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.

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.

The Great Knowing

A reflection from 2015 on the nature of the self in sleep and waking.

The Great Knowing

Here in the depths of sleep,
There is movement between the I and the Iless.

Darkness rolls me over,
In the seen and the unseen.

Monsters reach out to ensnare me
And demons rise from so long ago.

Ghosts wait to remind me of who I was and what I have forgotten
And skeletons dance loudly inside the hidden cupboards.

The light drifts between them,
Like sunshine moving through fog.

Here and there an angel lifts me out of the darkness,
Showing me the reasons I cannot see.

From within the darkest waves,
Old men and old women take my hand and steer the way.

They are always scarred and ugly,
But their hearts are pure and free.

All the kingdoms of heaven and hell mean nothing to the free.

They speak to me with eyes that whisper.

Telling me not to be afraid and not to desire salvation.

The I and the Iless continue to rise and fall,
While the great knowing embraces them all.
The darkness gives birth to webs of delusion, prisons of fear and uncertainty and terrors of the separate self.
The light offers up the rooms of its many mansions,
Its vistas of peace and perfection and wonders of the infinite within.

The old ones have seen it all
And recognise the I and the Iless in a moment of truth.
They come from many kingdoms but belong to no kingdom at all.
No projection binds them or deceives them.
They have no temptation, no heaven, no hell.

Sometimes I see them,
Between the doors of perception,
Inside heaven or inside hell.
But just when I reach them,
The I fades away and all is forgotten.

The Iless awakens and erases the play.

Only the great knowing remembers.

 

© R.J. Hudson 2015.