Yours from me, this namaska’r.
Cognance of who we really are.
A shape to hold when souls seem far.
One light, my comet and your star.

I recently came across the blog of a long time muse of mine, Labi Siffre. I was once in a second-hand shop in Manchester and the cover of his 1972 album, “Crying, Laughing, Loving, Lying” called out to me to buy it…

I had never heard of him, and the record was a little scratched, but I took it home and haven’t stopped listening to it since. I even hooked up the record player to the computer so I could make mp3s. Some time later, I saw him perform a sublime set of music and poetry – on race, religion, politics and people.

When I came across his blog, Into The Light, I saw a stream of poetry… This one really caught my attention:

as 123 as ABC

“life has no meaning without God” say many
but life has no meaning
full stop. period.

life is the muse, the inspiration
equalled only by existence
and these wonders inspire us
FIRE us to meaning

to not realize that is
profoundly
odd

and the customary way
to flee
responsibility

Hold me. Hold me closer, until our bodies merge and our imaginations share their dreams like one mind. Dancing, swaying in the moonlight, we are lost together on the inky sands of the night-swept shore. Our fingers interlacing, skin to skin.

A river, carrying all water drops to the ocean, breathes a sigh of relief as she opens into the wide expanse of water, where all memories of her journey are lost. A vastness that envelops all fears and soothes them like a mother murmuring to her child.
Please hold me. I can’t lose You. You are too precious to me. You are me. Your love binds me to this reality – this world of shapes and colours; this dreamscape of signs and walkways.

In the leafy, shaded garden, seated on a grassy mound, a wise saint sits in stillness contemplating the elusive depths within. With such fearless determination he sits, as wind and rain beat his body. Only his chest moving as he breathes the life force into his cells.

I’m listening. Listening for stories in the whisper of the leaves in the breeze. What words can be woven from this web that surrounds me?
Ivy, watering can. Cobwebbed greek figure of grey plaster, flecked with green lichen and dry litter of autumn leaves. Yellow flowers for which I can’t find words to describe. Their petals like thin shavings of butter soaked in sunlight.

I want to write and write and write.
Unfurl words,
curled like new ferns
inside me.

It is almost painful.
A joyful, beautiful pain
that breathes in
in-formation
through my senses.

Finally.
To pick up a pencil and
release, release.
Into this compact notebook
that promises to carry my dreams
on a sailboat into the night.

Oh, I just want to let them flow out
like rainwaters along the edges
of paved streets.
Flow out and trickle
into ears and eyes
and open like flowers
in moist mouths.

Moist mouths that kiss and whisper,
and relish shapes
of poetry.

Pi to me a Kingdom is.
Such perfect joy therein I find,
that it excels all other bliss
that world affords or grows by kind.

Though much I think I feel I want,
and still my mind permits to crave,
Infinity goes on and on,
the splendour falling wave on wave.

‘Inside, inside!’, the Song Bird cried;
inviting me to go within.
So sweet across the great divide,
I heard It softly calling.

‘But how’, I asked ‘should I begin?’
‘which road am I to follow?’.
‘Fear not’, It sang, ‘go in, go in’,
‘I will be there to guide you’.

At first just He, then He and me,
then He alone therein I find.
My soul in burst and flying free,
I live for Him and serve mankind.

Black morning.
Clouds, muggy and moody,
Smother the mouth
of the city.

Thousands of bodies
Slide to the grind,
Underground.
Faces straight and indifferent.
Lost
in folds of paper
and fatigue.

Walls plastered with
Where to go
What to wear
What to buy

Thousands of bodies,
Thousands of faces.

Each a different form
of an endless You.

Thank You,
You have shown me
The way to the well.
Where I can drink
When my mouth is dry.
Where I can bathe
When my skin is sullied.
Where I can be refreshed
When my eyes are weary.

The way to the well
Is strewn with stones.

The way to the well
Is the way home.