Self is a small and unassuming word
that leeches onto the language of the soul,
obsequious, tenacious and tyrannical;
demanding its rights, asserting its prerogative
to dictate the fusion of the will.
Create a place they say
when they teach you to meditate
Find somewhere in your mind,
peaceful, full of love
I go to the glade in the forest of my childhood
where I am the centre of a benevolent universe
to find the self I’m told I need to find.
“I say I say, have you heard the one about the woman who was lost?”
“No I haven’t heard the one about the woman who was lost”
“She went to the Lost and Found”
“Yes, what did she find?”
“She found she wasn’t lost.”
Self is the icon of the age
the romance of our times
the language of a love that can infiltrate
the defences of the laminex libido
and the language by which the seer is recognised.
Haranguing headlines, titles, epithets -
You can’t love others ‘til you love yourself.
Empowerment is in living your dreams.
I dream myself into my forest glade:
At five I knew that this was all for me
the soft, daisy ridden grass,
the gentle branches filtering the always sun
the pretty stream my personal xylophone.
“Why is it dangerous to go into the woods in springtime?”
“ I don’t know, Why is it dangerous to go into the woods in springtime?”
“Because the grass has blades, the flowers have pistils and the leaves shoot!”
Other is the antonym of self
that sits petitioning the seat of reason,
persistent, hopeful and exhausting,
uncertain of its rights or limitations
or its claim to move the heart.
Happiness pursued me in my forest glade
clothed in the selfishness of childhood
and I was happy to be caught.
accept the warmth of the encircling arms
the picnic trays, the games, the signs of love
Vision confined to what was there to take
No competing or demanding Other
seeking access to the bounty.
“Have I told you the joke about the hill”
“No, what’s the joke about the hill?”
“I won’t tell you, you’d never get over it!”
Other is not me or what I can acquire
Unselfishness leads to no visible rewards
Caring has very little market value.
Now I am the hunter, and happiness
does not seem to be as clearly present
here among the boughs as once it was.
The alchemy of time reveals the Stone
but also the base metal on which all depends.
Transmutation lies in offering my Arden
freely, a gift of empowerment.
I say I say, How does an angel answer the phone?
Halo, halo?