Ecstatic Bandwidth of God

[Guest guest]

How Poetry Comes To Me

 

It comes blundering over theBoulders at night, it staysFrightened

outside theRange of my campfireI go to meet it at theEdge of the

light

 

~ Anne Sexton

 

 

 

 

It marauds after three, Mara makingwhirlpool motions of dying just

asthe Choral-tide heightens the Roof of Heaven in the rising Sea,

freeing the memory of Light beyond the speed of itself.

Being here, appearing before the door called death and birth was yet

to be,I am Me without a cause, Iwithout a first,

everlastingnessexpanding Itself, SelfMirth to my own applause in

theHouse of ‘I Go Out No More.” This carnal dog is in a wasteland of

words, following a changing, racing away moon it has never seen;

a masterless half-breed howling now,barking over watery graves,

shifting feet infour directions, boring dark-lippedeyes into

heart-skies gone violet and gold with color-sounds falling in the

rain’s refrain of the Sea;

of the dying being born into death, and ears hearing spirits in

comfort with the wind, blended into myself on the simultaneous moan

of thousands of souls going home, knowing Love Itself, being That

Wealth asthey crest in ecstatic bandwidth of God,breaking the waves

of time’s momentthat has married them to space, and knowing,entirely

knowing to the bone of existence,that death is but an assistance, a

living gift:

Love Living Itself, giving ItSelf fullyin the dying whomare crying no more.

 

 

 

 

 

"It is time for meto go, mother; I am going.

When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawnyou stretch your arms

for your baby in the bed,I shall say, "Baby is not there!"- mother, I

am going.

I shall become a delicate draught of airand caress you; and I shall be

ripples in the water when you bathe;and kiss you and kiss you again.

In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leavesyou will hear my

whisper in your bed,and my laughter will flashwith the

lightningthrough the open window into your room.

If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night,I

shall sing to you form the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep."

On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed,and lie upon your bosom while you sleep.

I shall become a dream, and through the little openingof your eyelids

I shall slip into the depths of your sleep;and when you wake up and

look round startled,like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into

the darkness.

When, on the great festival of puja,the neighbours' children come and

play about the house,I shall melt into the music of the fluteand

throb in your heart all day.

Dear Auntie will come with your puja presents and will ask,"Where is

our baby, sister? Mother you tell her softly,"He is in the pupils of

my eyes,he is my body and my soul."

 

~ Rabindranath Tagore

 

 

 

 

 

Love,

 

Mazie