Silence:
O h h
deep rooted kiss
gift me Your mist
within this
blandishment
of body and brain.
M m m
yes yes stilled i long for such and such a
feathering breath for
Prescience to soothe
this slightness of mine
enlightening tight fists
un-pounding pale hearts
to soften free beats vibrating in Time.
St Therese to chaplain Piere Belliere, in 1897,
a few months before her death at age 24:
I am not dying, I am entering into life.
Wakefulness again begun.
Bleeding free upon glimpsed shards of Luminous trust
that mysteriousness between this and this
sensational suffering mind.
yes
quietly wake to still
this and this constantly re-fining will
re-fuel oneself to wait upon
that still small Voice
that Glittering Jewel
that active, in-active othering choice
to re-ignite in blessed hoped for souls renewal
by sinking-in ankle deep
that Ground grown moist
from leakages of wonton wounds and size nine feet
Now
to stretch those tiny toes deeply deep
into that oozing boiling balm
that heated hopeful weight full ness
immersions that convert alarm to dozing daze and waits to be
replenished and be-calmed in fertile fires and shining mists
of Love and Grace said to exist beyond this and this
pre-occupied pre-possessed never ended re-positioning of grasp and cling to
flesh and bone and time and test.
May I live so:
‘if on my dust a tuft of grass were to grow, every blade would tremble with my devotion for thee.’ (from Invocations by Ansari of Herat)
Teacher
Teach.
Come towards to hush this
tightly
taught
dissecting
I
this mind of ‘my’
I
mine alone
this owner’s
ship of listing skin
this un-
contained husk of
lack and lust for
being seen as different and
distinct, these
sentient addictive flaws
I
darkly sow
now
deep within this sentimental hold, these
envious skeins, these half-
digested and indulged
unwatched
unwashed
infatuations of the
I
sores that pray to be
left alone to
infect
mindscapes over grown, to
freshly pull at scaffoldings of
braking bone
overwrought, this
iron will of ego intent can only glimpse
waverings
of such and such discontent, for
I
have heard but seldom feel
the real and awesome unsaid
Word
that roots
and shoots
green leaves anew
to sway with ease
while anchored true to
dust
richly fed
deep within
the sacrificial flesh of
You.
Cosmic
Anchor,
Wisdom
Ancestors,
Mystical
Healers and
balm washing
Friends,
enlighten
far realms
of fright filled
immersion
to bathe in
Yolks
freedom
and Love
without end.
Breathe-out
and
stand
the Weh
is at hand
Breathe-in
rejoice
let
Yah guide
the voice
for when
joy fills
the lungs
when
breath-full-ness
comes
anxieties fall
as
Love Be-stills all.
On the pure:
meditate
For the just:
Supplicate
Praise both:
Noble and True
Give thanks for:
Virtue
With the Loveless:
Consort
and with all good report
‘Rejoice’
I say twice
and Be strengthened in
Life.
After Philippians V4: 4-13
In the week where Prince Charles became
‘humbled and surprised,’ to be shoed-in as the next head of The Commonwealth, I have been mulling over my recent visit to Bristol’s own museum of exploitation, domination and white man’s stolen play things.
Ostensibly my visit to The City Museum was to witness a gathering of arty folk chew over how to bring light and modern day context to the now hidden collection of 500,000 Empire and Commonwealth artefacts (which had once been displayed in the now defunct Empire and Commonwealth museum, and which now are stored away in the gunnels of the Bristol Records Office).
I admit I usually avoid entering this dusty world of neatly annotated, well organised death and decay, and so even before the meeting my hackles were slightly on attack mode.
So when the speaker from the Bristol Records Office talked about an African collection of steel locks, unique and ‘of no use to Bristol,’ and followed that by saying that ‘in fact, there is so much other people’s stuff stuffed away in dark closets that new storage space is needed.. My internal and usually well wrapped rage became ignited.
‘No, no no Bristol,’ I screamed (admittedly only internally), ‘instead of employing two full time archivists to list and categorise colonial stolen lives, instead of making quasi educational lists of historical plunder, find ways to open up the vaults and let the goodness flow back to its source.’
God how I wish I had said that.
Instead, as my stomach juices ate my own lining, I waited for my chance to blurt out
‘Why don’t you just let that encased and delicately shrivelled Egyptian queen downstairs make her journey back home, yes let her go home so she can die again within the splendour of her rightful resting place. And while we are at it, reunite that shrunken African head so he can stand strong in the solid unity of home. And please please please consider letting go of all those alarmed and stuffed animals, give them the dignity of death and decay so they too may each close their glassy eyes and return to the dust of mother earth……
Bristol: open your mucky clutches and release yourself, release us from witnessing your continued superior claims to be even handed custodians of other people’s stolen creativity and priceless heritage.’
city slowness 