Thursday, October 22, 2020

Balthazar - Poetry


Poetry is the closest one can come to the heart of things. 

It is the art of expressing the inexpressible and saying the unsayable.

It is not just words that can be poetry, any medium taken to its ultimate limit, its ultimate flowering of expression in beauty and truth is poetry. Dancing can be poetry, music can be, film…
A human being can be poetry.

Poetry is not so much what you say, but how you say it.
Prose can be poetry if it sings, if it has that hidden music.
But poetry can be prose if it does not sing.

Poetry is the closest art comes to THAT. That nameless thing of a thousand names. That experience of life, existence, experience, reality, truth/beauty.
It is the peak, the crescendo. The dance of life as it disappears into itself

Anyone can attempt to write poetry,
Few can actually produce a few verses of the real thing.
And far fewer still can be poetry.

Keats said “the poet is the most unpoetical thing in existence”.
And he is right – for the true poet is his art. He or she divests themselves of self-ness and disappears into the poetry of existence. The greatest poets didn’t write poetry, they lived poetry, they became themselves poetry.

The way one lives ones life can be poetry, full of truth and grace. To live in such a way that you enter into the harmony of the Kosmos.

To say that one is a poet is to say that you are attempting to live in such a way that you penetrate into the mystery, that you become so harmonious and flowing into life that you disappear.

Poetry is a verb and an adjective, not a noun
It is not a thing, but a quality and a fragrance

Seek not to be a poet,
but to be poetry.
Not to write poetry,
but to live poetry.

To be a poet without ever writing a poem.
To be poetry itself 


Wednesday, October 21, 2020

Annette Nibley - You Don't Need a Suitcase

I had many misconceptions at one time about what "this" looked like - this freedom, or whatever - and it always looked like something I could imagine or create from the experiences I already had, extrapolating from what I already knew. But this can't be imagined. This is a total surprise.

I always expected more life goodies, like peace, happiness, ease, a fulfilling relationship, perfect health, respect from my peers, and also, I expected that everywhere I laid my eyes there should be some feeling of total bliss - shock and awe every moment for the joyous bounty that is in front of me, if only I could see it without my own limiting selfish mind standing in the way of me and the truth. I would see every cell of life animated before my eyes, because I would not be distracted by petty stuff. How frustrating that I could not see this psychedelic world I surely lived in!

But this was all selfish imaginings. I wanted more for me, spectacle for me, drama for me, peace for me, adoration for me, love in every moment, for me. And this turns out not to have anything to do with me. And the surprising thing is, it's joyous! It's love, it's life, it's freedom, all unfolding naturally in my path - but none of these things is for me. They are there, they have always been there, when I'm not conjuring up a problem; life, love, and joy are there, but they don't need me. And interestingly, the "me" was made entirely of those problems I'd been thinking of. Without calling up a problem, there is no "me," and all that remains is impersonal life, impersonal love, whatever you want to call it. Nothing that "I" want, because if I can imagine it, it's just part of the prison.

So any idea you have of what this is - it is not. It can't be. This can't be something conjured out of your existing memories, which is all you have as a self. So if you go to any idea of what you must have in order to feel like you "have" it, that can't be it. It can't be thought of, it can't be imagined out of what you know. So you can stop trying to second-guess this. This arises only in what is not known. All that is known or imagined, or can possibly be known or imagined, is part of the prison.

All that remains is living, with no problems. Is it really as simple as that? Yes, it is. But is that my living, with no problems? No, it's not mine. When no problems are conjured up to think about, no "me-ness" arises; which tends to reinforce the idea that this livingness is impersonal; and that tends to reinforce the idea that there is nothing to lose, because nothing in the general "livingness" can ever be lost. So the validation starts building on itself, and the problems are conjured up less and less, until they are seen to never have existed at all. So, where was the "me"? Where was it, ever? Did it ever exist?

The point I've been trying to make is: don't be under the misconception that you can set a goal of "having this" and work towards it, by reading, watching videos, going to seminars, or meditating about it. That is just stuff your mind already knows and wants. Prison.

Subtract, and don't add. Don't add another goal, don't add another seminar. Drop one of your suitcases today, and drop another tomorrow, and don't pick anymore up, and see what happens. Drop the suitcase of opinions. Drop the suitcase of "I know I'm right." Drop the suitcase of "It has to be this way or I'll die." Drop the suitcase of "I have to do something to be free." Don't pick up another one.

If you accidentally stumble across a place where you don't know anything at all - your mind is blank and can't find a single thing that means anything - stick around for a while. Feel around, get to know the place. It doesn't mean you've failed, it means you're beginning to let go of your death grip on your suitcases.

Let them all drop. You don't need a suitcase where you're going. 





Monday, October 19, 2020

Miranda Warren - A love affair with love itself

This is a love affair with love itself. Everyone is my beloved; all the appearances of transient names and faces that flicker on the screen of dreams we call life, the only place we seem to exist. Everyone is made of love; everyone is love itself. There is nothing you can do that will ever take you outside of this dream of love. The story you tell about who you are or are not, the songs you sing, your suffering and hope, or the peaceful ease of bliss as you seem to dissolve into what simply is--- none of that separates you from the love that we are, none of that matters at all.

This is one love song that is not even one, simply undivided. Love is not personal, for there is no center to this love from which I can look out and see you as separate. No center from where I can feel anything for any separate appearance, including this Miranda character who is simply being lived, animated for a time like a leaf floating in a river. The movie plays on a flat screen, and yet it seems to have characters and objects that move about in three dimensions, and that is its magic, its divine expression, though there is no divinity behind it.

No longer is any apparent word or action seen as coming from any source, any character in the film. Life itself writes the script, and that includes every thought and every emotion. There is no me apart from you and yet here we are, dreamt characters in a love story without beginning or end. You are only the flickering light of a dream, as I am, and we are inseparable as we do our dance in this timeless instant. You are all my beloveds, as it is deeply felt that you are me and I am you, and yet we are not any thing or being at all.

You are the fragile illumination that appears and vanishes into a perfect endless night of infinite stars; each star unique in a timeless sky seen only in the ephemeral glimmers of starlight that shine like the luminescence in my eyes filled with the tears of a love that truly has no name. 💓