The poet must rise and, in all opposition to the mediocrity of those living with eyes closed, must claim with a child’s wonder: I AM.
And to be is never dull and unworthy of our attention.
Every passing second grants us the deepest mysteries that can never be too highly esteemed.
From the rustling of blades of grass in the wind to the farthest kindling galaxies; from the ordinary to the extraordinary; existence in its entirety marvels the beholder.
A poet’s awareness is nothing more than a child’s wonder.
A requirement: the capacity to remain silent and observe passionately at what IS.
In that womb of silence we are all bound to become children, poets and philosophers;
Quietly revering the performance of an universe that will forever astonish us-
The humble spectators of the Great Unknown.
There is a startling recognition in the first blink of the day, when the eyes open their lids, raise the gates of secluded darkness and the light-rays of colors come streaming into the cognizance of a new day. This recognition I speak of is far from definable, it is the unspoken conviction that life is altogether unknown and new. I awake to a new day, a new series of uncoiling sensuous experiences emerge passively from all around me. I say passively because I do nothing and the whole world around me pours into my consciousness like a voracious waterfall falling into a crystal diaphanous pond. As soothing as the morning light is it announces a silent scream urging me to interrogate my commonsense, to question my convictions, to ask this futile conundrum: where does it all take place? But as soon as I ask this query and reply with words the question loses all meaning. It is not a question to be answered by the wit of our words. It is a question answered in silence. It is to stop repeating compulsive nonsense in our heads. It is to remain still and perceive whatever
And remain there. |Silent|Still|Calm|Quiet|Mute
Where does it all take place… forget about what you know about the mind, the body, consciousness, the human brain, the weary heart.
Focus on your perceptions in the same manner as you would look at a flowing river… nameless, ineffable, and unutterable.
I come back to my computer. And write about it. Baptize it with names and riddles. I call it: