If, for most of my days
alive upon this earth
I had been swallowed
by an impotent collapse,
how would I rise
into generative purpose
without abusing the animal softness
of my body.
How do I also hold to the wisdom
of that collapse
that was something about gentleness
and a longing for truth.
How do I slow,
in the face of a harrowing regime
of mindless obeyance to busyness,
to learn to listen to the whispered wisdoms
that sing inside
the endless temple of soma?
How do I learn to listen?
If I have been taught to override,
with mind and vacant distraction,
how do I learn to slow and revere
the voices that howl and moan,
that ululate and keen
in the holy resonance chamber,
the unruly menagerie
of my own interiority?
To drop to my knees and scry
the star studded waters
for hidden pleasure,
treasured devotion,
ancient hungering.
If I have been raised to suppress,
to colonise and civilise
the wild gestures,
the harrowing dance
the tender beseeching
of my instinct,
how do I flower the great inner ear
of my embracing becoming?
To seek and to coax
and to patiently unfurl
the tightly curled impulse
of my wholeness?
How do I make peace
with the driven tyrants
that drive me forward
in mechanised defence?
Driving me beyond my innate need
for care and regeneration,
for tenderness and communion,
gestation and grief.
How do I dismantle the harrowing dictatorships
that preside over my own body being?
How do I give equal weight
to each of the subjugated voices
that call in the dark chasm
of my unconscious sub-terrain
so that when I speak
my voice is a generous multitude
of possibilities?
That when I look I am seeing
from the eye of both the bird and the worm,
the blazing sun and also
the dark eye at the centre of the heavy earth,
from the driven imperative
and the still reflection,
from the silent
and the beseeching both?
A receptive listening,
an enduring council
to the biodiversity of body speak,
to the ecology of wisdoms,
that swirl and erupt
in the deep mystery
of my own vast multiplicity.
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