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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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.

Heart of the Mountain of the Eagle

In 2004 we had a fire on the nearby sacred mountain Burra Burra (Mountain of the Eagle), which was started by a lady who lit fire to the toilet paper she had used to wipe her arse ! The fire burned 2/3rds of the mountain, cracked ancient petroglyphs, destroyed ancient grey box trees, burned wildlife and sent the spirits of the Aboriginal people (who had become my teachers and friends) away. I wrote this poem in 2007 as a homage to the people of Burra Burra. It is the first poem in a sequence of poems written at that time to remember my deceased friends and my favourite mountain.

 

Heart of the Mountain of the Eagle

Buurra waau,
Buurra burra wirrin kyinnya.

The Soul of the Mountain of the Crow
Sent me to the Heart of the Mountain of the Eagle for kinship of a white man.

And I found a place among your people.
Some where across the landscape of souls
I found this place and called it home.
You held me as a child
And nourished me with the dreamtime.
You entered me
And found my tender wounds.
You gathered sticks and leaves
To mend my broken heart.
In you I found my place among the stars
And in your fire I remembered where I came from.
On a cold hard rock you buried my fingers
And in love you healed my wounds.
My place is among you as yours is in my heart.

The Soul of the Mountain is Crying
Her Heart is Broken and her People are leaving.

Let it go
Set it free
And I will hold your memory,
Just as you held me.

 

© R.J. Hudson 2007.

Ovations of a Greening Spring

I have always loved the natural world. In 2006 I moved away from the inland home that I had loved to the coast (and have moved back again). I so missed the land that I knew so well, that I grieved my separation from it. In 2006-2007 I wrote a series of poems about teh natural world taht helped me to deal with my grief for both the place, animals and plants and Aboriginal spirits (with whom I had relationships with). This poem from 2007 was written to convey something of the suffering of animals and the nature of impermanance.

 

Ovations of a Greening Spring

Yes
I have seen empires of dirt sail skyward and heavenly silk descending.
Yes
I have seen ants wrestle with the gods and spiders that fall upon the earth.

But no hand of man has eased their toil
Or lifted the weight of their suffering.

The angels of the apocalypse dance silently
With a mob of homeless kangaroos.
And in the world between
Dead men and women sing songs to the god of fire.

From amidst the storm blue catharsis of a broken sky
Come swarms as unending as the path of history itself.

The seasons within twist and turn between head and heart
And shed their wings in the tall green grass.
Crimson flowers fall from the small victories of hope and denial
And shattered creatures reassemble.

From the greatest depths of man’s tormented soul
Come a flurry of nameless prayers.

Through bitter harsh words and gentle sideways glances
I at last see the tall ovations of a greening spring.
And the earth remains a place of restless change
The transparency of all life shimmering like a halo from the sun.

Oh father earth I hear you
Your screaming whisper has not gone unnoticed.

My heart open to all life as it really is here and now
I feel the cry of the ailing beast within.
And I know that some things will disappear forever
While man watches on lamenting what he cannot change.

We touch the web and we know that we are one
Ever onwards to some place far away.

The harmonic chords of love
Tame the vehicles of change inside this flesh.
And I know as all animals do
That nothing stays the same.

Oh mother earth ever yearning for the web to bind us.
Keep on turning that we might awake from our slumber.

Yes
I shall remember all life as it was.
Yes
I shall remember when we were one.

 

© R.J. Hudson 2007.

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.

The Miracle

A simple remembrance. Written in 2013.

The Miracle

I am the miracle –
The spoken and the unspoken,
The manifest and the unmanifest,
The Separate and the One.

I am the miracle –
That binds all languages of the heart and the mind,
That contains all the aspirations and imaginings of mankind,
That embraces all that arises within and without.

I am the miracle –
That gives birth to the butterfly and the bomb,
That is always becoming,
That rises from the void.

I am the amness that flows through you –
The one that is emptiness and being,
The force that pervades life with and without the body,
The self that looks back at the self.

I am the ruins of memory and the memory of ruins –
A face that seeks recognition,
A face that knows only love,
A face that lives inside you.

 

© R.J. Hudson 2013.

Nailing Smoke To The Wall (Mask)

I wrote this poem in 1996, at a time in my life where I was trying to make sense of my past and my identity. I have always been fascinating by time, memory and mystery and how they play out in our lives. In this poem I play around with the mystery and reality of memory and impermanance.

Nailing Smoke To The Wall (Mask)

In the arm I drift :
Overtures into overtures chaos into chaos,
Dreams into dreams.
Earth forever turning humanity standing still.
Oceans ebb and flow across the translucent mirrors of my soul.
Two bridges converge into one – thoughts creaking actions sleeping;
The doors of my childhood museum come crashing down –
The little boy inside me smiling like a crescent moon :
I remember ! I remember ! How could I forget ?

Of all these things that I have seen and all these places that I have been
Nothing lasts forever.
Human identity
Scored in the notes of my heart.
Woe,
‘tis time who yanks upon my twisted yoke –
In this reign of the I,
‘tis time who cradles this callous tide of memories –
In this rain of the eye.

Each time that I look – at this web that I weave
I see a god within
And I know :
Each man is a mask Each mask is a man.
Fate seals the lips of immortality,
Yet the mystery which flickers and fades will never unfold,
Always beckoning like night which trails through the eyes.
Feasting upon our human frailties,
While we dance among Adam’s ribs.

And so I plant the seed of hope on ambitions tongue,
The whining winds of fear ruffle the webs in my eyes
And I am licking wounds that bind the seal of space,
Trying to nail smoke to the wall.
Soon, this mortal linkage will disassemble
While I, perish beneath the ruins of memory.
Must I ask you : What mystery will remain when I am dead ?
And of the angel called memory : Quis custodiet ipsos custudes ?
(Who will guard the guard himself ?)

 

© R.J. Hudson 1996.