DOTLAN EveMaps

u'I thought I\u2019d escaped the moor, aware though
Of the dark mass drawing me, sighing,
As it once summoned the imagination, the great
Poem of the heart; a region, its field;
Though this place was none of my ancestry;
Here, was the unfamiliar space, brazen and mighty.

Now then begin again, each day seeing it new.
The vigour can never be nothingness, the flame
Is always ghostly ashes. Everything dies everything
Resurrects, like the snowdrops, concentrate on that,

And how the new sun makes spring out of the wind.
I am speaking of mind, the irreal, and only vaguely
Of the other. This is not science, which only sings
The myth of the outer spaces, explains the forms

Of the inner. But what the mind produces is never
Solely what mind is. All thought is unpredictable,
Like your beauty. Yes, I am talking to you, to mine,
To the past, to the dark essence of our ghostly trade.

Not what we are but what we make of it all, what we
Do. And not our words, which can only ever be signs,
Like the flags and pyramids of colour in a Paul Klee
Painting, which always point to Paul. We are names,

But what else, greater than names. How do we escape
Them, escape the forms, transmute ourselves to spirit?
That\u2019s why religion fails because it imprisons the soul,
Which is the free individual in every woman and man,

In all who are neither, all who are both, all who refuse
To endorse a plan for pain, or a mask of final intention;
Who would rather face truths, and the sweet darkness
Which blows over all, through all, and will all eternity.

Now we begin again, but not with infantile pleasure,
Though pleasure matters, and with the deeper knowing.
A heroism indeed for modern times, as the poet declares
From his ornate tomb on which Melancholia sits musing.

There is a flash of gold light on the covering of snowfall.
There is a melt going on under the seemingly frozen world.
Though we spend our time on the tyrants, recidivists, loud
Howlers of faiths, there is some river deeper flowing below.

There is a white trickle of life in a corner of being, and those
Giacometti hands at the figures\u2019 sides like leaves, like blades,
Like shovels, are ready to lift the enormous burden of all this.
They lean forward into the wind, they gesture towards the sky.

Now then begin again each day seeing it new. It moves
Like a runnel and also rests like a pool. It\u2019s dark like the Tao,
Hsuan, black as lacquer, the energy inherent and the going on.
You must re-invent existence. Do, as Ezra said: \u2018Make it new.\u2019'