I Will Be Life

I have no idea what inspired this poem. I write many poems in an almost endless stream of words. This is one such poem – sprawling its way to somewhere on a January day in 2016.

 

I Will Be Life

I am a red tornado
Rearranging the way things are.
I am a flying blue cobra
Ripping through the sky.
I am a white cloud
Stretching my fingers across the plains of love.

I am a sphere
Moving through all of creation.
I am a fractal wave
Waking on the shores of consciousness.

I am silence
Spiralling through the gardens of life.
I am a torturous scream
Rising from the fires that burn in hell.
I am a divine melody
That fills the body of all beings.

I am a small brown falcon
That hovers beyond the chaos below.
I am a small brown ant
Walking across the landscapes of the soul.

I am a mournful song
Echoing across the valleys of despair.
I am a joyful song
Celebrating the wonder of existence.

I am seven sombre monks
Guarding the doorway to the self.
I am eleven wise children
Standing with hands and hearts wide open.

I am a solid oak table
Holding up the weight of our suffering.
I am a pilgrims candle
Burning so that all might see.

I am a deep red wine
Opening the heart and setting fire to the senses.
I am a thousand grains of pepper
Exploding forgotten memories.

I am a raging violin
Leaping out from the tallest mountain.
I am a crying cello
Singing my way through the morning.

I am an unfathomable deep ocean
Carrying the creatures of dreams and nightmares.
I am a glorious green meadow
Filling life with an endless display of discovery.

I am the turbulent winds
That shred the architectures of suffering.
I am the inextinguishable and inexhaustible sun.
Always radiating from the core of all beings.

I am a towering sequoia
A bridge between Earth and sky.
I am an ancient gum
Who has endured and savoured everything.
I am the ancient lichen
Remapping the contours of rock and soil.

I am the bee sting
That wakes you up from your stupor.
I am the shark in your dream pools
Devouring your attachments and aversions.

I am the fellowship
That transcends all boundaries.
I am the tongue
That licks all wounds.
I am the ghost of memory
Reinventing what was.

I will be life
I am eternal.
I was the shadow
I held the thorns.
I’ve forgotten how to be wild.
I remember the things that really matter.
I am flawed but still I am perfect.
I am
I
am.

 

© R.J. Hudson 2016.

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The Heartscape Of My Hands (The Mouth Of Our Hunger)

Hands have always fascinated me and in 2005 I wrote this poem as a way of exploring human suffering.

 

The Heartscape Of My Hands (The Mouth Of Our Hunger)

I cast my hands around empty streets,
Sending my fingers in search of men at prayer.

See the heartscape of my hands,
They tell you more than I can say.

In me death is bound by division,
Touching the mouth of our hunger.

Yet you know we will always change,
Though we will always seem the same.

Hands hammered onto nails :                                                                                                             Nails yielding from the martyrs song –
How he beholds the work of men.

Your blood flows into the sea of human kindness :
Mingled with the blood of hate –
Where side by side we thirst for the charms of his suffering.

Within us we see eyes raised above the self,
And from the human clock tick seasons which cannot be measured.

My eyes study their pupils my pupils study their eyes,
Each transfixed in the abyss of the other.

 

© R.J. Hudson 2005.

 

The Probability of God’s Inflexion

I have spent most of my life trying to understand the world without and the world within. Sometimes understanding is beyond me and in this poem I explore the one thing I think I really do understand.

 

The Probability of God’s Inflexion

The probability of god’s inflexion upon all life
Is as unknowable as fate itself.
The tides of life and death sway to their own strange rhythm.
Each creature it’s own vessel of meaning
Each creature it’s own light of being.

And in my alien mind :
I imagine that an ant watches the black stretch enigma of a human road
With the same respect and acceptance as it watches the stars –
The mystery of isness as daunting as the mystery of death.

And in my alien mind :
I watch a bloody clash of ants and wonder how they can dump their dead
As if the act of death has taken away all honour and dignity –
Leaving the dead as meaningless as the mystery of empire.

But one creature among billions
Is nothing in the great sea of life.
Yet I – a simple human being think meaning is mine alone,
This folly of belonging to a species in which I cannot even understand my self.

Of all that is
I understand nothing.
Of all that really matters
I can find only love.
And in that love I find a god that is –
Is only is.
In one hand a thing that reaches out
In the other a thing that turns away
But in all things love.

 

© R.J. Hudson 2007.

The Wonder of Each Moment

I spent a large part of my life suffering and then later worked with many other people who suffered. When I realised the preciousness of each moment, everything changed and my experience of life shifted. A life threatening illness woke me to the splendour of each moment and helped me to see how to honour my body as a teacher and a voice for the soul. I wrote this poem as a reminder of the moment and how the moment finds its way into the experiences of the body.

 

The Wonder of Each Moment

The body moans and groans,
With small agonies
Long since sent away,
To some forgotten landscape within.

As space moves across space,
Gradients change
And space shrinks and expands
opens and closes
consumes and expels.

The mind conceives time,
In a place of space,
Where perception sees what it wants to see.
The body growing older
And the mind following in submission.

Age created from moments only half lived.
Moments when the life force was only partly expressed.
Vitality pushing outwards through the body into space.
But there in the experience of being in the body,
Experience is hammered into what should and should not be.
The full expression of life killed in the moment.

But the body never lies
it never lies
it cannot lie.
Instead it takes every thing
That enters its being and finds a place for it
And anchors it with memory.

Memories gather in the body –
Some reflections of pure moments that were lived fully,
Others reflections of jaded moments that erased in their prime.
Those that were fully lived
fully create harmony.
Those that were erased
disturb the flow.

And in the midst of life,
The river keeps flowing.
The Tao within and the Tao without,
At one with all that is light and all that is dark.
Where life is lived fully
it unfolds naturally with ease.
Where life is erased
it unfolds in knots and disease.
The perpetual unfolding of life,
finds it’s own rhythm in the flow.
Sometimes moving gently.
Sometimes moving chaotically.
Sometimes shifting from one to the other –
But always moving in response to the moment.

Moments lived fully,
Give full expression to the soul.
Moments erased,
Extinguish the souls’ perfection.

The three great poisons in this human life,
Bring nothing but darkness to the soul.
But in knowing them,
We find our own antidotes
And the soul shines forth in radiant perfection.

There is only one secret to living a great life –
To live fully and feel everything
That arises in the moment.
Not to turn away,
To avoid, suppress or deny
But to embrace,
To feel in the heart, the mind and the body,
What is.

A breath has many moments
But each moment exists outside the breath.
Breathe and live,
Be and exist,
Feeling the wonder of each moment.

 

© R.J. Hudson 2015.

The Last Light of the Day

Almost every day I walk 2-6 km. A few years ago I lived in a mountain range called Gariwerd, where every evening I would go for my walk and watch the sun go down. Living in the mountains we experienced at least 2 hours less daylight than people who lived outside of the range. I ended up missing the sun’s presence in my life and took every opportunity I could to bath in the last light of the day. I wrote this poem as a way of remembering what it felt like looking up at the mountains as the light dissapeared and darkness descended.

The Last Light of the Day

The last light of the day,
Climbs over the mountain.
A gentle crescent of light,
Saying farewell to the rocks and the trees.

Up there,
Far, far away –
The light looks so otherworldly,
Like light from another sun.

As it rises,
Each rock and tree
Catches on fire
And it’s essence burns brightly.

I can see God in that light.
God burning brightly,
From it’s own inextinguishable being –
And I am stunned into wonder.

My heart settles into a place beyond words.
A place where light creates space,
A space where light awakens the mind –
To the light within.

© R.J. Hudson 2015.

Poetry from the Head or the Heart

Poetry from the head arises from thoughts and other mental activities. Poetry from the heart comes from felt emotion, which manifests in bodily sensation. But both borrow from each other. Head poetry arouses feeling, which drives the feeling of desire for which to write. Heart poetry arouses mental activity, as we engage our brain and mind in the act of writing.

The act of writing poetry may occur with or without awareness. Awareness of what motivates our writing, awareness of what arises in the head and heart, awareness of the emotions we are experiencing, awareness of the felt sensations arising in the body, awareness of our memories, awareness of our relationship to the inner and outer.

Some poets get stuck in the head and some get stuck in the heart. I believe that truly gifted poets straddle both forms of poetry, transcending the mundane by exploring the worlds they create through both vehicles. The head opens up one kind of world and the heart opens up another.

Our awareness of the worlds within and the worlds without, create the opportunity for complete awareness. And it is from here that we create the most powerful forms of poetry. Poems that tell stories about how we percieve reality and who we are as human beings. With an awareness of the worlds within and the worlds without, we can choose what to sense and how close or far to sense it. Imagine for example, the world upon the surface of a leaf, versus the surface of an alien planet versus the surface of Earth after a Nazi Blitzkrieg and the feelings which that each panaorama arouses in our heart and in our bodies. Imagine for example, a relationship between two serial killers who track other serial killers, the relationship between an adopted child who discovers that his mother is a nun, the relationship between a small child and her extraterrestrial friend (who others think of as an imaginary friend), the relationship betwen a First Nations man who is being visited by his ancestors, the relationship between the last man on the moon and his species and the feelings that each relationship (panorama) evokes in our heart and in our bodies. No matter what we are writing about, we have the opportunity to visit the inner and outer on any scale that we wish. We can zoom in and zoom out. The key is awareness.

Great poetry is aroused by great feeling and arouses great feeling. But it is also aroused by great images and arouses great images. Great poetry lifts us through the senses – all 5 of them. For most of us, great poetry is filled with spectacular images that evoke intense feeling.

But all poetry starts with choice. The choice to pick up the pen or not. The choice to write from head or heart or both. The choice to continue in the face of despair and downright crappy writing. The choice to be aware. The choice to observe. The choice to feel. The choice to reflect. The choice to be present. The choice to express.

We live in a world of creation and destruction. And we can choose how to use our words and our poems to create or destroy. There is no right or wrong. Head and heart both offer something of value. But it is up to us to learn how to use the power that each offers. When we understand teh power contained in head and heart, than we can become creators and destroyers. For words shape the world. And poetry has always had the power to a light a candle into the darkness of the past, present and future.

The Prodigal Charm Bug

After dark period that lasted 5 years, I found myself in the mid 90’s struggling to make sense of my life and the identity that I had created for myself. I wrote this poem in 1995 as a kind of homage to the suffering of the poet (and the human being), who upon realizing the impermanance, futility and folly of life, considers the possibility of bringing an end to his invisible, unnoticed life. This poem also speaks about the lure and folly of ego in the world and the charm of perpetual seeking and the promise of enlightenment. But exactly what or who the prodigal charm bug is, I will leave it to you to decide !

 

The Prodigal Charm Bug

From the clutches of some forgotten dirge
We rise – Like the Symphony of the Songless Bird.
Almost unheard – The impassioned beatings of the heart,
Soar as quiet as the sun.

The moment of gravity – Like conscience embodied.
But conscience is second in consequence.
Know not I – This circle of cells;
Enlightened you will be – That final hour when it hath come.
When I shall Dethrone the Emperor.
Many amongst the crowd aspired to play a part,
But only upon the chosen doth light fall !
Come not will you with me – Cross legged we’ll dine with white knights.

How does it feel to end life
Swooning into the arms of death ?
Soon I will know – Dragging the impossible to the lair of the body !
Believe me : This is the privilege of the poet,
Like the serpent that weeps – I suffer an illness that plagues the soul !

As the storm settles through your heart,
In one sense the soul will turn another page –
Descending into battle with a candle,
Like the lasting of my memory.

See the tree of life towering over us,
Like the blackbird’s wing – Stretched over the sun,
Branched fingers creeping through our eyes.

And I curse the beast that warps the heart.
Running – You opened the deity – In thy Art of Rage.
Collapsing, is this – The Sinking Ship of Life.
Whilst heaved, my breast lingers – And I am an Unseen Angel.

Enriched, the solemn giant am I.
A broken Warrior reborn – Piloting consciousness to the very edge.
The dog of my glory – Like the spectre’s shadow.
The moat of Angels and Fools still spinning.

The unprotected heart beats in my chest.
The agonies touch deep within.
And I am withered,
As translucent as the sky.
Lighter than my shadow.

For so long I have cheated the worms of their feast.
And so now : “I Feed Them Commedia”.
The Pulsar within me as aimless as night !

 

© R.J. Hudson 1995.

Sea of Comfort

This poem slid from my consciousness after my girlfriend had her first misscariage (at an early stage). I felt a great deal of guilt about getting my girlfriend pregnant and all her subsequent miscariages (which were usually the result of stress or a morning after pill – which technically might not have made all of them miscarriages). As it was I was way too young to have become a father. I was still dealing with my own shit and yet to mature. This poem represents my own imagining of forced miscarriage and the guilt that followed.

 

Sea of Comfort

A smooth awakening is beyond your call.
No one warns of imminent removal.
Bound within my abdominal trench,
Your volcanic eruption blends the aching thoughts of termination.

The wrenching hypnotic obsession whispers dark words,
Drifting heartlessly into the shallowest canal
And when retrieved through the grey of the callous psychopath,
Sounds spell sadness and pain.

Caressing inflictions redeem the clear sea of comfort.
Purist sacrifice bears dearly on my soul –
Deep frowns entrenched in remorse.
Lasting chains gather bloody witness,
To the burial of innocence.

 

© R.J. Hudson 1989.

 

Patch the Wounds (Possess the Huntress)

I wrote this poem in 1989, after falling in love for the first time. During time I wore all black, which reflected how I felt inside. 1989-1994 were the darkest years if my life. A time in which the discovery of love parallelled my discovery of pain, anger and rage.  This poem represents an early effort to express pain and joy and spiritual seeking in one poem.  Although it’s a pretty lame piece of writing, it marks a distinct period in my life. I spent several years struggling to express myself and in 1989-1990, I finally became comfortable with poetry as a medium.

Patch the Wounds (Possess the Huntress)

Farewell to the sinking burden,
I shall revel in your love.
Take me under,
Embrace my dreams,
Exchange suffering when our souls collide.

Don’t call me don’t call me,
Leave me to hide.

Shed that which seems normal and cast aside.
Tear the ribbon of life,
Cleanse the fire of pride.

I lurch at you
Dancing upon heart warmed coals.
Cloak and dagger conceals this warrior’s holes.

Shadowing eyes patch the wounds.
A thousand years linger onwards,
Seeking centre searching self,
Wandering in slumber.
I whisper to the secret within.

Oh dare ye possess the huntress ?

© R.J. Hudson 1989.

The Ghost Of Monumental Silence

I have used my life in part, to understand the nature of reality, the nature of mind and the nature of suffering. In this poem, written in 2000, I explore God and it’s relationship to mind, suffering and memory. You may however find your own meaning in this poem.

I borrowed this title for the title of this blog because I like it and because I felt that this poem pretty much sums up much of what I want to say in poetry.

 

The Ghost Of Monumental Silence

‘Twas the twilight of the frogs and a black mosquito symphony called,
When my eyes walked there – to that cauldron of scorpions –
The journey – twisted, like a lean road through a hedgehogs back.

I am the accident that sired meaning – The little ripples of death,
Having put away prophecies with blood – I am crazing myself in a word –
Now in my inhuman way – I am like a dusty parable.

Bearing the bodies of my dreams to you –
These cells embellished with suffering –
Their eyes reappearing – the only hope of empty men.

Whaled like a beach – Like solace, spawned from tasteless dust.
Ideas are beheaded – dawning forever, in the partitions of the eye.

At sunrise they leap from their cradles – broken before the light,
And in your mind, cataracts wicked and unmoving –
Prey like a snake upon the mouse – The sun dividing itself inside of me.

Ah, the pleasure of the mind is to say nothing,
Mystical intelligence – circling from the whole of my wake –
Oceans of creation, breaking like freak textures of the mind.

But the notes of your certainty bring a vengeance – to The One –
He, who feels – wisdom in His eyes – as You stare into My open hand –
The Who of the How – The Ghost of Monumental Silence.

 

© R.J. Hudson 2000.