Yin and Yang

Yin:

She Was A Bard

She was a bard,
proud to be party to
the story of Being, being assembled
and worked on by a population in transition.
Being called in from an ancient Anglo-Norman minstrel
of the British Isles, Arthur (or Martha) the Brave.

And so, after a lengthy period
of being deeply impressed by the Mystery
that is the Grail and the Grail Mysteries – and yet is unspecified,
being handed down in the form of an oral branch
of the saga that is our infinitely storied tree of life….

She could now develop and grow
both fertile and productive, and of every crop.
and by works of literature felt fertilized within
such fertile belly, and many productive births…
Joseph is always with her, and Mary does not leave him behind.

– – – – –

Yang:

Breathtaking Study: From Ritual To Romance

The subject of this awe-inspiring study
is a great war fought in our realm
between the forces of Alchemy and Astrology.

Bellorum was the leader in these times.
Her Latin name means both ‘beautiful’
(as both the genitive masculine plural
and genitive neuter plural of ‘bellus’ – ‘beautiful’),
and ‘war’ (as the genitive plural of ‘bellum’ – ‘war’).

So in this time as the leader, she can see both the beauty
in Astrology and Alchemy, and know how also they go to war.
One brings the stars to the atoms,
the other the atoms to the stars.
There is a similarity between them and a difference.

In the first part of this study,
during the time of this war,
we see a ritual where Bellorum
is being greeted in welcome
by the Countess.

There is waste all around.
The Count is dead.
There is no male or female heir.
There were no children.
She was always barren.
The land and the people
were laid to waste
long before this war.

But now, with the Count gone as well,
Both Beauty is barren and Power is defeated.
Like white cliffs are both the Widow and the land.
But no greater difference is there between her and Bellorum.

Bellorum knows both beauty similarity and war of difference.
She as the leader wants to restore peace in the kingdom.
So it is not a ritual of welcome that she enacts.
But a genuine love, and especially for the men of the kingdom,
those that made war in emphasizing difference.

She bequeaths fertility and abundance to the wasteland.
The seeds that lie in the earth of alchemy
are blessed by astrology’s sunlight and warmth.

The men bear witness to her peace-giving powers.
The older call her ‘niece’ and the younger ‘aunty’.
Those her age call her sister and beloved and Queen.

And in this new realm
she finds romance
at the helm
with her King.

The Clothesline

The rotary clothesline had stood
In a moat of water and mud
Ever since the day it was delivered
On the ute, when the wire lines had quivered
Like motion lines of helicopter blades
Threatening to lift the car above the traffic lanes,
White flags on the metal bar tips waving a fond farewell.

Ever since then it had not quite landed.
On a concrete stub of an island it was stranded
While the cavity of the surrounding earth
Had filled up with rain.

The installation job was left unfinished
And the act of hanging out washing was diminished
By the water trough hazard, as in getting too close
To a drain.

Symbolically, the notion of cleanliness was incongruous
With this marriage of soil and unsoiled, a congress
Of mud-filled depths and fresh sunlit air
Arranged.

Til a year later the hole was filled.
The clamourous cry of opposites was stilled,
And the worms slept gently under a conventional-looking line.
Hanging out the washing was a safer task.
The cool wet clothes, and the eyelids basking
In the warmth of reaching up to feel the sun.

And though the pole in truth was no shorter,
Only less exposed at the base –  in some quarter
Of heaven the angels dimmed the lights again.
For before the clothesline had been an axis mundi,
A Tree of Life, Yggdrasil, not just for Sunday
Washing day, but a place betwixt earth and heaven.

The serpents slipped away from the chthonian moat.
A plastic basket was placed where a castle had stood.
The rod of light sent no messages to the starry skies above.
No boots lapped the edge of a clift by the waters.
No horizons were scanned, no king’s ransom or daughters
To rescue, no moats to cross, no quests for love.

No  fear in reaching skyward  with branching arms.
No helicopters in heaven in a day-dreaming balm.
The stretch between earth and the angel’s roosts was ended.

Ten minutes it takes to peg out a load of washing.
I’m thinking ahead not dreaming, and my shoes not sloshing.

25th September 2014