Category: Poetry of Practice

Listen

by randisita, posted in Poetry of Practice

I listen and listen and listen to the great Silence,

and nothing was ever more real to me.

It is the realest thing I have ever encountered.

This great Silence draws me in

and the world as I knew it falls away.

How wonderful is this!

Being a cosmos of beauty, ever creating, ever dying.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Show me how to unfold this –  full emptiness,

and only that.

 

 

I came here to die

by randisita, posted in Poetry of Practice
April 2012
I Came here to die.
I know that now.
The nothingness draws me in.
More and more so.
The desert attracts me immensely.
There is a strong pull.
It started as a subtle, almost unnoticeable impulse from beyond the boundaries of what I knew as me.
As I gave attention to the subtleties of that pull, the pull became stronger and stronger.
I had to.
There was no other desire.
Now the desert is all I want.
And that I is me and yet not me at all, anymore.
That I is disappearing into the horizon.
I am a faint mirage in the heat that burns all away and leaves no illusions  to feed from.
There was an I that I knew.
There was that, but time is also gone.
The bare, wast, dry desert is all there is now.
Don´t talk to me of the life and nurturing waters and minerals that are underneath the appearances of the desert. 
I am not interested.
I came here to die.
I know that now.
Sweet sweet o sweet evaporation of form.
How can I pay you back?
Tell me how to plant your seed in every life.
Show me how to listen to The subtleties of stillness that I haven’t yet heard.
Teach me, to teach every ear, to hear You.
My heart is in your invisible hands and I bow because nothing is more natural to this me that you own.

The Great Void

by randisita, posted in Poetry of Practice

The Great Void.

The Great Void takes everything now.

There seems to be no room for anything.

It is here.

Out of honoring the void, I do something that is out of character with my habitual self, and fear kicks in.

Its cold and ugly hand takes my intestines by the neck and squeezes tight.

The pain in my inside makes it hard to breathe.

This body has to lie flat on the stomach to bear the physical discomfort.

But there is no suffering.

Only vast empty space.

Endless.

Nothing is happening.

I miss my lover profoundly.

My body aches to feel him inside me.

I long to melt into each other in that kind of ecstasy that dissolves the you and me into one body.

Beautiful.

Still there is no suffering.

Only stillness, stretching to the end of everything.

And on the screen of this stillness there are thoughts, feelings and sensations moving through my humanness.

Still nothing is happening.

The worldly worry of getting old and having achieved absolutely nothing.

Having done absolutely nothing worthwhile.

Having changed nothing to the better.

Left with a wrinkled and tired face and body and nothing to be proud of, makes me crumble and gasp for air and still –

Nothing but this vast empty void that can only be described as peace.

Nothing is happening.

The me is a construct and it is becoming frail now.

Still nothing is happening.

A backdrop of nothing

by randisita, posted in Poetry of Practice

There is an energetic and psychical sensation on the back of my body of heat and what is remembered as solidity of a body and a person, seems to have fallen away. Like it was never ever there. Like there is nothing there but beaming aliveness, vibrating joyously. Solidity was never there. Solidity was never there-. Solidity was never there. A backdrop of nothing.