Remember a while ago, how I said that I had asked for and been granted permission (from my own intuition/sources) to share as much of the Secret as I could? This goes back to the almost universal tradition that students of any sort of ‘Mysteries’ must be sworn to secrecy. Redundant, in my case; I couldn’t tell an outsider anything worth knowing. They just wouldn’t hear it. So, here’s an odd bit of something that might be magic.
Once I had a poetic exchange, a sort of ‘brainiac amour’ as Patti Smith put it, with a poet who lived very far away. It was–shockingly, explosively inspiring. For me, so much energy, and of such an intensity, was released that I thought it was going to do me in. He underwent a similar process. We stayed with it for a long time, until our circumstances changed and the power diminished. An extraordinary time–I am so glad I was there to witness it! And–it’s all written down.
Any facility I have these days was developed then. Everything would try to come through in such a rush that the most inspired thing I could do in the moment was simply to try to be a good editor and keep the word-flow in coherent order. As it gradually slowed down–without ever completely stopping–I was able to observe myself composing, tracking the rhythms and sound devices, trying to keep metaphors from metamorphosing so much they ended up hopelessly mixed. The images themselves, and almost all of the words–phrases, even full lines, one after another–came quickly and without conscious thought.
It was all so much fun! I remember how giddy I used to feel, doing the thing I had always wanted most and never really dared to hope for (having invested my whole self in its pursuit anyway), and getting words that genuinely startled me down onto the page–and no few of them, either.
Last night the book I was reading gave me the idea to make a trance-visit to the poet friend and see how he was doing. The shift was immediate. He was a little melancholy at first, but by the time we parted, we were seeing reams and reams of pure cream-white paper, countless thousands of pages, and I knew we were seeing our next marching orders. We might not work together again, but each of us has so much ahead, the flow will never end. In the best way.
That’s what’s coming through now, after a lot of nothingness. More on that another time….
10 March 2021
The Telling Magic
Startled you, didn’t I? Don’t be unhappy;
I might have known–you’ve been nervous of late.
Suddenly out of a cold, clear blue sadness,
a bundle of something, return address Fate–
in a hand so familiar, it’s haunting you backwards
the way you had haunted its signer’s mind when
he was suddenly shocked by the absolute absence
that shone in the dark like the one you were then–
the benignantly wan apparition, the glowing
that led to an altar. Devoutly he knelt
to receive–and was granted the blessing of knowing
that seeds had been planted where snow would soon melt
and the green of the spring from the rocks in the side of
the mountain this also was leading to–there–
Imagine the ghost of the mother of nightmares
and deities still known to hang in the air
and sing through the leaves of the trees and the ripple
of water as all down the mountain it flows.
Once in a dream she came down–all so simple
it seemed, and it was–for she now could disclose–
there was always an answer; the letter was coming;
the post was delayed, but the lover had sent
his heart in a manner that set her own humming
like birds in an uprush of wings, but–it went
away when she opened and read what he’d told her.
You’ll never hear from me more, but know well:
My song is silver, but silence is golden.
I love you more than all magic can tell.