Thursday, July 30, 2015

Ode to the Keeper of the White Lotus

An Ode to the Keeper of the White Lotus
by Wes Hansen Copyright all rights reserved

“I wish I could describe the feeling of being at sea; the anguish, frustration, and fear, the beauty that accompanies threatening spectacles, the spiritual communion with creatures in whose domain I sail. There is a magnificent intensity in life that comes when we are not in control but are only reacting, living, surviving. I am not a religious man per se. My own cosmology is convoluted and not in line with any particular church or philosophy. But for me, to go to sea is to glimpse the face of God. At sea I am reminded of my insignificance – of all men's insignificance. It is a wonderful feeling to be so humbled.”

We were separated at birth,
the torrent, Alluvion, came
sudden like and the
massacred ego, awash
in the tempest hue,
had no harbor against

The images after, constructed
from Native spirits
untethered in the cold
inferno of an endless winter,
emerged from the
Wheel of Medicine.
They were
Spiritual, ephemeral, requisite . . .

I had . . .
I had so much to say,
but the separation was overwhelming;
I could only scream and yelp in
Beard pulling gibberish born
of the anguish . . .
the anguish of separation prior to
New Dawn.

“Come back to me . . .
come back to me,” I cried,
“and I will beat music
inspired by the love and
the Fury into your wintery
And we will make the love sounds,
forlorn but elemental.
And we will cherish the blue depth
and ride the current together
until death,
And we will persevere into the
New Dawn.”

But the torrential wind
beat down and caste
my plea into the
deafening abyss of
icebound passage
and I was
alone . . .

Love was ripped from me
and I died an infinite
Death, transpired in bleak
ugliness, arisen in
Spiritual famine,
the youth sacrificed
to scarred flesh
Warriors . . .

And I became a man accustomed,
the ten-thousand horrors, the ten-thousand ecstasies,
the ten-thousand, ten-thousand,
meaningless fodder but for
the ancient hymns,
Dauphin elegies. [1]
And the truth became realized,
Eternal Reward,
A mantra of praise, beseeching:

“Have mercy on me,
a castaway drifting;
have mercy on me,
an initiate to the Wandering;
have mercy on me,
an intrepid traveler;
have mercy on me . . . “

And mercy was granted
in a blissful suffering
of color, sound, and fury;
a suffering reminiscent of
life before but fully engaged;
rapture without capture, free, but
suffering still . . .

And the cold Destroyer
beat down upon me,
fleeting moments substantial
in sheer volume.
I laughed, I cried, and
I screamed, “Come on . . .
come on with your furious
display.” The violent lust
of rapture flowed in
rivers of blood,
full . . .

But for a moment suspended,
my flesh torn and bleeding,
did I remember the riot of
And the Passion was Love . . .

1.           Pelt, Dauphin Elegies, music for the Journey . . . 

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