oiling Your palm

 

pausing I pour

 this way and that

that

i may disappear

within Your honeyed

Translucence

fertile and pure

Your

sweet pulsing elegance

in Grace-fuelled dhikr

 immersing

soft green shoots of

Eastern Sun Light

 palm pressing fresh fruits

needing till ripe with

Great goodness seeping

through pulp, pith and kin

earthly distinctions

composting in Him.

 

the above was written in response to:

The Head of The Prophecy (6,21-8,27)

‘It is like a palm shoot whose dates dropped around it. It produced buds and after they grew, its productivity dried up.

It certainly would be good if you produce new growth now. You would certainly find it.’

Know Yourselves (12,17-13,25)

 

‘Be eager to harvest for yourselves a head of the grain of life that you may be filled with the kingdom.

Do not be proud because of the light that enlightens. Rather, act towards yourselves as I myself have toward you. ’

(quoted from ‘The secret book of James’  which is the first chapter in The Nag Hammadi Scriptures edited by Marvin Meyer published by Harper One in 2007)

 

Next blogs: The Gospel of Truth.

Sweeping the path of None.

La Ilaha,’

from feet, through belly to chest upon this experimental outbreath. And when all air is gone this walking continues to the sound of shag pile heart pump foot fall and fall until.

‘Illa Allah,’ suctions insistently in the  next reviving breath. And on and on around the small front room that I call home until a calmness begins to meet spinning mind, this so called friend of mine who competes with the beating of hearts and heavens above, before ‘I’ have unravelled into this new start all senses scream towards the need for the thing called ‘me’ to take a rest, to know what is best, to become rationality.  To re-take my seat within this well known reality.

questions, questions, questions fair and squarely root me to this understandably carpeted, man-made, sensibly constructed floor. This is floor that my small mind consistently calls home.

‘Are these unfamiliar intonations correct? Am I understanding their meaning to the fullest? Can indeed anyone dissect and find trueness and taste spiritual fullness? Or am I just going around and around in mimicking Sufi circles of none sense?  Am I merely as adrift as it seems,? Am I mad or bad or just merely leaning too much to the left?

My fingers re-scan Dr Mir Valiuddin’s half digested disciplines, his olde english Sufi translations, and my neck hurts and my foot bottom tingles, my lower back grumbles and however hard it tries to think itself into blankness, my mind cannot switch off, cannot let this body relax.

‘Unless thou sweepest the path with the broomstick of None (La), Thou canst not reach the stage of ‘Save God, (Illa Allah).’

Such and such and so many words that can so easily be missed in the 1975 translated mist of mystical wisdom that sweeps broom-sticks of None upon the saving steps of God’s stage.

‘You see, there is the proof,’ I hear myself say. ‘Already your ego-mind is warping, embellishing, twisting and turning the travelling word.’ And yes, already this minds unknowing has thrown away mystical prizes by wriggling this ego from eyes behind eyes, has already imperceptibly shed skin to get, to get, to get……

‘Up! Up! Get up on your feet, and feel your soles,’

and this time, from some other bodily depth the outbreath lets out a longing rasping ‘Yaaaaaah,’ that continues until chest, yes this chest, this belly, this body flattens  towards the very spine beyond any thinking sense of  ‘me, me me.’

And as feet below re-meet and re-circle, inward breathing gently whispers beyond my name, to show the ‘Wey.’

And ‘Yah,’ to the outbreath and inwardly ‘Wey,’

And ‘Yah’ to the outbreath and inwardly ‘Wey,’

as this crocodile body re-fills with heat, as this mind shrivels and snakes and sheds more skin within the shadows of  ‘but, but, but for the love of….’

 

 

St Mary’s Wanderings

Recently I spent a happy a few hours wandering around

St Mary Redcliffe Church, photographing the amazing gargoyles of grimacing animals and hybrid half man half pig type embellishments peeking out from the masses of concrete ivy chiselled into a vast assortment of archways and ancient crannies.

In time, with stomach rumbling and mobile phone on twenty percent , I left the carvings and the must-damp coolness, and while the quite scary religious blokes who are for ever stoned upon the high outer walls watched, I pootled my way into our lovely city in search of grub.

Somehow my car fume fuelled feet found me at The fine Cathedral on Park Street, and what the f? With almost no thought towards my need for another one of their oversized scones and strong coffee, I stopped at the Saxon plaque that is silently hung at the entrance of some murky side crypt.

I stopped and pondered the plaques blurred stone work, which, I was reliably informed, shows Jesus being pulled into the underworld by some insistent gaggle of less than lovely lost and grasping types.

The resulting disconcerted scribbles made upon a wobbly table, in between the coffee stains and buttery scone crumbs later transformed into this kind of weird poem…

                                                                   

Caged white folk in missed pigeon shit

And Old Testament zeal like sad poultry sit

In the sunshine, biding their perch

Until wreathed in the New-cut throb twilight

Poached by soft lamplight, they chill out

To evensong-scum-tide, as dark times approach.

 

Gall-gothic grimaces steep dust by the day

While intertwined surfaces are eaten away by

Diesel lead carriages until moonlight unfolds

Vine screed wine skinned ancient gargoyles and

Big bearded blokes sceptred to ride the

Four-legged tree folk, who leaping on wing

Of gossamer swift true grit, fly bold to some walled crypt

To save Christ the King from a nightly torn grippage

Through gnarled grasping cracks of red nails, wails and stoned teeth

Upon Dark Saxon plaque, dragging Passion downward

While underworlds peek up cassock to sip fresh blood

From chunks in His feet.

 

And paced at some distance,  two foreign faces

Both wise and benign,  emerge from stoned entrance

And follow gently behind, to spin Sufi wisdom of

Otherness and love, to encircle and question

That Heaven’s above,

That Hell is below us

That wrath may destroy us

That only we know how to define

The gateway to Oneness and thus

Truth Divine.

 

Let Icons be bygones,  return tamed to One womb

Of moist waves and vibrations, until desert lands bloom

And the profits lost leaders, sow loves lightening speech

To grow fresh simple cities, where the warmed rivers meet.