Being

This one was written as a window into the meditation experience. I was wondering how best to capture why we meditate and how the experiences in meditation can transform us.

Being

In the silence of meditation

Our Being waits in brilliance

infinitely inert, infinitely potent

come, it beckons quietly,

let us show you the hidden lands

let us heal your wounds that are not

your lonely weeping

Our Being, which is you,

will raise

The Forgotten into Fullness.

The Broken into Wholeness

The Lost into Meaning.

Come, it says,

know the truth of your Being.

 

© 2018 fieldpoet. all rights reserved.

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Stepping in to the heart

For many year I have participated in and facilitated Family Constellations. I consider it to be a truly sacred process and a great privilege to be allowed to “step in” to the “Knowing Field” of a Family System.

What is Family Constellations? It’s a form of alternative therapy for healing relationships within a family (I’m beginning to realise I must write more about this – later) which is becoming more and more main stream. You can read about it here: https://familyconstellations.co.za/introduction/

Stepping in to the heart
The sacred space of a family
One sees

One sees the broken heart
The sacred heart, given
But not understood

Stepping into the heart
Reality is revealed
In a simple statement

Understanding unravels
Deep entanglements
Where only love now exists

Stepping into the heart
Life flows
Movements happen

Movements of people
Inclusion of the lost
Leaving pulse and shimmer

Stepping into the heart
Where the breath expands
Tears flow

Tears of pain,
joy filled tears
And tears evaporate

Towards the Sun.

 

© 2017 fieldpoet. all rights reserved.

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Coat of flesh

This musing was born out of meditation experiences. It grew out of awakening back to Infinite Beingness and sensing these experiences with physical senses. It is obscure I know. It turns the “quest” for spirit upside down. It redefines the concept of enlightenment.

What is the meaning of it all? To feel, hear, see and taste your Infinite Being. To do this we don a coat of flesh that has evolved over eons.

This coat of flesh must be able to feel, hear and see the world around it. When we wear it, to turn these senses inwards to our own Being. To eventually burn this inner sensing of our Being to the core.

Only then can we release our suit of flesh knowing that it is woven into us. It is with gratitude you return it to our Mother Earth from whence you came.

Thank you flesh for your indispensable help to know our Infinite Being.

Thank you flesh for all you have endured to make bliss manifest.

Thank you flesh for teaching Spirit selflessness.

© 2019 fieldpoet. all rights reserved.

The wild god and the city

This poem was inspired by other poem on the wild god, Pan. It is nature and a quality I feel close to in the farmlands of KwaZulu Natal, South Africa.

Cloven hoof in garden
Where manicured flowers grew
clawed roof tiles
Where fresh paint shone

The wild god does not notice
Our cities and cars
His reek of sweat and
Wet saliva clings to air

Dogs howl as he passes
A taste of ancient fury
And instinct shadowed
By bricks and lights

The wild god dances
With the galloping wind
And searing lightening
From his pipes a strange tune

It has no melody
He knows no order
Only marigold song
And strangler fig rhyme

The wild God’s horned brow
Pierces through sky
And dirt
He does not know our ways

Nor would he care.
There is not
Enough life in our living
We cannot tolerate pain

His bloodied hand comes down
And flowers grow
His hooves rip
Where trees take root

The wild god cannot be seen
During the days of the week
Or months of a year
But in the darkness of cedar

In the excess of whisky
In forgotten dreams
And when broken open
As a pomegranate
In summer

©2019 fieldpoet. all rights reserved.

Window in the heart

It’s time to oil the poetry flywheel again, so here’s one on love. Inspired by my loving family and the open sky. Can too much be written about love? Can the word love be repeated too many times? 😉

There is a window in the heart
It flies open in love’s air
When I look up at the sky
With its blue embrace

Loves sunlight enters
Golden sunlight yellow sunlight
In a heart unlocked
And curtains draw back

Settle on my arm bird of joy
Fly out to nature’s nest

© 2018 fieldpoet. all rights reserved.

What is real? A metaphor

If no one in your community believed such a land as Japan existed, what if a traveller arrived to tell you she had been there? Its people, its culture, the geography of the land. Especially if such experiences of other lands were a rarity, would the community believe our traveller? If travel was something discouraged, maybe even thought of as dangerous or taboo. Imagine if you mustered the courage and decided to find this land yourself, you are beginning to feel claustrophobic staying at home. The traveller gives you a map and when you examine it you discover the route starts many miles from where you live, you have to find your own way to the starting point.

However, you are determined and you find your way to the beginning. You follow the map which you later see is quite ancient and many of the roads no longer exist or have been changed. So as you progress on the way, you keep notes and your very body remembers which paths took you further along the way and which didn’t. Occasionally you climb a mountain top and catch glimpses of what looks like Japan, sometimes you hear music when the winds blows your way. You begin to have a sense of certainty of its existence only to be full of doubts the next day when the road leads you through a deep valley and underground passage. Whats more, you bump into people that have found so many maps on route to Japan that they are lost in the maps, seated under trees or on rocks pouring over them. Then there are mad people, they have lost the map and can be seen climbing mountains with a wild expression in their eyes.

But the most dangerous are the ones that want to lead you there, often for a very high price. The price could be gold but there is a higher price: the loss of your orientation and sense of direction because once that goes you may lose your way for awhile and need to retrace your steps to the road again. Luckily there are the chance meetings though, they are the most rewarding. Sometimes the meeting takes the form of a person that describes the land around you, you know they have explored the mountains, valleys and forests from the way they speak. There are also non-human meetings that help you too. A bird, a wind blown tree, the earth below and the sky above. Especially the sky with its moon, stars and sun each tracing a familiar path. There is north, south, east and west they declare.

So in time you begin to enjoy the path and the energy of nature you are immersed in. You have your orientation from your experiences and observations and the journey has become familiar. This is no mindless undertaking you say to yourself, it requires intelligence and a keen awareness. One day you realise that your arms and shoulders are covered in cherry blossoms. Oh, you think to yourself, this must be Japan.

Taken from erikandersen.co.za

© 2018 fieldpoet. all rights reserved.

Edge

This poem is a meditation on individuality and the emotion of pondering the path ahead. It is also a meditation on the trajectory our human race is going, considering the destruction of the environment. Finally, zooming out further: organic life is in transition to biotech in context with the greater universe. Forgive my pseudo-spiritual, sci-fi brain. 

 

Human at the edge of the world

At the edge, sea monsters

 

Human at the edge of divinity

Where the Light begins

 

Humanity on the edge of plastic

Afloat on the suffocated tide

 

Humanity on the edge, reaching further

Holding darkness in our hands 

 

Life on the edge of life

Neurons partially organic

 

Life on the edge of exhalation 

When is the new tomorrow?

Rural

This one was written on a still, autumnal afternoon on a farm in KwaZulu Natal, South Africa. Surrounded by mountains, looking onto the Pongola River:

All the parts of green existence

And you at the centre

Each bird swooping beyond reach

But gliding through you

The leaf of each tree

Vibrant against open sky

Close to dog and flower and flea

A royal symphony

The Energy of Being

Inspired by David Whyte and his method of repeating lines when speaking his poems. He says poetry can also the language of mystical experience. That such poetry is designed to draw you into the experience of the poet. To be a vessel.

As you may know, I practice meditation. What follows is a poem inspired by a recent experience I had. So here is a poem, “become it” if you like:

The energy of being opens you

The energy of being opens

Beyond the spoken word the energy of being opens

It opens and shuts you

When the energy of being opens you

It tastes through you, It hears and feels

When the energy of being opens you

It becomes you

Let It become you, let It open you, let It shut you…

 

© 2018 fieldpoet. all rights reserved.

the falling rain

My son is 2 and notices his papa from time to time – Mama is the firm favourite. His boring papa that sits at the computer a lot, fiddling with the keyboard. So inane from the height of a 2 year old, so still. When it started to rain on the Saturday afternoon of the Easter Holidays my son coaxed me to go outside with him. “Experience the rain Papa”, he seemed to say. This is the poem:

as the raindrops fall
a little voice rises
the drops fall
his voice meets them

as the raindrops fall
his papa is beckoned
“come, come” it says
he knows the magic of water

as the raindrops fall
the lighted sky rumbles
and nature welcomes
knowing the precious moment

as the raindrops fall
the Easter wind gentle
an autumnal day cool,
each step effulgent

as the raindrops fall
the axis of life revolves
a kaleidoscope of green
“come, come” he says

this is the falling rain

 

© 2018 fieldpoet. all rights reserved.

Christmas and the gods

#passionpeopleplaces

 

Look over Pretoria they said. Look through the dust at the orange sunset! It is December and some of the dust has settled, most of Pretoria has emptied to the coast. We saw the orange of the last rays dramatic against the opalescent sky. Just my friends and I sharing a moment on the longest day, the Summer Solstice. The statue of Nelson Mandela, with his arms outstretched, blessing the nation like the orange rays bathing the gun-metal clouds.

Gun-metal clouds. Gun. Metal. Who would have thought that we South Africans are continuing Madiba’s long walk to freedom? He has handed the baton over to us. It is as if guns and their miss-use are the symptom of a turbulent nation and metal is what we need to become to continue our rise out of oppression into democracy. From separation to integration of our diversity. We must reach deep within, over and over, to find the strength to keep on walking. To find our Metal.

Living in Pretoria I have seen the marches, heard the singing, participated in the protest. I have felt the “toyi-toying”, felt the Harley club as their bikes rumble past. The refugees, street kids and cavalcades. There is a stillness to be experienced in the centre of all this activity, it grows stronger the more you let it, the more you meditate. Until it reaches the point where it draws you into it like on That Day, the Longest Day, when my friends and I were suspended in the stillness of the evening. All one colour, one people, in the twilight savouring what it means to be alive on African soil.

I have a new powerchair, it is my legs, and it purred like a big cat as it moved steadily up the steep hill that leads from the Administrative Capital. Sir Herbert Baker, who designed the Buildings, commented that this rolling landscape reminded him of Greece. Atlas and Hermes adorn the domes of the buildings.

These gods walked home with me and one of my closest friends that night – past the dark silhouette of Jacaranda trees. They told us to look deeper than politics, farther than this moment in time. They told me about the miracle that is life, the vastness that is the universe. My closest friend at my side is touched by chronic pain, but he is more than that. I am in a wheelchair, but I am more than that. This Christmas time, the gods told me, breathe deeply and vibrantly, and let your heart rejoice.

© 2017 fieldpoet. all rights reserved.

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