The Risen

“What, pray tell, of Baha-ullah!”
Spoke at once the latest wise-one.
“He’s accepted all the others
Gone before; the way is union?”

“This, you see”, revealed the Rabbi,
“Charts a line which roughly follows
Down through time, a line of prophets,
Give or take a right-tongued Sophist.

“Eastern influences flourished
In our land, but naught surpasses
Now – or ever – true Kabbalah,
Gnostic scripts were ne’er so magic!

“Not so!” claimed the Vedic master.
“Ours, the early bird of progress
`May pass through the stages faster,
Incarnating ever after.

“Vishnu, here, the force outstanding,
Krishna, there, the force transcending,
Both appear within our scripture,
Bhagvad-Gita; song unending.”

“What of us,” cried out the pagans,
“Surely we’re the lords of mystery?
Since the early days of Egypt,
We’ve survived the Western history!”

“Those who claim that resurrection
Is the sole preserve of prophets,
Born beyond the ancient’s time line,
Listen well, and don’t forget it:

“Old Osiris: dead then risen;
Great Demeter’s daughter: risen;
Dionysus next was risen,
Then the Orphic bard was risen!”

Bowl of Earth

Speaking next, a bearded poet,
Stroked his chin and touched the symbols
Woven on his woollen long-coat:
Winged heart, the moon and lone star.

“Heights are reached by native mystics,
Yet the greatest peak of learning
Is our own, and few have reached it;
Sufi spinners rise by turning.”

“Here upon our cloud, unknowing,”
Sighed the mystic Christian fathers,
“We see how all souls are growing,
Ever upward, past the dawn-star.

“Darkest night will never capture
Those who walk beneath the lantern
That was set by Christ. In raptures
Have our Saints recovered phantoms.”

“Mani of the Moon, the Mirror,”
Spoke his priest. “A silver sliver
Of the lamp which lovers worship;
Shines the light on true believers.”

“Brings to mind the Bodhisatva,”
Spoke the Buddhist, “of compassion.”
“From the Eastern land of ancients,
Where the bowl of Earth was fashioned.”

The Camp Fire

Gathered round a blazing camp fire –
Flame of white, like pure magnesia –
Sat a group of men of learning;
All had found their way with reasoning.

Each had spent a life in study,
Each had found his deeper wisdom,
Yet knew naught of any other’s.
Each had made a spirit-prison.

Said the one who carried with him
Nothing ‘cept the staff he walked with,
On his belt a carved mandala,
Set in which were grains of barley:

“Once upon a time in Asia
Did the son of Suddhodana
Leave the wheel of incarnations,
Teach the eightfold path with patience.”

Answered one who bore a tablet
Made of stone. This etched upon it
Bore the ancient Faravahar –
Winged disc – and hieroglyphics:

“Once upon a time in Persia
Lived a man named Zarathustra,
True of mind and true in speaking,;
Undiluted star-light seeking.”

The Mysteries

I have made a wonderful song for you –

Hear it gladly! Call everyone to listen!

The way leads you through mountains and valleys.

Now your view is restricted, now it is free again.

If the path gently disappears into the bushes,

Don’t think it’s a mistake –

When the time is right, when we have climbed enough,

We shall approach our goal.

Let no one think, no matter how deeply they reflect,

That they will unravel all the wonders hidden here.

Nevertheless, many people will gain many things on this way

For Mother Earth produces many flowers.

Some may leave with downcast eyes,

But others, with cheerful gestures, will stay:

This way will bring everyone a different pleasure.

For the spring flows for many pilgrims.

Goethe, The Mysteries

The Dream Catcher

Eagle of the deep blue sky,

Watching, waiting, to see my open eye,

See me awaken and fly towards me.

Fly towards the window of the world,

Closed and invisible;

My child’s hand touches glass,

Then finds the space between

To stretch and grasp

Just one long tail-feather

For the dream-catcher.

The White Age

Come back now

Thank goodness that was over – a second more and I would definitely have started panicking – I wasn’t at my best underwater, but so often seemed to find myself in that position whenever I became conscious of my situation.

Why, I asked myself, did ‘holidays’ almost invariably end with being captured by the sea? The only time I had really experienced a watery destination and had managed to avoid going under was when I had gone to the prior existence of the light side with Peter, a place of virtual hieroglyphic communication, very close to the ancient Sanskrit lands. How I would love to recall that tale, for it was truly the epic journey of my most sublime imagination, an Arabian night made day.

There, the water had been azure, the vista of magical blue eternity studded with islands of far-reaching heart-felt wishes. A breathtaking view indeed and if I should ever recall or revisit that fathomless beach of my Odyssey, surely I would declare unto it the homage of a thousand sighs in words, without weeping.

This was the fantasy of the East as it was in the eye of the creator, reflection in light of the land near and far, mystical pre-incarnation of a maharaja’s dream. Never before seen were those crystal quartets of jewel-like structures, the bathing houses of ideal dimension, gleaming quadratics, defined manifestations of the glittering perception of marble queens. This was no ordinary era, it was the utmost peak of infinity. It was the white age.

There were reams of turquoise, ether avenues of ultraviolet stone, columns of mystique, the foundations of purity in a destination almost unseen, all at the origin of eternity’s horizon, whilst onward stretched the shore of our forever on the smoothest sea of love….

It’s at this point that my memory fails, though in my minds eye I still see the crystal waters, which none can remove from my understanding of mysteries, far beyond the green of the Zoroastrian glade.

Not too far back

Smouldering pit beneath the hotel lobby

Wandering back down the road in the other direction, sort of south and east if one assumes that I had previously been facing north, I chanced upon an improbably grand and opulent palace-like building that had an air of exclusivity.

While I was pleased to see evidence of a more advanced civilisation, I couldn’t help but notice that this was the only building of note and that it did not look exactly like a hotel.

Nevertheless, I went inside nonchalantly, hoping everyone would assume I was staying there, but suspecting all the while that I would somehow meet my end without making it to bed. I expected to get stopped by an official, but the building was full of people who seemed also to be in the midst of some sort of investigation and there was a hive of activity that rendered my presence there a non-event. It did not escape my attention that everyone else also seemed to be in state of utter disorientation.

Yes, I decided, after a cursory inspection, it was weird in there and things were getting weirder generally. There was no proper roof on the building – it all seemed to have half fallen down – and, despite the lavish facade, my second overriding impression was also of irretrievable decline; it was as if the entire civilization had gone way past its peak and was about to slip away. Nothing about it seemed stable.

The days here were definitely numbered, I mused. My casual air of interest in the surroundings was, with hindsight, a blatant portent of impending disaster. (I have a tendency to go into denial when faced with foreknowledge of unavoidable catastrophe that I was powerless to prevent, probably so as to avoid blind panic).

Determined to put on a brave face and stiff upper lip, I discreetly asked around for a bit more information and was directed to an area at the rear of the building. I had steeled myself to be un-shockable by this point, via the sole virtue of utter oblivion, so when I saw the gaping chasm filled with smouldering boulders nestling innocently in the back lobby I expressed polite interest and studied it closely.

Actually, it was pretty interesting and soon I was avidly discussing the nature of the geological specimen with a couple of grey-haired chappies who seemed to have come over here with precisely such a viewing in mind.

It all looked pretty dodgy, nevertheless, and when one of the chaps grew tired of waiting for a specific sign of activity from the smoking pit it was an exceedingly unpleasant surprise when he suddenly leapt onto one of the flattest rocks and sat on it very heavily with an expectant air.

Why the hell did he do that? Wasn’t he burning his bum? I was outraged by his foolishness for I knew it would be the end of us, and watched critically as the entire pit began to shudder and groan, opening in cracks and spurts before our eyes with an unusual lack of noise or disruption to everything around us.

Maybe I blacked out, because it only seemed to be a matter of seconds before I found myself somewhere completely different. The entire continent seemed to have just shifted and disappeared under water to the bottom of the sea, a very long way down.

Shit. This wasn’t good.

I looked around bemused, wondering how people were breathing. Just as soon, I wondered how I personally was breathing. I opened my mouth, inhaled, exhaled, inhaled exhaled – how the hell….how come I was breathing water, did I have special powers?

Oh. I wasn’t breathing.

Dying throes of a civilisation

My instinctively chosen region was near to South America.

I’d always wanted to visit this reason and felt unbridled excitement in the air of the steaming, sticky streets. I had hit roughly the right spot for my rapid calculations – 33 degrees / 15 but there was a problem. Something was definitely wrong about this place.

The feeling that anything was possible and that I had arrived on a cloud of hot air in the land of the fulfillment of desire was tempered by the creeping suspicion that myself and my companion (for one of the men in the kitchen had taken me up on my impromptu idea of a holiday) might have serious trouble finding a decent place to stay. The place were were in looked very alien and I had a strongly growing feeling that it may have been doomed.

I was surrounded by mounting evidence of the dying throes of a civilization although, being unconscious, I was unable to make rational sense of the situation we were in. Perhaps I had been a bit hasty in coming so far without a plan or guide. Reason, it seemed, had only half-heartedly joined me. She had failed to fully awaken from her state of slumber following the house party and was sitting down aimlessly at any opportunity as if oppressed by the heat, unwilling to offer any input to our situation and clearly wishing she was tucked up safely in a more comfortable place. Hungover, basically.
I looked around lamely. The narrow and uneven street was filled with too much stuff of an indeterminate nature and there were far too many people sitting around in the decaying gardens and yards of cramped shanty houses. I didn’t understand it – this was supposed to have been an astonishingly advanced culture but the houses were a mess and the local people looked vacant, almost as if they were on narcotics.

Everyone was dressed strangely in loose, white cotton garments that looked like nighties and that were embroidered with multi-coloured, symmetrical thread designs, generally blue or green coloured, while most of the women seemed to be meditatively brushing the long, dark hair of their daughters. I looked at one pair sitting to my left. The daughter had a shock of incredibly thick, jet-black hair, that trailed almost to her knees, and I assumed that the mother would be trying to get a brush through it for the next decade. The men all wore wide-brimmed hats and a few were performing odd jobs that didn’t mean much to me. Over to my right were terrace-like levels of apartments and cheap-looking structures that could have been hotels, again, filled with hairy people milling around languidly in the stifling heat.

I had evidently turned up during a long-forgotten century in the poorest quarter of a completely foreign country, somewhere in or around the correct continent, fully in line with my impetuous decision and complete absence of proper planning. I tried to ignore my premonition that the whole place should, by rights, have been buried at around that time, for its demise appeared long overdue. What next, I wondered?

The Pottery

When I awoke next, the party seemed to have ended and I felt more like my usual, down-to-earth self again. I thought it was time to go upstairs for a cup of tea and asked a random individual to lead the way, which he did without enthusiasm and then waved in the direction of some cupboards as soon as we were in the kitchen.

I had sort of forgotten whose house I had entered but was undaunted in my pursuit of refreshment. The cupboard was high on one narrow wall of the oblong room and I needed to stand on the work surface in order to peer comfortably inside. Might I have been exceedingly small?

I opened the door to the cupboard and looked vacantly inside, literally wanting nothing but a decent tea-cup. I was somewhat baffled and unamused, therefore, to actually discover what appeared to be a motley assembly of oddly-shaped, thick earthenware pots (with handles) that were a far cry from the clean, symmetrical, bone-china that I sought.

My first feeling was one of minor irritation but – upon closer inspection – the pots revealed themselves to be uniquely fascinating. The owner of the cupboard was evidently an artisan or collector of some sort, for he had the most marvelous set of vessels in there that one could ever imagine.

Each brown pot – in size the approximate volume of an ordinary tea cup – was fashioned with its own particular, three dimensional design, the majority of which were the faces of what looked to be elves, gnomes and pixies, but could equally have been people, I suppose. There was also a smaller number that were decorated with life-sized birds in flight. This in itself may not seem especially unusual, but if I add that the faces and the birds were real, perhaps the significance of my find might appear greater. Certainly, I was pleased.

I wondered whether the Potter actually owned a full set, the rest of which might have been in use somewhere, or if this was the sum of his collection. Either way, I was impressed, now that the humble beauty of the potter’s hearth was clear before my eyes in the shape of this cupboard full of small creatures that he had made himself.

I wondered if I would ever be permitted a sight of this master at work. The fruits of his craft were indeed marvelous but I was sure the pots were far too precious for me to use for tea, and I was loathe to even examine them in detail as they were evidently of great worth and I was afraid of breaking them. These objects were not for my curiosity or keeping and I thought I should look for something else to drink from.

I opened the adjacent cupboard but found nothing apart from half a dozen boring chipped mugs, some without handles, which generally seemed unfit for use. Someone had obviously been there already and used up all the good ones. My morning cup of tea seemed destined not to happen I thought moodily. I looked over my shoulder into the kitchen for someone who’d made a round of tea without asking me. Spotting two men standing by the door, I suspected that they had helped themselves nicely. I obviously wasn’t part of the in crowd; I didn’t even want stupid tea anymore.

I climbed down from the cupboard and decided to go on holiday, seeing as consciousness still hadn’t arrived and reason was keeping quiet, content to go along with anything for the time-being. I cleared my voice and made a loud announcement:

“I’m going on a trip, who wants to come”?

The Fairy Bird Flies

I wandered absent-mindedly into another room and without warning chanced upon the pair I sought – my reason with the fairy – although they did not see me at first for I remained out of view, the quietest of those present.

Both of them appeared to have changed clothes and had become somehow more real looking, which served to diminish their power in my eyes and deprive the sprite (as she had become) of the intensity of pure magical beauty. Funny, then, that she attracted me somehow more strongly than when she had been composed entirely of fire and air.

The attraction was more basic though, for mingled with clay and water she seemed quite human, even if the golden hair, which had lost some of its length and lustre, still tumbled past her slender shoulders and glistened invitingly in the half-light. She stood with her back to me, both hands joined with those of reason, who gazed at her in such complacent adoration that she did not see me at all. I could not tell if they were dancing, making love or struggling with each other. Slight annoyance was mingled with an overwhelming desire to touch them both; I was totally beside myself and moved towards them determinedly.

As soon as I stepped forward they turned around quickly. My reason beamed at me beatifically, “At last, you’re here, what on earth have you been doing, you were ages? We’ve been having a fantastic time!”

I acknowledged that the other one was less pleased to see me, but also that she grew lovelier once again as the weight of reason drew away from her. The same reason moved languidly to my right and rested her head on my shoulder, “I love you”, she murmured softly, once again my modest companion. Fire grew in the sylph-like eyes of the other and with every inspiration she became more like the wind.

Subtly, almost imperceptibly, her robes changed again to the hue of dawn on a bed of blossom and the coils of hair unfurled into their pure golden streams.

I abandoned myself for an instant and lay down on the dewy carpet. As she spread her wings I closed my eyes and sighed in half-forgotten ecstasy, while the fairy bird leaped silently into the air and across our reclining figures, touching the surface of our skin with the hem of her gown as she passed us by on the scent of lilies and melted into the future night, rosy as clouds before dusk.

Was this the appearance of my passion? I held it close as I lost consciousness and entered oblivious insight, soothed by the treasures of the sleeping mind.