Light on the Page

The world is made to the very finest degree with life and matter in balance. Yet in me life and matter question their relationship. It matters too much to say that the body, which has been millions of years in the making, should never hear the call to life again. My senses themselves rise up and leave me, they take up their post at the gates of wonder, and they look for the slightest trace of movement inside, to tell me how dust and the forces that form it may continue.

The body walks its mile alone, under the glancing sun. And at the end of day it shelters, under the tree of life. But it does not see that that tree has run beside it, ahead of it, precisely so that it can be there at the end. Will another sun rise with me in that tree, and will a body walk beside my own? In all the glancing mile will it be the life that will not leave my life alone?

Disturbance

Yet can the very corpse itself believe,

whose senses have grown cold with dust and time?

Can it be clothed in flame again, or heave

the earth at last from out its pit of lime?

My senses leave me, take up their post,

where gates of wonder rise up, open wide,

and look in longing, noticing the most

and least disturbance of the dust inside.

Alone

The body is imbued with life a while,

which dances at the rising of the sun,

but after it has walked its glancing mile,

it shelters where the tree of life has run.

Then will a sun rise with me in that tree,

and will a body walk beside my own?

In all the glancing mile will it be

the life that will not leave my life alone?

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved.

Where does my heart belong? What is it made of? Whose is the blood that flows through it in truth? Should I wait until I die to find out or can I know now? Certainly my heart lies within a casket already, the casket of my body. Therefore what will hold it after my death? My love and faith will hold it. Living is a kind of charity, a sacrifice which gives the heart to time. But in its own being where would it most like to be? Where my heart would find its secret rhyme.

In a sense my heart is where my body can grow most thin. On the one hand it’s a doorway into the world I live in, the mortal world. On the other hand it’s a threshold into the eternal. My feelings, my longings, my needs come by nature to that doorway. After all it is the centre of the living. Do our needs and feelings vanish when we die? Are we not still connected to people and experiences? Is it not reasonable to believe that the dead come to that threshold too, and reach out with their questions, just as we do? In the name of Love I can make my heart a meeting-place or room for the souls on both sides.

Yet too often life creates a pool of blood in the heart which can’t find its own way out. A well of suffering which Love has not yet made its own. When this happens life can’t pay the price for releasing what it has itself created. Real pain arises. There is another chambered heart, just a beat and yet a universe away. The Being within it takes pity on that blood and breaks apart the wall that keeps Love’s splendor from our day.

Rhyme

But distant as my dying may be, or near,

there still will be a casket for my heart.

My body is that casket while I’m here,

my love and faith will hold it when I part.

Thus living is the sweetest charity,

a sacrifice which gives my heart to time,

but if you ask where I would rather be,

it’s where my heart would find its secret rhyme.

Meeting-Place

My heart is where my body grows most thin,

a space which only heaven can provide,

a mortal doorway to the world I’m in,

eternal entrance to the land inside.

The dead come to that threshold, living too,

and ask each other’s help across the gloom.

So in the name of Love I’d wander through,

and make my heart a meeting-place or room.

Love’s Splendor

Yet blood may gather in the heart, and stay,

a pool that Love has not yet made its own,

a well of suffering, where life can’t pay

the price for letting go what it has grown.

The Being within the other-chambered heart,

a second and a universe away,

takes pity on that blood and breaks apart

the wall that keeps Love’s splendor from our day.

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved.

To open your heart to what death contains can be less frightening than the waiting grave signifies. Death is a companion. Should I hold onto each living breath as if it’s the only thing God gave me? Or shall I take the steps down to the dark and loosen there the line of golden thread, which I have as my most sacred possession? My hands are not the only ones to need that thread. The sight of it can be a consolation to others who have gone before.

Or I may go down to what waits for me below and find an ocean. Is this ocean broader and deeper than my own soul, or is it the same water? And will its currents not travel over me as much as I sail over them? The slip of gold in my heart is my hope and safety. What is vast and eternal in the sea is the same as what is in me. It will rage in darkness against the quay unless I have sight of it now, from the start.

The thread of gold which runs through Light on the Page can also work its way down into the hidden realm. The slip which is the starting point is also here.

Consolation

If my companion then is dusky death,

and down below me lies the waiting grave,

shall I encounter every living breath

as if it were the only thing God gave?

Or shall I take the steps down to the dark,

and loosen there a line of golden thread,

so when the empty cavern seems most stark

there’s still some consolation for the dead.

Quay

Or if an ocean waits for me below,

as broad and silent as my soul can be,

I’ll navigate it, sailing with the flow,

just as its currents will travel over me.

But if no slip of light is in my heart,

I’ll have no comfort out upon the sea,

and what is vast, eternal from the start,

will rage in darkness up against the quay.

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved.

Is there a power inside us, which leads the body into light, even though it lies as if in the tomb? My body is the tomb, its eyes are night. I was led into earth, and I will be led from it. The Being of Love led me here. And though all is night around me, I know the fire of Love inside. Ghosts may glide, but I will flame in hope.

What can I send forth in the dark, to be my emissary? Faith. Faith will walk, and see with its secret eyes. It will see what manner of being is still able to fly in the deepest night. And when faith looks back to where my body lies, it will see something half-hidden in the shade. Something which will continue, even when the heart itself has stopped beating.

There is another form dwelling inside me, a sacred host, sheltering the body with its power. Its light is unconquerable, and yet it lies silently. It will hardly disturb the thoughts of those who come and go, their prayers, their devotions. It holds itself in silence, gently pressed.

Is there a power inside us, which leads the body into light?

…

Glide

And through my tears the Being of Love shines clear,

the last thing and the first to enter in,

the Being who led me down when day was near,

the one who comes again as light grows thin.

My body is the tomb, my eyes are night,

and yet I know the fire of Love inside.

And though I have to lie without my sight,

I’ll flame in hope where ghosts can merely glide.

…

Eternity

So then how great can dusty silence be,

that in the dark you hear your faith arise,

and walk to where its secret eyes can see

what angel in the deepest night still flies?

And if that faith looks back to where you lie,

he’ll see a form half-hidden in the shade,

and know that though in time your heart may die,

in all eternity its life is laid.

…

Host

I see the host indwelling my cold form

and sheltering the body with its power.

Its light is indivisible, a storm

of first intentions, or a haloed tower.

And yet it very quietly resides,

without disturbing anybody’s rest.

Through morning prayers and solemn eventides

it holds itself in silence, gently pressed.

…

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved.

There was a time, before I felt the heaviness of earth, when I walked in spring and knew the world was light. But then, each time I  journeyed on the river of  life, my innocences were lost, like flowers which fade too soon. At last, all the separate skies have lowered into one, all the experiences I had in my prime, as if in different lives, have returned as a single form to the tomb. There it must stay, without the rising sun, knowing the cold intention of despair.

Now day itself, with its speeding light, is unable to keep my body’s form intact. I wonder what tiny sound or little gleam of light can reach me here? Is there any angel who can fly as high as tireless death can travel deep?

…

Intention

Before I ever found myself a tomb,

I walked in spring and knew the earth was light.

But time and time again I left the womb,

and journeyed down the river into night.

Now all the skies have lowered into one,

the doors have closed and locked the silent air.

My body waits without the rising sun,

and knows the cold intention of despair.

…

Tireless

Now rest in stillness, grab the hours of night,

and tame them till their talons will retract.

The day is overpraised, its speeding light

will never keep my body’s form intact.

What gleam of prison-light will wake the eye,

what tiny sound will turn the ear from sleep?

And is there any angel who can fly

as high as tireless death can travel deep?

…

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved.