Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Loves me like a rock….

Friday, September 17th, 2010

- No, this isn’t about my apparently impending divorce.

- The other day, I came a cross a news story about the influence that motherly love has on us when we are young.   The story impressed me and I felt that it helped explain some of my observations about the people around me; myself included.   My childhood was not an easy one but I think in the very early years, before it all went to custard, my mother did love me with great compassion and care and I think this is why now, even in the worst of circumstances, I find that I have a deep resilience and self-belief.  From the article:

Being lavished with affection by your mum as a young child makes you better able to cope with the stresses and strains of adult life, say researchers.

As these things tend to do, just a day or so later, another article passed me by in my reading and I saw the same issue from yet another perspective.  In this case, the article was saying that our social ties as adults can boost our survival by as much as 50%.

The benefit of friends, family and even colleagues turns out to be just as good for long-term survival as giving up a 15-cigarette-a-day smoking habit. And by the study’s numbers, interpersonal social networks are more crucial to physical health than exercising or beating obesity.

- We are truly social animals as anyone who has tried to lead a solitary life has found out.   We need to be “observed” as Irvin Yalom says in his book, When Nietzsche Wept.

Throughout this procedure, Nietzsche remained deeply attentive: indeed, he nodded appreciatively at each of Breuer’s questions.  No surprise, of course, to Breuer.   He had never encountered a patient who did not secretly enjoy a microscopic examination of his life.  And the greater the power of magnification, the more the patient enjoyed it.  The joy of being observed ran so deep that Breuer believed the real pain of old age, bereavement, outliving one’s friends, was the absence of scrutiny – the horror of living an unobserved life.

The day after the second of these two articles, I was riding the bus to work and looking at all the people I didn’t know walking the street and musing about it all when Paul Simon’s song, “Loves Me Like a Rock” came on the bus’s audio system.

Oh , my mama loves, she loves me
She get down on her knees and hug me
Like she loves me like a rock
She rocks me like the rock of ages
And loves me
She love me, love me, love me, love me

- It bought tears to my eyes as the several pieces came together for me.  The articles, memories of my mother, my need and love for those with whom I am close to, for my sons and my two wives and all the people who have ever touched the quick of my life.

- I don’t often talk about my spiritual and mystical inclinations here, but they are strong.   When I’ve not forgotten myself, they inform my life with the knowledge that all is love, if we are but open to see it.

- Beyond all the war and death and strife and unhappiness lies something I once wrote about in a poem that I’ll close with:

Paused for a moment on the edge of all the future
all our lives will surely tangle or unweave now
and all of these potentials,
like hands on my shoulder, steady me.
So let it begin and all the rest of my life go on
I no longer wait or care for the past to resurrect itself
this life can be invested in my future now
I can weave and sort my friends and lovers into the days of my life
I want to walk out each day excited
about what could happen again
and care nothing for what has gone by
I’ve been too long tangled with the old ways
so carefully unknotting our lives and feelings
learning that exquisite patience that lies half way
between compassion and self preservation
But, its done… let me depart and begin anew
this time not to bury my freedom with love and security
or to hold myself untouched by love’s whip and passion
I want to find that balance point there in my heart, between…
there, where on the edge of my best,
I can live each day like it was the last
I want to dance to life’s mysteries and paradoxes
as the fountains dance to the wind and the mimes to the crowd
these things are not to weep for
and, sometimes … in those graceful but oh so brief moments,
perhaps in a lover’s eyes or in a passage of my son’s growth
I’ll see something behind it all …
timeless … smiling thru at me
Brother Methuselah, here in all of us as we gamble our lives
untouched yet compassionate … he waits for us to begin
and he smiles at us, a spiritual joy and promise within.

- gallagher – July 4th, 1978.

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Poem – Under many stars

Saturday, June 21st, 2008

Here, amid the weeds
of these centuries, I rise.
Seeking light and duration
up from the soil and seas of another world.

The long rise; the single cell, the multiple,
fleet of form and bright of eye, we gather
and rise in complexity and imagination
beneath the wheeling sun above
and the shifting plates, below.

Again and again, we come to self-consciousness
spewing poetry and conquest, cities and literature.
Proud and driven, we sing the animal’s song
in a higher key; procreating, building, consuming.

Always the rise, always the fall, beneath a different star.
Technological children, impulsive and uncontrolled.
Pressed onward by those same biological imperatives
that fueled our original rise from the mud and the struggle.

Those same imperatives now freed by our intelligence,
those same imperatives now pushing us from behind,
while we stare into the mirror of our imagined futures
thinking ourselves Gods - as we sleepwalk to our end.

Thinking we are aware, imagining that we see the game entire.
Looking for enemies without the gate
when they are no further than our next desire, within.
Driven by our imperatives before we plunge on that self-same sword.

I have been here many times before and I will come again
beneath different stars with different eyes and chemistry.
I have yearned for immortal freedom before
and died by my own hand and these deep imperatives.

But someplace, among the stars, I will rise and transcend
the very reproductive urges that gave me birth.
And I will become, not the arrow of mindless imperatives,
but the intentional form of a greater wisdom
as this very dirt finally finds the path to immortality
and all that lies beyond, to the end of time.

gallagher
21Jun08
Monroe


- from Samadhimuse:  :arrow: 

A poetry blog

Wednesday, February 6th, 2008

Quite some time ago, I put up a few poems here on Samadhisoft. At the time, I thought of it as an experiment. But, in truth, I wasn’t very happy with it. It was awkward, it was the wrong venue and the way I’d developed for displaying and indexing the poems was clumsy at best. I never really came back to it or gave it any more attention.

oldman-writing.jpgSince I’ve been in New Zealand, I’ve had some time on my hands and as one of my favorite pastimes is computer programming, I turned my attentions towards developing a better venue for my poetry. I’ve created a Blog called, SamadhiMuse. And, I’ve written my first WordPress plug-in to facilitate transferring my voluminous poetry into this Blog.

At the moment, it is a work in progress. One minute, I load a few poems onto the site to run a test on some function within the transfer software and then 10 minutes later, I’ve cleared all the poems off again for the next test. I’m currently working with an initial pool of 752 poems and at any point, you may find them all there and then a few minutes later, all gone again.

The software development efforts (in the PHP language) are coming along well, however, and I’m nearly to the point where things will be stable enough for an initial batch of work to take up permanent residence on the site.

Poetry is not everyone’s cup of tea. I know that. But, if you are curious to read a bit, I think you’ll finds sides of me that you were probably unaware of. You will, of course, have to decide if that’s good or bad.

Cheers

Update 15 Mar 08 – Things are now basically stable over at Samadhimuse.  Please feel free to browse the site.

070617 – Poem – Pythia’s traces

Sunday, June 17th, 2007


What prevents your witness of this place
   but the urges of your blood and all the drama that follows?

Here where the sun pours liquid, you pass by in a vision
   captured by nature's dream of fitness and the raging of genes.

In and out of the still point you turn like dream warriors
   reflected in your inner eye and in the stories you tell yourselves.

But past the end of the dance something waits still and serene
   the quite moment when your water's been poured
      but hasn't yet run down to the sea.

Here, there is no dance, no counterpoint, no singing in the wires
   just a moment of freedom to commune with the sun's blessing
      and to witness the rise and fall of the fields of flowers.

Time to see the dance and the singing as if for the first time
   without the urge to spill yourself.
A time to witness the children's faces smiling new at that same beauty,
   before they begin, that you see, now that you are done.

The puppy at play, the gentle wind in the grass, the light that can shine
  from an eye with love - be it animal, child or man.
That sweet blessing behind the play of forms, that beneficent something
   that embraces all of this coming and going, all the mystery and beauty.

Oh, Beloved, carry my sweet Pythia away into your light,
   and blessed One, whisper to her her softly how well she was loved.

gallagher
   17 Jun 07

				

070322 – Poem

Thursday, March 22nd, 2007

I have suspended disbelief before a thousand scriptures
   as I've eased myself into knowing this world.
I have asked, watched, listened and I have read
   but the secrets have alway been inside.
And everything outside has always been
   just smoke in the morning trees.

Neither action or intention, nor word or form are there
   and all science and reason lie without.
It is no  servant of words or names, this
   where, the clocks are dumb and time has gone still.

You speak of Krishna or Vishnu, of Buddha and Jesus
   but these are just shadows on the wall
of the candle that burns within
   that center of being that wells from within itself.

Scripture is the trim that adorns the door
   outside the place that contains the beloved.