This too is love
I give you a box
It’s a strange sort of a gift
yet its what I have
bits of broken mirror
momentos of pleasure
and acknowledgements of pain
locks of hair
and well worn maps
its messy and its
what I have
theres a lid within a lid
and if you open it
you will find secrets
exposed to the wind
and the hail
the box a sock
turn it inside out
everything falls to the ground
that doesn’t matter
now the invisible writing
appears messages from
beyond the seas and
from deep volcanos
look its getting hot
catching flames
burning up
sweep up the ashes
they are black of course
sooty, they get on your fingers
ah, but did you see the breeze
did you catch a glimpse
something else stirs in the ashes
is this love?
oh the clichéd egg
yet theres no mistaking
the bird now standing
perhaps a black swan
is this love?
you notice the swan
has scars its
not at all perfect
swan love what is this?
ok now the swan is a man
hey, its me!
higgldy piggldy
not so graceful
I offer you a box
you open it
in old script the paper says
love
you hold it up, and it turns into
a butterfly
beautiful but ungrounded
now turns into a tree
suddlenly getting old
ah, this is love
sheltering branches
some broken off
and lightning damage
blackened ends and hollows
and stability and solidity
deep roots
holding to the earth
with a profound tenacity
yes, this too is love
The Default Man
None left standing
so the referee declares
you are the winner by default
the only one to complete the marathon
the last survivor of the war
somehow you have the ability
to be irradiated with deadly spores
and not die
perhaps you are undead
perhaps its only your ghost
we see perhaps it’s a trick
and you will fall by the wayside
like the rest
but for now you can take
the winners crown because
you survived
you hung in there
no special talent required
no great speed or
masterful hand eye coordination
your prize is for simply lasting
outlasting the rest
you will be celebrated
simply because you are
stubborn
a hanger onner
theres no choice
because theres no one left
to choose from
so congratulations
all you had to do is
keep plodding
and remember
it’s the tortoise who
wins the
race
Its all a story
the truth the truth
out with the truth
its all good
its completely disasterous
everything will work out
in the end
in the best of
all possible worlds
its all decay and ruin
and the sky is definitely
falling
so why do I hurt so much
is this just a story
what a stupid plot
and how does it end
is the pain part of the story
is the story part of the pain
whats real and what
made up and
is this world my creation
along with everyone and
everything in it
or is there something solid
madness is not
knowing whats real
and whats imagination
and if its all in my
imagination then
can I change the nightmare
into something more pleasant
perhaps its true the truth
is completely relative and
the only true truth is
something right here
and right now that
cant be seen or heard
or touched and is
beyond all stories
even stories about the
untouchable and even
the worst stories and
even the best stories
just constructions
the dance of maya
a dream or nightmare
it’s all about the dreamer
its all about the dreamer
His desire wakes him.
Desire, such a strange thing
hard to stop and admire
turn in the hand
it squirms
wants to leap out and
seek out its own destruction
it resists careful scientific examination
it wants only movement
and the quicker the better.
He is slightly bemused by this
part of his being that has its own intelligence
and its own blindness
slightly amused
slightly overawed
slightly afraid.
His desire wants to drive him
wants to take the reigns;
ancient images of horses,
spiritual allegories
warnings as to not letting them
have their heads
warnings to put discriminating judgement
in the drivers seat.
He can feel those horses
stamping their feet
raring to go
such energy
a powerhouse
wanting to move.
Too much philosophising
too much reflection
too much restraint
they grow restless
rebellious
want a good run.
Even as they are directed
on that road less travelled
their eyes roam
they are intensely distracted
their attention elsewhere
they want to break loose
charge down the soft mossy glen
gambol in the seasonal spring
absorbed only in
the excitement of the moment.
But what else is there
apart from this moment?
An internal debate loosens
the horseman's grip slightly
the horses pick up on the uncertainty
strain even more enthusiastically.
Who knows where he will end up:
shangri la,
or maybe in a ditch;
but wherever he is
the stars always twinkle
behind the firmament,
sometimes you can only see them at night.
For a minute I release myself
from probity
from responsibility
from pre-meditation
from sensibleness
and respectability
For a minute I release myself
from being in control
from directing my life
from careful steps
For a minute I abandon myself
to sheer surrender
to pure unalloyed joy
to melting, melting, melting
For a minute i release myself
into falling through space and time
into dark and unknown territory
into sheer and total exhilaration
For a minute I accept
total lavisciousness
total decadence
total raw earth
I grab the red ochre in my hands
smear it over my body
become part of the world of rhythm
the world of hypnotic rhythm
the beat of life
the beat of the heart
the beat of my drumming blood
For a minute
I am lost
I am totally lost
I am blissfully lost
For this minute
In this moment
Now
An aching heart
my friend says
means opening
Aha, room for something new
pain which feels almost-good
I long for something
I think I know
I think I don't know
something more
something to touch my soul
and sing a true note
But not too soon either
for the space must increase some yet
or else the new cannot fully emerge
longing so delicious
Longing and fulfilment
Ýact as if they are not
Ýidentical twins
My friend says
our teacups should always be empty
as soon as we think they're filled, spill them
Mine is spilled, the emptiness rattles
years, calls out
damn this creative void
Fantasies of supersaturated happiness
wonít leave
mundane or spiritual longing
the two dance together
and eye each other off in
jealous competition
The bird on the branch is slightly confused.
The heart is not.
Falling
down down down
to a place
too deep to return from
too far from my fear
too close to my core
Falling
down down down
free floating
panic alternates
with surrender
to this moment
to this pure pure pure
wordless world
Falling
down down down
despite myself
in spite of myself
caution itself let go
the safety catch
and there is nothing to do
but enjoy the fall
Falling
down down down
not to sin
nor to an irreconcilable place
of wrong
but to an irredeemable place
of perfection
of joy
of human redemption
Falling
down down down
into love
into the hypnotic spell
into the intoxicating scent
into total total total
exquisiteness
Falling
down down down
again and again
I let go a little more
each time
become helpless
in the face of
such sweetness
such valuing
such unalloyed delight
Falling
down down down
as into a profound sleep
as into a miraculous dream
as into all my dreams
as into all my longing
as into every hope
fulfilled
Falling
down down down
to a hidden treasure
revealed before
my astonished eyes
my eyes drink
my being drinks
I become that treasure
Falling
down down down
till I lose sense
of direction
till my tears meet
my smile
till I am joyfully
redolently
resplendently
lost.
And at that moment,
find myself.
A soft rain is falling
falling around me
my clothes are soaked
I don't care
the dampness on my face
feels good
feels good
come down rain
come down
touch my soul
run down my nose
down my chin
envelop me so that
I feel nothing but wetness
nothing but wetness
cold and warm and wet and
be my companion
my pores are thirsty
to breathe the mist
my body is water
my soul is water
my mind is at sea
obscured by sheets
of rain of rain
a fire burns in my
chest evaporating
the water cold
my skin is cold
my heart beating fast
like the hearth fire
fanned by a blast
from the open door
the door is open
and rain blows in
my house
threatening the fire
pooling on the floor
wrecking the carpet
I don't care
let it all get wet
open all the windows
let the rain in
let the rain in
let it soak the bed
let it get on the books
let it ruin the lounge
let the wind blow over
everything so neatly arranged
so neatly arranged
let it make a mess
and the fire sputters
and complains
but it won't go out
it just rages more valiantly
fanned by the wind
throwing itself around
in the hearth
no danger to the rain
and when the morning comes
and the mist is lifting
and its clear
the fire only a few coals
the house damp
then I walk outside
filled with the sweet morning air
then I walk outside
my heart wide open
my heart wide open
my heart wide open
My garden is overgrown
mostly weeds
mostly nutgrass,
that tenacious survivor
the pushy blade
that takes over everything else
my garden is overgrown
a few straggling vegetables
drowned in a sea of weeds
and some leftover tomato plants
which hardly show much fruit
my garden is overgrown
a few herbs to be picked
keep on going
keep me coming back
my feelings of sadness
at the failure of my efforts
against the forces of nature
a tragedy for me
means nothing at all emotionally
to the balance of growing things
out there in my garden
my garden is overgrown
my life is in disarray
failure means letting the weeds take over
but weeds are my own judgement
its just air and sunlight and water
doing its thing, just like
its always done
no longer have I the illusion
of control
my garden is overgrown
its raining and the weeds
are just multiplying
and I watch
sadly, resignedly
its good sometimes
to let go of what has been
important.
Awakening
to my self
I finish climbing
this endless ladder
ends
I sit atop and
admire the view
its taken a lifetime
to catch my breath
suddenly I know
about who I am
and what went wrong
I can trace the fault lines
in the valley
the history of pain
laid out like
burnt out stumps
and the way the
lovers keep missing
each other
now the whole scene
is revealed in one sweep of the eye
where I am is no longer
clouded in mist
the vista takes my breath away
with fear
my heart pounds with excitement
I am completely free
in this moment
and alone
the curse and
blessing of
being human
I draw breath and
embrace my fate
Knife
like through butter
my melting
heart
like blood dripping
on the floor
my sadness
leaks out
dropping into
emptiness
void of dreams
darkness comforts me
deep cold waters
clutch ancient memories
go down
plumb the depths
while rises slowly
imperceptibly
a readiness
a quiescent flame
ready to light
the stars
Jail visit
Visitors to the prisoners,
prospective tourists to another planet
gradually fill the waiting room.
Each face has its own untold story
lives intertwined with the accused
caught in the same net
even though freedom
apparently belongs to these ones
on the outside
You can tell the crims, the ex-cons,
those who have done their time.
Its not just the tatts
or the hairstyle
its something about them
the aura of the adventurer who returns
to tell the tale
of experiences and suffering
that ordinary folk can only imagine
or read about;
they have an aura of knowing
of power
of fearlessness because they have faced
and been swallowed
and they are still breathing;
and they have an aura of sadness
deeply hidden
the irredeemable memories
of the brutality
of a system that dispenses everything
except blind justice
and extracts everything
except the repentance that releases.
And the wives and girlfriends
you can tell them too
stressed beyond their capacity
some overweight
some underweight
the weight is in their hearts
theyíre doing time as well;
they bring a corner of sunshine
of warmth
of glimpses of intimacy
lost
of sex just out of reach
in their skimpy outfits
of responsibility eschewed
in their clinging babies
and their wild sad children.
And the mothers and fathers
dressed in ordinary conservative tones
looking sombre
the prodigal son
blood stronger than
anger or sadness;
and you can tell the new parents of crims
by their discomfort in this setting
their quiet, humbled, awkward, respectability;
and you can tell the world-weary parents of
sons who have been here before
or been here a long time
they have the look of those
who know and have endured suffering
and who have not been crushed
and who have been crushed many times.
And you can tell the mates
the ones who werenít caught
the ones who might yet be
sorry for their mate
and relieved its him not me
and slightly admiring
and slightly fearful
and ready to joke
and wink
and slightly in awe
of one who has taken the initiation
and proved his manhood.
And they are all waiting
emotions barely acknowledged
strain at the chest
questions of philosophy barely formulated
strain to be answered
but no one comes forward
to catch the tears
and no one volunteers
to explain why.
Jack Spratt reigns
the hero of all america
while the new antichrist
is fat
is sodium
is cholesterol
the holy imprimatur
placed on neatly packaged foods
signifies:
this item is blessed
No fat
No sodium
No cholesterol
the magic words that differentiate
safe from unsafe
good from evil
Spratt from his fat ugly wife
for fat is very ugly
harshly apparent in
the shadow of America which
eats away the woman-soul
and is visible everywhere
even where fat is invisible
it is noticed
like an apparition
and everywhere they
are afraid
and they listen to
the holy edicts of the
magazines and ads
they are listening to everyone
but their own selves
but their own bodies
they eagerly await instructions
they eagerly discuss
ounces of fat
this ideology that extracts
pounds of flesh
uncaring whether
the spirit within
lives or dies
and dietary pleasure
is an oxymoron
because pain equals no gain
sensual delight
is measured out mathematically
sin is secularised
calibrated by calories
and thinner is holier
no wonder the shadow of anorexia
no wonder the shadow of bulimia
no wonder this most obese country
on the planet where
substance is traded for
lack of substance
and the crowd in panic
runs for the exits which
promise physical perfection
forever and ever
give us this day
our daily fat free
low sodium
no cholesterol
bread
amen
Take me back to Steve Gunther's Home page
Take me to Lifeworks Psychotherapy (our therapy homepage)
Take me to Victims, Persecutors and Rescuers
Take me to Transexual
Take me to Northern
Rivers Gestalt Institute
Take me to PROUT
Contact me at: chief@gestalt.org.au
url:. http://www.gestalt.org.au/vinay/Poems.html
Page last updated: 29/04/10