Kundalini Splendor

ROSA MUNDI

 When a rose in the chest of every man and woman flowers, then we
shall see as we did in the beginning.  We shall touch and feel, taste and
savour, smell and linger, and hear the soul of sound.  We will
remember that we were all feeling, and are, and we will see how we
 have been this down the length of centuries.  We will see inwardly in
 blood that is light-rose-blood-and we will know the secret lines of light
 between all of us that span cities, seas and continents.


(Excerpt from the longer version)



FIFTY YEARS

i.m. Sylvia Plath, 10.2.63

The news unbearable…every day

a corkscrew twisting into the heart of the sun.

Evil lashing out at love. And numb

as snow, that winter as the white cold

uncandyfloss fluff stuff brimmed over my wellies

wading out into it with wonder…



Numb as cloud above before it rains awakening,

but suspended, flaking down instead

still wondering like a child at life and death in the garden

examining ants, a wasp’s nest, the prize of a blue broken bird’s egg

all existence in wonder, for our lives—yours taken, given away



numb beyond pain, passionately ice, afloat in your reason

and my mother’s taken like lightning (the sky become a sun

and everything a longing, an urgency of wonder)

then your dark rival’s…but then, in this haunting, your son

islanded up in the Arctic, ice-bound,

ringed with absence as you had foretold

motherless and fatherless to the void within…



and yet we are loved

despite being earth-numb and mind-blind

we are loved inside the light, inside life

in the place where you close your eyes and breathe

with no sermon or priest, no Daddy, but love

that is the love within, the love you had

the love you needed, the love you wasted

in fear and rage—the love we waste

for Christ’s sake



and yet we are loved, greatly loved

far more than we may easily know

despite the evidence (which is only our own)



despite great chunks of ice sliding

from the cliff’s edges leaving a strange raw blue behind

like a layer of skin stripped to blood that is air, blue blood



we are loved, we are helpless refugees, we are crying

we are stupid beyond belief

stumbling into love, loveless, numb

frozen in our enemy minds, our alpha minds, heart-dumb

as the spring that goes on innocently returning

each moment born



and now is the great thaw



Jay Ramsay

from MONUMENTS (new collection)

Jay Ramsay is a celebrated poet in England, noted especially for his devotion to poems of the spiritual path.  He has published an impressive number of books, and is, in addition to being a poet, a psychotherapist and an energy healer.  He has a gorgeous speaking voice and his readings sound like a cross between Laurence Olivier and Andrew Harvey.  Such resonance restores poetry to its traditional role as an oral art.
Go to his website at http://www.jayramsay.co.uk   And once you are there, explore his poetry as well as his spoken recordings.