At best, poetry resonates with spirit,
evoking joyful recognition of feelings –
the poem’s individual voice a balance of
subject, poet and otherness – the sweet spot
for each to find by personal attunement.
These days, distrustful of all non-material meanings,
we no longer call that otherness God;
yet the endurance of certain poetry stands
as witness to individual triangulation:
where intunity and intensity couple
producing a truly authentic timbre of voice.
Subject, poet, otherness = the sweet spot.
Were I to shout this, I'd immediately burst
the membrane of truth holding it together.
We might call it the prayer of the unconscious –
the yeast by which matter transmutates to spirit –
a private worship of the tao, an honouring
of living springs which flows in every heartspace,
connecting aquifers and the greater river.
I would not know this, had I not voluntarily
entered the wilderness 20 years ago.
Well, no, perhaps not voluntarily!
A dynamic entered my life from a single dream
creating a constant innergy that led me
off life’s oily, dusty, noisy highway.
Entering a room without artificial light requires
time for the eye to adjust to the natural darkness –
allowing a natural sense of wonder to form
wherein we hold a numinous communion:
observer :: observed :: and the harmonic of observation.
If I were to tell you the figure who appeared in this dream
it would immediately puncture the image you’ve drawn
by localizing it to the physical world.
The way I honour my iconic figure in art
is to distil the quintessence of what I'm shown:
presenting it now as poetry, now as music …
a metaphysical representation of spirit
innergising, throu my own unconscious,
the calling home – the calling to evolve –
the calling to be present :: grounded and yet
illuminated by the numinous.