SELF INQUIRY

September 2, 2009

Dear Yosy and Rafe,

Dear Rafe and Yosy,

Thank you both very much for your comments. I have tried in this poem to express

a great deal, and I am glad you both liked it. Rafe writes moving poetry from

the heart too. And, yes Yosy, you too are a flute. As a highly accomplished Poet

you know what it is all about- and the metaphor of the Poet as a flute is very

appropriate.

Love to you both,

Yours in Bhagavan,

Alan

--- On Wed, 2/9/09, yosyflug <yosyflug wrote:

yosyflug <yosyflug

Re: SELF INQUIRY

Wednesday, 2 September, 2009, 12:13 AM

---- Original message ----

>Date: Tue, 1 Sep 2009 11:56:20 -0700 (PDT)

> Rafe Stoneman <rafaelstoneman@ >

>Subject: Re: SELF INQUIRY

>To:

>

> this one really says it ALL

> thank Alan...

>

> ------------ --------- --------- --------- ---------

>

> Alan Jacobs <alanadamsjacobs@ .co. uk>

>

> Tuesday, September 1, 2009 8:19:48 AM

> SELF INQUIRY

>

> SELF INQUIRY

>

> Hear this, comprehend clearly as transparent air!

> I'm not what I think or imagine that I am;

> I'm aware like a cat stalking his fare, I'm aware

> I'm not this body, earthy pot of red blooded jam,

> Nor mind, mere mechanical word secreting machine,

> Or a 'me' who peeps from behind a measly mince meat

> ball,

> A dreamer, deluded by pics which flick across my

> screen

> Of Consciousness, an empty space for 'what is' to

> fall,

>

So I leave this torrid, troubled toxic world alone.

>

> Where is the rightful place in 'who I really am?'

> An illusive surface, a shimmer, why mourn or moan

> About this sandy desert with its camel caravan?

> Drug induced visions like Kubla Khan or Avalone,

> Emanate from mind, like mists, when hot breath hits

> cold air.

> There's no time, a clockwork convenience conceived

> by man,

> Space and causality are concepts in the errant

> brain,

> No substance, but atoms dancing in an aeon's span,

> No mind, a measuring tape, used on this dreamer's

> train.

>

> No good or evil, right or wrong, fashions of an Age,

> Only a birds nest of thoughts, it's best left to

> lose.

> " Nothing perceived or conceived is Real " says my

> Sage,

> " You're not what you seem to be and no one to

> choose.

> So called choice is illusion in

the predestined

> plan,

> Free will's only apparent, and ego's pride we use

> To usurp Divine Will as mine; that's the sin of Man.

> There's nothing, in Truth, for anyone to will or

> decide,

> Know 'That', and be happy, end all thoughts of

> suicide.

>

> I am eternal, as Consciousness, I am 'That',

> Beyond concepts of Holy Father or Mother's balm.

> Truth is heard by those who at the feet of Sages

> sat.

> Remember the verse in King David's favoured psalm,

> 'Be still and know that I Am God' stay silent and

> calm.

> Words are erudite, the real point they always miss,

> The Holy Aim is beyond comprehension, I repeat,

> The veil that conceals the source of speech is

> remiss

> The other side of knowing is silence, peace replete.

>

> When in mind, I think this world isn't a dream but

> real,

> I feel separate

from my Source, yet know all is

> well,

> Unfolding precisely as it must; I trust and feel

> No need to bargain with God, as far as I can tell,

> All's well each moment, I know 'That' so I let all

> heal.

> Nothing exists, not even these thoughts, they're a

> thorn

> To remove thorns; in Truth there is no thing at all.

> I rest, desiring nothing, I am thus unborn,

> Empty to be Pure Self Awareness, for peace may fall.

>

> My reason has been jolted, shaken to its inmost

> core,

> By my wildly strange adventures, uniquely so

> bizarre;

> Who am I? to be feeling there's no 'me'? shout

> hurrah!

> I seem to be, intuition, that's flooding through the

> door,

> Drowning my brain and sense perceptions, near and

> far.

> Is there anyone here? Is Awareness my real identity?

> Then thoughts broke in and ended my earnest

Self

> Inquiry.

> I'm moved again to play the sportive game of life,

> Merrily dancing to circumstances piped by drum and

> fife.

>

oh yes. our friend alan is a flute...

the flute

the poet is

like a flute

shaping the breath

into a melody

true poet

shapes his life

into a breath

of the divine. . .

hollow from self

touched by intuition

life breath becomes a tune

in the symphony of being

when you read/hear a poem

and it touches your heart

it is because

you yourself

are the endless

poem

of life

and

the flute

inert in the flutist hands

cooled by the passing breath

caressed by the loving fingers

cares not

for the sound

produced

in gratitude,

_()_

yosy

September 2, 2009

ï»¿

Dear Alan

even if lacking the capacity to put in such wonderful verses the TRUTH

admiring and absorbing IT

thank you again and again

for giving always a helping Hand

to those who in earnest seek the TRUTH

and feel the urge and need to put it

in daily practice in LIGHT

yours even in Bhagavan

michael

-

Alan Jacobs

Tuesday, September 01, 2009 5:19 PM

SELF INQUIRY

SELF INQUIRYHear this, comprehend clearly as transparent air!I'm not what I think or imagine that I am;I'm aware like a cat stalking his fare, I'm awareI'm not this body, earthy pot of red blooded jam,Nor mind, mere mechanical word secreting machine,Or a 'me' who peeps from behind a measly mince meat ball,A dreamer, deluded by pics which flick across my screenOf Consciousness, an empty space for 'what is' to fall,So I leave this torrid, troubled toxic world alone.Where is the rightful place in 'who I really am?'An illusive surface, a shimmer, why mourn or moanAbout this sandy desert with its camel caravan?Drug induced visions like Kubla Khan or Avalone,Emanate from mind, like mists, when hot breath hits cold air.There's no time, a clockwork convenience conceived by man,Space and causality are concepts in the errant brain,No substance, but atoms dancing in an aeon's span,No mind, a measuring tape, used on this dreamer's train.No good or evil, right or wrong, fashions of an Age,Only a birds nest of thoughts, it's best left to lose."Nothing perceived or conceived is Real" says my Sage,"You're not what you seem to be and no one to choose.So called choice is illusion in the predestined plan,Free will's only apparent, and ego's pride we useTo usurp Divine Will as mine; that's the sin of Man. There's nothing, in Truth, for anyone to will or decide,Know 'That', and be happy, end all thoughts of suicide.I am eternal, as Consciousness, I am 'That',Beyond concepts of Holy Father or Mother's balm.Truth is heard by those who at the feet of Sages sat.Remember the verse in King David's favoured psalm,'Be still and know that I Am God' stay silent and calm.Words are erudite, the real point they always miss,The Holy Aim is beyond comprehension, I repeat,The veil that conceals the source of speech is remissThe other side of knowing is silence, peace replete.When in mind, I think this world isn't a dream but real,I feel separate from my Source, yet know all is well,Unfolding precisely as it must; I trust and feelNo need to bargain with God, as far as I can tell,All's well each moment, I know 'That' so I let all heal.Nothing exists, not even these thoughts, they're a thornTo remove thorns; in Truth there is no thing at all.I rest, desiring nothing, I am thus unborn,Empty to be Pure Self Awareness, for peace may fall.My reason has been jolted, shaken to its inmost core,By my wildly strange adventures, uniquely so bizarre;Who am I? to be feeling there's no 'me'? shout hurrah!I seem to be, intuition, that's flooding through the door,Drowning my brain and sense perceptions, near and far.Is there anyone here? Is Awareness my real identity?Then thoughts broke in and ended my earnest Self Inquiry.I'm moved again to play the sportive game of life,Merrily dancing to circumstances piped by drum and fife.

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