(for Su Bainbridge and to all beautiful Shaktis everywhere)
You are, you generate and you radiate out a light so bright I cannot look.† It effervesces
in your eyes and sparkles in your hair.† It is the joy that spills from your mouth:
it is so huge, you cannot name it or contain it.†
Your heart commands the arts and alchemy of transubstantiation: you clap your hands
and that which was dull, muted and monochrome bursts into shimmering, vibrant colour.†
Pigeons fly swooping from their pigeonholes.† Chess-pieces paint out their squares
and put on their party clothes.†
Even grumpy kings and stand-offish queens are charmed by your joy.†
You make every round peg feel itself safe and snug in a round hole.
Your light flows as a sea to every river, to every tributary; and reaches even me.
Beside you grey shadows retreat to the grey cupboard where they belong.
Your light infects me.† I absorb it in osmosis: shed rotten layers and cast off
You are light; and your light is simple and bright.† Itís clarity, concise: transcending
the muddy convolutions of intellect.† Your wisdom is being, simply being.
There are degrees of light and degrees of shadow; and each is a truth, irrefutable, unto itself.†
The truth you have chosen, the truth that chose you, the truth I now drink
is clear, sharp and painfully beautiful.
From this vantage point, I see what you see: I see beyond the cities, beyond the clouds,
beyond the sky; and below me a zen landscape of mountains and sea, a calligrapherís tree
burning bright with vertigo.
I am dizzy with the knowledge that there can be no more fear of falling.
You are light.† You are love.† You are everything that is easily mocked.
The vocabulary of your goodness is without sophistry.† There is no ironic post-modernist,
no educated fool, no surgeon of cool who can cauterise or analyse what simply is.†
They may have an army of lexicographers and have built a causeway of shifting shadow -
they may have constructed, in the moonís thin glare, a mythology of undeniable intricacy -
they may dazzle with their erudition, but you know and I know and they know,
they are without conviction.
Their darkness, their ennui, their desolation is as familiar to me as you are strange and new.
I want to be possessed by you.
I want to ride over this fear of descent into platitude, of speaking my light in idiot Christian tongues.
I ask myself can I let go and just be?
I know the blood-red hard wood: it has the familiarity of skin; it is as known to me as these veins,
this flesh, this brittle pale bone.
I have torn myself with chainsaws, chisels gouges, rasps.† I have smoothed my mouth
with fine grade sandpaper and cast a perfect web of poetry and deceit.
I apprenticed myself and am now master, but I ask, can I let go of such conceits?
It has been a long mountain track, littered with numerous ragged, unrealised abortions:
each with the attendant pain of childbirth.† I have the scars, look!† But, now, here,
I can turn out carvings of perplexing, savage complexity; smooth to the touch;
slick as machined metal; hard, erotic, beautiful - beautiful in the limitless darkness.
I am frightened by this dexterity: my unthinking dedication to the glorification†
of shadows and skin.
You are light; and in your light, my shadows are but dismal, futile mutterings.†
The light in me has woken from a yawning, protracted sleep; and I am shocked upon waking,
to find my temples - for all the years and careful craft -† standing stark, glittering and glorious,
in a war-zone of craters and ash.
You are light.† Your truth has overwhelmed me. The darkness no longer hypnotises,
for all its contrivance and trickery.† Its mystery, its fine-fingered ornamentation,
has dissipated into the commonplace and ordinary.† It may master the thesaurus,
but it no longer masters me.
You, my love: I enter into your light, in humility.† I have no maps, few words
and just the basic tools of a small child.† Speechless and blundering, with my sophistry in ashes,
I anticipate a happiness that surpasses understanding.†††††††††
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