Wearying Play Of Inner Politic And Party. {poetry}
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I.
Once I was a spark in the mind of All
then I was!
Born from a fleshy belly, wet with matter, life
How I shrieked! air, form, light, breath,
none of this was to my liking
Touch burnt,
incipient emotion and knowledge harassed
and very lonely,
torn from something.
I lived. This took some getting used to.
I learned to see, to hear, to feel, to walk, to run, to talk, to fear, to love
learned to phrase thoughts,
such as… “Am I done yet?”
I was not yet done.
Day followed day inexorably
my sleep plagued with terror
my waking with confusion
this mixed with all and grew deeper, bitter as boiled grounds, as the seasons passed —
and still I would at times phrase such thoughts as
“Am I done yet?”
But I was not yet done.
II.
Once I awakened
breathing in on an outcrop somewhere atop a hill
letting the sweet music of the spheres ring out
this was in a place that people awoke in all the time
wide-eyed souls wandering the olive trees and the open spaces
travelling astrally to speak with spirits and gods
“Here there are angels in the earth!” the immense Mexican shamanist told me,
“I can see angels locked into the earth!”
now I cannot even say if a thing changed at all
Besides the space which opened for breath,
and no one threw a You have awakened! party.
But there atop the hill, I witnessed the sun and earth and wind and ocean and called them my family, and gave them regards, and received lessons.
There atop the hill, and in those awakening days, the whole reason was becoming crystal clear
and sweet flames were torching me, cool energy pouring into and out of me,
yours, this catalyst
I felt I had been asleep
for years asleep,
lullabied by my own siren sweet mask-self
Now I was awake!
I resolved to remain so
“and I shall awaken only more and more, and shall not sleep”
God bless.
This oath, which I did try and fail to keep.
III.
Once I thought I had some knowledge, and was mistaken.
This happened again and again.
Every new becoming came with the sharp edge of the elbow,
which is Life saying Here you go. It was not as you thought it.
Awakening, ascension, the death of the ego, the actual endless scenario of heaven on earth
all expected, and the tracks keep sinking in the mud
our schedules are off. But we’ve got trust.
So, it seemed better not to think too much.
Swearing samadhi and resting in the still presence
I resolved to know nothing
and attempted to be content.
Here, I would think, breathing. Here I am. Breathing.
And this was the essence of my method, at
this time. Let me be empty, so I may be filled.
But nothing is always a temptation to something
which hides in the crunch of things,
sneaking through back doors
it is the nature of a vessel to fill
oh, and ever so more one on which is written
fill me, fill me, fill me!
So I have some knowledge again
free for the giving, if I can get at it
and forever moving on, taking or leaving,
take it or leave it
If I can,
I’ll leave it.
IV.
Once everything fell apart
And there was nothing to hold on to
The mind exploded in cacophony
the body spasmed without cease
energy, released, sought a focus
a focus could not be found.
In this primeval flux I dissolved,
I died
again and again and again and again
and again
the conciousness, so frazzled with all that light
and seeing every link
Where am I? In all this flux?
And who can name the hand which guides
my own damn sweet will?
Everything was playing then on me,
I the mad instrument
and indeed I thought I was mad
when there was an occasion to think so
but so many thoughts struggled and raged against each other
this found little purchase
everything was playing then on me
and every voice could be heard if it so wished
who can name the hand which guides my sweet
hands or cutthroat golden voice?
And who then moves my legs? And who then guides my thoughts?
A focus could not be found.
Each flake of consciousness took up its own flag.
And I was gone!
V.
Done with this
This uncertain pulse of legs that rumbles the body
Done with emptiness that feeds on emptiness,
these fallow lands spreading in the soul
Done with fear building fear until all is
hidden tight within its own arms
until an eye opens and the heart peeks out
and repeats,
let the heart see!
let the heart seek an opening,
and bring all with it!
Light! Let there be a great light within all darkness
let the mind see what it does not wish to see
let my heart open
and my mind also, creaky with ghosts and chains,
Who made this world?
I! I! I!
Who makes it now?
I! I! I!
Let it be beautiful!
VI.
Once I had faded,
There was a change in my field. It had become
more permeable. The sense of my senses remained.
There was (and is) an awareness, a space of self,
but it gave itself no chair of honor in the constant
feast of the human condition, soul, body, and all these extensions
So voice spoke with voice,
particle with particle,
conduit with conduit,
families of pain and pleasure formed freely
each spoke in turn, were equal at that table.
The royal I, in congress, listened, very permeable. At times wearying,
this constant play of inner politic and party
but I, who was half-gone already,
at times could do nothing but play another mad fiddle in the crowd.
Strange to me still this I, the sound of that
mad beautiful fiddling. My body, will and heart
moved constantly (and move still)
I melted, shifted, and changed.
So many voices! So many I‘s! All reaching
for the purple, all playing for a crown, the crown
that could not be found.
At a time I found myself asking that all my voices
be bound, or tied
with a thread of gold, silver, ivory and grass.
Slowly they have grown aware of each other,
where before each thought himself alone at the feast
I who was many things
did many sorceries to enrich the feast and the discourse
as they sat in conclave.
All these voices speak still, now,
without an urge
this pen would long have stilled.
And I whirl in constant mix and calm
I see myself, this beautiful totality,
Spinning in the many worlds
“Are you well?” I ask
It answers, “Yes.”
VII.
Time passes. This poem will never end.
Hello. I am speaking. I am here, at this moment,
writing these words. The living room is only moderately dirty.
It seems I must speak, to let you know, I am sane again
if you could believe it.
I have a belief in my own identity.
Though of course, I am aware that this is simply a belief.
Simply.
That feeling, torn from something? I know from where I came.
Though I am terribly afraid, I know where I am going.
The sleepless nights never die, they just switch phases and excuses.
I’ve learned to play with my own thoughts without taking them too seriously. Sweet things. They want to be interesting. I take an interest.
At times, I think, ahh, to rest…
but I am not yet done.
When questioned, I will answer. As will most things.
I continue to be well.
Bless you for asking.
***
Idan Cohen was born, raised and still resides in Israel. A few formative years in San Diego as a child etched the English language indelibly in his mind. His writing is self-therapy, shamanic exploration, self-mythologizing. He makes his living as a blue-collar worker, and his hands are well-calloused. He hopes to one day be a hipper, hippier, international version of Umberto Eco.
***
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