles like a summer’s day, takes me
back to my beginnings.
The curse of love is unrelenting,
loss runs through it,
an unwanted vein.
When God and nature mate, the soul
comes into being. I feel its cruelty
and look back to the waiting.
My errors are still unwritten,
my shape unmade. I ask for one thing,
beg for his return, but my father
never came. I was force-fed Pluto’s gifts:
hell is colder than you’re taught.
I learned its language like a…
‘Staying in the Self by one’s efforts is like training a raging bull by offering him luscious grass and tempting him from straying.’ Ramana Maharshi
How is the world made and remade? By winning hearts and minds.
The fork is in the road, the bend right at the edge of the river. Many are those apparent souls who make choices, each incomprehensible or at least puzzling to the other. Karmic accounts have reached a full stop, each one a mirror to themselves. ‘This is where I am now at the turning of the tide.’ So be it.
Perhaps the true…
There is an irony, probably forever lost on all but a few, that to really gain insight into what The Fourth Industrial Revolution is now forcing upon us, we could do worse than return to the novels and poetry of Thomas Hardy, famed West Country author.
In his Wessex novels, particularly (Tess, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Far from the Madding Crowd and Jude the Obscure), we are witness to history in motion, the slow yet inevitable cleaving of people from land; the decimation of a way of life.
The death throes of the 19th century marked the beginning of the…