7
All beings radiate with beginning
as they shed light with visible joy, the
old body of death overcome. When two
lovers kiss in the night rain they change as
a seed becomes the stem and flower, the potential
of being intertwining and germinating into a new,
fuller existence. The surplus of life is divided by
the hands into soul and body or living soul; the
blue grain of the imagination splits open and
a fuller existence springs up and sends its
tendrils down into the emptiness of the dark earth,
so that it may feed upon the earth’s dark blood.
If I am to sing of my beloved, I am to sing
of death; I am to sing of the desire for the
end of my desire and the end of my struggle for
a more beautiful existence. A cluster of falling
stars breaks apart and disintegrates in mid-flight
and each silver arch I call a miracle. Is this all
we need? Each parcel of light as it is synthesized
into the folds of our skin into the deeper being...
each parcel of brokendown light... and how can the
living know that the light they perceive in space is not the
splendid oncoming of death? How can the body know that
its own ecstatic force is not the beginning
of its own decomposition? It is unknowable...
each articulation of light, each flood
of godliness and beauty.
My heart opens like an eye, it sees within
itself the suffering of blindness.
And was it a virtue to be blinded? To have
our eyes severed from our vision of the divine?
We say art is a kind of reanimation of our being,
but art is as rare as divinity, and is a form of divinity.
It is the momentum of the wider impetus
towards music, an image that is prior to all
experience, the beauty that vibrates
at the living core of the universe... And in touch
or laughter or love, we harness this
momentum as it swings through us and we
say that we understand what is woven into
our innerbirth and total growth. What is
a part of our deepest selves and will
outlive our superficial consciousness. Yet
in everything there grows a natural sickness
that destroys our faith in the essential goodness
of our being and detunes the secret manifestations
of beauty which are all around us.
So our life is the wreckage of our goodness... it
is the shock of being plunged into the fixidity and
truth, the
debris of our inner light hanging in strands before our eyes...
And moonlight hangs or drops on treetops like
blue cobwebs. The earliest stars of
creation still flutter distantly and lightning
strikes down over the earth of the soul. We lift
our voices up to the beloved.