A Mind is a Terrible Thing

Special bonus today — an extra short poem that told me it was written and finished after fewer words than even this introduction:

Aspiration

To be a drop of water
in the Ocean
that is God…

                                                 – (c)2006, Becca Morn

Just so you folks think I haven’t forgotten completely about this here blog…

Destiny

Hidden though the passages be
still we are compelled
to seek them

Never quite content to exist
in contentment however
sweet, we strive

Under these conditions, given
who and what we are
it seems impossible

For the classical definition
of celestial heaven
would be utter hell
for most of us

We simply cannot
sit still
for an eternity
without going
completely barking mad

- (c) Becca Morn, 2006

(This one also contains a special bonus, one of my most favorite turns of phrase, "barking mad".  Such a delightful and evocative metaphor)

Last night, we got word from my sister-in-law that Stephanie’s mother had passed away the day before.  She was 97 years old, not so great health (stroke took her, but fairly quickly) — but had had a good life, raised a big bunch of wonderful children (who went on to have families of their own), and in her later years was the dictionary definition of "feisty".

Most importantly, in a time when relations with my own family were non-existent at best, Ma, the matriarch of the Sonnleitner clan, made it very clear she considered me her daughter, too.  During one of our last conversations when we were in Wisconsin for a visit last autumn, she told me, "You can’t get away.  You’re one of us now and always."

For her, I post this poem.  It wasn’t written specifically for her…but I think it fits.

Sky

Words lead to the empty spaces
a bowl overhead
so vast as to exert
its own spiritual gravity

Shriven of earthly anchors
we souls drift
ever upward
ever more swiftly
plummeting into blue
then purple and black

Passing through
merging
singularity
back into light
most pure
illuminating
banishing shadows

Inevitably
an itch
a need to breathe
the ringing Arathi bell
calls the souls
back home

One day though
the call
will go unheeded

Here are a few aphorisms from my collection.  Consider them "mini-poems", little trifles I’ve crafted over time…

Cotton-candy wisdom is sweet
But it dissolves on the tongue
And is gone
Only the bitter
Makes a lasting impression

Miracles bring not faith; they are only a wake-up call

Life is a terminal condition;
Stop acting like everything
is forever

Don’t interrupt me.  I am attempting the impossible.

Waiting is.

There are an infinte number of paths
but only one mountain

Here’s another odd one that showed up out of nowhere one morning:

Dakshina

On the long road, I met a man
next to an old shrine
to the monkey-god Hanuman

He stood not before
the colorful painted statue, but
alongside the dusty rightward wall

There, a lush rose bush flourished
in soil I would have thought
too poor to sustain even weeds

As I admired the fabulous blossoms
the bearded man, with arms muscled
like braided ropes, bade me stand back

"You would not want to stain
your fine, fine dress," said he
as he drew forth a curved dagger

I started, afraid he meant robbery
but no, instead his swift slash
opened a long rent on his forearm

Glistening blood, the precise same hue
as the red, red roses welled forth
gathered and rained upon the ground

For minutes, he fed the bush thus, long enough
to see his arms were enmeshed
in a dense network of scars, old and new

Eventually, face pale and sweating
he relented — wiped and sheathed the knife
and wrapped his arm with a roll of fresh cloth

"Why do you do this?" I cried
"The river is not half an hour walk
the way I came.  Why this?"

He showed yellow teeth behind his beard
"The soil here is poor — and so am I
My blood is all I have to offer to such beauty"

"But it’s just a rose bush,"
said I.  "Surely there are hundreds
just as beautiful, in more clement places"

"Only this one grows near
this Hanuman statue, which is enough
I am amply rewarded"

He showed me his arms
so thickly laced with scars
they seemed embroidered

"With each cut, my skin becomes stronger,"
he beamed, stroking the thick lines
"Already, it is like leather"

A perverse impulse made me ask:
"What will you do, when your skin
is so tough it turns away the blade?"

He grinned more widely
"I’ll find a sharper knife
and bear down harder"

"What will you do," I had to know
"at the end of days, when your hand
is too weak to wield the knife?"

Shrugging, he answered my question
with a question of his own:
"You volunteering?"

- 27 October 2006, Becca Morn

Been too long.  I owe you folks one.  Yes, I’ve been quite prolific here, btw.

The Candle Critic

I used to collect candles
all shapes, all sizes
it didn’t matter
as long as they were beautiful

I would take them home
arrange them just so
on the polished pine shelves
lining my private study

One day
a graybeard spied me
my arms full
with their accustomed load
of wrapped brown packages

Looking me up and down
he spat at my feet
grabbed my expensive purchases
and threw them into the gutter

"You fool," said he
A candle unburnt
is worse than useless
for they give you nothing
in exchange
for the space they occupy"

"But they are beautiful,"
I protested.  "See the colors,
the lovely shapes
the cunning craftsmanship
of the candlemaker’s art."

"Burn your candles, I say
but burn them well
for otherwise one day
your study will be full
of frozen waxworks
and you will have
become just like them

"Burn those candles," he abjured
"Keep the wicks well-trimmed
and the fresh breeze neither too much
nor too little

"If the wax tends to run
consider the discipline
of a brass ring
but the best candles
do not need such

"Most candles still
drown themselves eventually
in their own spilled wax

"Rare and sublime it is
to experience the candle
that achieves the perfection
the flame consuming
wax and wick
in equal measure
so that both run out
in precisely the same instant
leaving for a single eyeblink
nothing but the flame
and then it too is gone
            pfft!"

The graybeard kissed his fingers
and made a gesture of dismissal
nodding to my now
gutter-dampened heap
of wrapped candles
some now undoubtedly broken
"Take those home, put them
with the rest of your collection
and light them all
See what happens."

- Becca Morn, September 2006

And because it’s been a while, a poem for you, my friends:

Treasure Hunting

If I ask you
            ‘What is the Bliss?’
Come on, you already
know the answer

Don’t stop to think
about it
just blurt out
the first idea
that occurs to you

Anything else
is either the Illusion speaking
or plain damned lies

You know
what Bliss is not:
It is not money, fame
good health
or an epic love

Put your faith in these
and you are guaranteed
disappointment
and grief
for all of them
are destined to end
one day
leaving only
the faded memories
of what used to be

Bliss is not
a sunlit clearing
at the end of the path

Not any place
you can get to
by walking
nor some precious nugget
of sage wisdom
waiting to be dug up
or handed to you
by a Master

Bliss is never
sometime in the future
or existing in the past
but always
right
now

            Now

                        Now.

Bliss is an attitude
a state of being
of knowing:
            ‘I am precisely
            where I should be
            right now
            and everything
            is simply
            perfect
            because it is impossible
            to be otherwise’

The fruit
hangs before you
as it always has
and still
you hesitate?

Reach out
take hold
bite deep
savor it
and let the sweet juice
run unheeded
down
your chin

Now
live every moment
of your life
just like that

– 9 August 2006, Becca Morn

This was another of those poems I wrote, which I almost could not remember writing afterwards.  These ones seem to come from other realms.  I try to write like this more often…but these poems only come when they want to, never on my schedule or by my command.  About all I can say is that when I’ve been busy with the spiritual work — the meditation, the quiet mind — they come more often.

Stephanie said it reminded of her the turning of the age of Kali Yuga.  Hope you like it as much as she did.

A Darkness Arrives

Though the dawn
breaks clear
sun supposed to rise
then its rays
strike
just so
through the arches
landing at the holy place
upon the temple floor
below which
a hundred saints’
took their final
samadhi

A mote
a shadow grows
on the sun
spreading
consuming the light
like a cancer
consumes the body

No cloud this
nor the preordained passage
of Lunare
across Helios’ fiery disc

Darkness gallops in
on a mad black stallion
the beast’s slick coat
clotted with a froth
of sweat and dirt

Its hooded rider dismounts
cloak swirling as he strides
to hammer a gauntleted fist
upon sealed gates
and denying him entry
is not an option

Seek you now shelter
and the pooled light
of gathered candles
the warmth
of shared comforts

When the peak
of the storm
has passed
do not hunker down
but go forth now
with your candles
for there will be
a multitude
of hearthfires
that need relighting

Do you not have
a candle?
I know a man
who makes them
by the crate

Need a flame
to light yours?
Here, then
I will share mine
with you

- Becca Morn, 28 July 2006

One last poem before I go.  (See the next post down for a more prose-y farewell.)

Puja Offerings

Three coconuts I break
kneeling before the puja fire

The first cracks easily
but has no water
The white flesh inside
is sour, slimy, and mushy:

This is my past life
my existence up until now

I throw it into the fire
watch as thick smoke
billows up and away

The second coconut is harder
and splashes wet all over
creating a mess
but its interior is hale
white and firm

This is the time of transition
the chaos of before
becoming after

I throw the pieces into the fire
and a breeze shoves fumes
into my face, making my eyes
run with tears

The third coconut resists breaking
and I must beat it upon the rock
until shock tingles up my arm
Eventually I batter into it
spilling clear fluids into the puja flames

I paint this one with four dots
khumkhum
on each half of the broken shell
feeling the smooth fibers
under fingertips
then find another place
to rest the shells among the coals

This last offering
is my future life
and I have no idea
how it will turn out
save that the portents
are very good indeed

Submitted without comment… I think it explains itself.

Treading Water

It makes little difference
if you swim with the current
or throw yourself against it
if in fact you are
in the middle of the ocean

The only way
to keep from drowning
is to get out of the water
first

Things become so much clearer
when you are no longer
thrashing and flailing about
against an indifferent, slippery foe
you can never defeat

Here, take my hand

A friend loaned me his boat
and although I haven’t a clue
how to steer it
or where we are headed
the sun rides high and
we’ve a good wind at our backs

Wherever we are going
it shouldn’t take long

- Becca Morn, 13 June 2006