Thursday 25 June 2020

Time to take the ride back home

a poem everyone must read

In the time of the Great Plague
We miss magic
Deep magic, dark magic, cosmic magic, simply magic
We forgot all about magic

We were dreamers archealogically
We are dreamers still, somewhere
this element is flotsam in the deep black lake that is us

Sun sweet potion bathed our room
- the earth trembled in all its languid kerala sensuality under it-
As i typed this poem
i wasn't alone in this room
there was definitely the child
Also, there were the many invisible beings around us
the presence of which i am subliminally aware

Do you think the earth is doomed
i bring this question alive, out loud
The kid is distant, out of my reach even
travelling some other world
Dreaming
while keeping at her drawing
And yet some bit of her still lingers here
Earth is beautiful, she pronounced
But we are doomed, she adds

i think sometimes god speaks through children better
than they speak through us
i think somewhere children are better accessible to gods because
they are willing to stay mystical and mythical than we are

Such big things we are
Such little things we are
And yet we miss magic

We forgot
to whisper love spells into the heart of a bashful tree
We forgot
to hug a dainty flower in our palms to remind her that she is alive in the admonishing wait of the rain wind
We forgot
to bless unicorns back to life from narwhals
Did we forget so we remember again ?

What will it take in us to take part in our mystical again ?
What will it take in us to meet the blue shadows of ourselves ?

The other day, the child asked me;
quite innocently, how we are so certain of names we offer plants and trees and bees, of their bodies and organ parts.
How are we certain that the nostrils of a leaf is called a stomata, Amma
How are we certain that humans are called homo sapiens, Amma
How is science so certain ?

The trick i tell her ~
Myself an engineer of a past life,
Is to not be too certain, is to not stay too clever
And then; per chance then, you may see that the leaves
the flowers
and the stars
Might have spoken through us and willed of us,
Used us
To name them...

Isn't this a possibility too ?

Navigating empirical explicability in equipoisical distances with elusive uncertainty of the material and the immaterial-
both worlds

Isn't it healthier to revive subtlety into our lives?
Subtlety like the air we breathe

After all, what is love
but the bone spun song of the moon the children know as wisdom
What is love but the deep ochre concoctions of the sun's tassels
Upon which every leaf blade remembers to meet
What is love but dreaming visitations of iridescent mermaids
born to fly
carrying the nine studded heliocentrism
on their tail span

We are dreamers
You and i
We dream in Magic
And
We are dreamt in Magic
chants the child

Love is met in Magic

i wonder, are children brought upon this world so you learn to love yourself again

So you learn you know nothing
that you become nothing
Empty naked and new
Only to begin again
as birth begins with new death
always in Love

So the darker depths of your enchanted lake spills open long festering wounds
Out of courage, while fear keeps a low key
Only so you tend to it chanting love utterances into it
Letting it go into the lustful barbarious air of the universe
And then you realise faith is alchemy

True revolution is to look at love with love
True revolution is Mohabbat
Love saves love saves love saves
And
We become a treasure together

When was the last time your sea of dreams met the aubergine skies of heaven ?

Have you met yourself in love yet again ?
Have you walked yourself home yet ?
Speaking anciently, have you ridden a child's wolftime of magic yet ?

Time to ride back home


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