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.

Anzac 2

At the bay
Of manuka and pohutukawa
There is above, the park
Of linden, maple, oak and gum.

In autumn colours
Today, stands a tree.
Several silver branches lean fallen
From the recent storm.

Into the sky are
Arrayed, expanding flights of
Green and yellow, warm pink and orange
Amid dying claws of brown.

But look down –
Among the fallen, the graves
Of dark leaves hanging on silver, the one
Bright heart red, trembling.

Anzac 1

The loose metal road climbs
up from the bay.
A walk in the park was a
walk through the past today.

Memory, as a whole, is a
warm capacity for feeling.
But every episode remembered
leaves me yet, in their multitude,
reeling.

A trusty stick sweeps away the
wreckage before me, the single
feeling returns, as a warmth
in the air I’m breathing.

Across my shoulders it goes.
The posture, if a pose, still
expresses and slows into depth
this feeling, with hands,
like bridge supports, holding both ends.

The rocking of my spine, the
sure grip of both arms, and
pressing on uphill, a sudden sense
shifts the scene, as it feels
like it’s a rifle I’m shouldering.

A soldier returning, a cup of tea
when I’m home, if not company then
some toast with tomato and pepper.
My mind drops into a grave
and sombre respect for the brave.

As I trudge up said hill, the past
no burden but the warmth of the
present, all homes, built on the warmth
of those who protected, yet were
subject to trouble, neglect, dejection.

Twenty Thoughts About Destitution

 

Happy, and so singing on the way home in the car, that song
“The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” by Joan Baez –
Or The Band, or Dylan – or now me for that matter,

I read about it on Wikipedia on the ‘net when I get home
And a reviewer of ‘Rolling Stone’ magazine in 1969 had
Written: “Nothing I have read ….has brought home

The overwhelming human sense of history that this song
Does” – and for sure, it’s the year ‘1865’ that the “winter
Of ’65’ refers to – and indeed it would have been cold:

It’s about enduring the last days of the American Civil War
And the suffering of the white Southerners – and I was
Really struck again by that third line at the beginning:

“Virgil Caine is the name, and I served on the Danville train.
‘Till Stoneman’s cavalry came and tore up the tracks again.
In the winter of ’65, we were hungry, just barely alive.”

And then the song lyric goes on: “By May the tenth, Richmond
Had fell, it’s a time I remember, oh so well!”….Chorus: “The
Night they drove old Dixie down, and all the bells were…”

So now I look for more references, and “the Danville – Richmond
Supply train was the lifeblood of the Confederate capital” – til
Cut off by the Union cavalry, led by a General ‘Stoneman’,

So when the town of Richmond “fell”, the Confederate capital
Had to be moved to Danville. So this song then is all about
Defeat. Being trampled into the dirt, just “barely alive.”

The “bells” were ringing out an emergency: “The night they
Drove old Dixie down” wasn’t only one night – that’s poetic
Licence. But if Yankees capture your capital, it’s all over.

And the thought struck me that a basic fear still today is that
Of finding oneself suddenly “destitute”. Of having nothing –
Or dropping far – say, not enough to keep a home or fed.

And that that basic fear is what seems to keep the whole ball
Of wax – the whole system – going. All measuring oneself
By ‘stuff’ – ‘having’ – how far we are away from that fear.

And another verse of the song goes “Like my father before me,
I will work the land – and like my brother before me, who took
A rebel stand / He was just eighteen, proud and brave

But a Yankee laid him in his grave.” – and I think there it is:
Who are they that promote this game, this terrible and
Terrorful distraction of acquisition and competition?

And we are now again the “rebels” and there is indeed a civil war
Happening in our time – and truly people are suffering and
Some are ransacking and reaping most of the rewards.

And the whole ‘system’ is being supported in this way to have
Some – and all – suffering the background fear of destitution
And others – and all – so entirely distracted by this game.

So now good men don’t provide good role models for younger
Men, because they see their elders just distracted by the
Same game, and they then become part of this too.

“Now I don’t mind choppin’ wood, and I don’t care if the money’s
No good – Ya take what ya need and ya leave the rest
But they should never have taken the very best.”

So in the end Virgil doesn’t mind leading a rough, hard, even poor
Life; everyone takes what they need – but no one should take
More than that, and no one should ruin it all for everyone.

And so we’re “rebels” because we rebel against that presumption.
We object that some are fucking it up for everyone in ‘the game’
On this planet – but more than that: this Civil War and strife

Is one great tragic distraction from the ‘real game’ – that of
Attraction and offering, relating and sharing, growing and
Comparing and sharing and gifting/receiving and living.

9-5-2016

Rage

We hated those men then,
With all we could muster,
Who bore down above us,
With blades bloody-lustred.
Who tore us from land,
And forced us here into danger,
Where the heart beats on fire
At the hands of a stranger.

In our rage we were hardened,
To confront the dark lords,
Those steel eyes of requirement
To submit to their swords.
Though our hearts lay wide open
To the rivers of blood,
In our anger-filled frames,
We were as large as the gods.

And our chests grew like furnaces
Roaring with logs,
And our cries were the ravings
Of wolves and wild dogs.
And our teeth showed their edges,
And our brows ran with sweat,
As we fixed on our foe,
And knew blood must be let.

In a wave of defiance,
We ran forward to fight.
And our fierce pride dared them
To question our might.
Arms and hearts reaching upwards,
We exploded in red,
Yet our anger declared
We’ll not be of the dead.

For our hearts harboured children,
And wives and kinfolk.
In our crazed cries of courage,
It was for them that we spoke.
So we called on the gods
Of rage, weapons and war,
To put fire in our chests,
And burn brave evermore.

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