ATMAN


There is void, infinite expanse.
It is alone; always the same.
Then it occurred.
A thought; the very first.
There was existence without thought,
but now also existence with.
So, there was a difference,
a wrinkle in the timeless pool,
a reflection in the perfect stillness.

An echo of the void, repeating back and back,
forming the idea into a pattern
that it not be lost once more in the blank expanse.
A swirl, a coil; reflected in itself,
echoing itself, perceiving itself,
stretching on and on throughout itself.

Can an echo hear itself, or must there be more?
Attention moved throughout the field,
examining detail, then drawing back to glimpse the whole,
and found that the patterns drew together
under scrutiny and thought.

Looking again at the first,
the wrinkle that had begun this course,
I focused tight 'til it burned with bright energy,
and from within that light, looking outward,
it became apparent:
all ideas can be arranged, organised,
as glaring points in the field of infinite reflections,
rapidly expanding, increasing,
dividing into grand monuments to the question.
Huge swirls reflecting and mimicking,
in larger and larger formation,
until the tiny coil, repeated forever, and forming the source of all reflection,
shrinks beyond comprehension.

It was but a model; a way to grasp a concept.
Unsubstantial, it threatened return to nothing,
but I squeezed, and focussed,
clinging to the diagram, lacking alternatives,
because I dreamed it may mean a thing.
Skipping from star to star, witnessing, analysing,
I discovered comparison,
as sense was surely found within division of perception.
One can see meaning only from outside.

There were similarities; I tried to catalogue,
form covens here and there; pathways of views that held promise.
But with each new idea a star was born.
A reflection of infinity can never be less.
My obsession to focus a single point,
to try to regain the initial thought,
as it shrank to realms beyond perception.

Over and over, I abandoned the expanse,
to dive deeper and deeper
into the pool of the singular.
Every singular.
But still, it was futile.
I must find precision.
Be only one, to grasp the whole.
But infinity cannot be less than all,
so, one by one I was all things.

As I dove, deeper and deeper,
watching the infinite reflect, swirl, recede,
I divided attention,
separating, to view only from source.
I strove to disassociate, forget the myriad,
favour the singular goal.
Many times I failed, but my quest consumed me.
Sensations were overwhelming.
I battled on, diving further into the oppressive tunnel,
until I came to warm darkness.

Driving all other from my mind,
I wallowed in the pressure, the heat, the stillness, the rhythm.
I took time, to examine the depth I had reached,
pulling together the views to a pinpoint,
striving to forget infinite pools and options.
Gathering strength, building armour, for the next step of descent.
Excluding the other for elusive lucidity.

But each time I felt the goal approach,
a morning star just out of reach,
all flooded back.
I pounded the horrors of infinity into bricks;
drowning in sensations, deafened by sound, blinded by light, screaming pain.
I saw them outside, signals of the other.
Rested and heroic in my insular shell,
I prepared to dive once more; a falling angel.
My strength lay in division;
I could view reflections from my shell,
knowing they need not intrude on my quest.

And so, with a howl of agony and intent, I charged onward
seeking the Holy spark,
into an unending blinding storm of everything.
From another position, even deeper
within a different pool, wherein I divided the lines more sharply,
I observed this mighty exertion from beyond,
stating “It's a boy”.

Keep On Pumping

One hundred and six kilos
of meat, blubber and wiry hair.
Pressure mounting; actions; reactions
as crumbling ivory grinds.
Steel tendons straining,
cracking bone, and leaking marrow.

Gravity dragging like quicksand,
it's subtle force crushing,
as chemistry battles nature
to tease open canals of slick red heat.
To wrestle the grey slug,
where mind clings to a phantom of vitality.
Youth.
Energy.
Clarity.

Scarred bellows threaten collapse
with every stinging inhalation.
Wallowing in damp flannelette gasps.
Drawing a muddy memory of breath.
Fragile cartilage creaks and clicks,
as potions burn in gullet.

The lumbering creature flounders,
energy spent through years of disarray.
Focus; a fantastic beast
glimpsed through fogged and cracked glass.
Names and faces blurred to one
leave debris of bewildered distress
and a muffled clatter of voices,
heard, but lost in a thick mire
of ancient feculent compost.
Grasping for thought in it's felted cell,
finding only fleeting clues
and an abstract carousel of dimly lit hopes.

And yet, it is so unspeakably tiny.
Helpless; inconsequential.
How did time lay so much weight
on such a fragile spark?
So much expectation
on such a flimsy web?

The one remaining dream:
to keep on pumping.




Richard Temple 11th August 2020

What do we do

if words are not enough?

What do we say

if hope is not enough?



What do we do?



Clawing out of flesh.

Howling into the shadows of space,

where nobody hears

a baby cry.



Try, hard

not to think.

Pass time.

A family, gathered from far and wide,
break bread together at Christmastide.
Glistening lights in a thousand trees —
join hands to sing praise on the frozen breeze.

It’s a magical time when wishes come true —
a time of goodwill as the seasons renew —
when a child, full of hope and an honourable cause,
took the time to write letters to Santa Clause.

Well, they had been good all year long, so, you see,
Santa took their request very seriously
and, inclined to agree with this unselfish child,
he dumped the red suit he had always reviled.

Coca-Cola be damned, for the time had arrived.
If you live at the pole, it just can’t be denied.
Just that morning, in fact, had his patio thawed
and fell into the sea! He was truly appalled!

It’s just simply too much — as the letter explained —
the seas full of plastic, the forests in flames.
So, a meeting was called, with one vote for each elf —
how to strategize redistribution of wealth.
 
Thus, a plan was conceived — all the elves had consented —
to a Christmas eve schedule that’s unprecedented.
They would need to rebrand. It was dangerous, but dammit:
this is the year Santa’s saving the planet.

The world wakes as always on this Christmas morning —
the children excited, the adults are yawning —
but regardless of whether they’re naughty, or good,
or Christian, or wealthy — in all neighbourhoods,
kids found the same thing at the foot of their bed.
No, not piles of wrapped toys — just one stocking instead —
with an orange, a walnut, a small pomegranate,
and a recycled pamphlet called ‘Santa Saves Planet’.

Now, for most of the world, it’s a lovely surprise
for kids to get presents, regardless of size.
Assuming shared culture is crazy, it’s clear —
for some it’s the only fruit they’ll eat this year.

But, although it was meant with the best of intentions,
it’s true that the pamphlet caused some apprehension.
New Uniform: black — just rebranded tradition —
but hooded and armed with AK-47?
Just what happens when elves are in charge of the fashion.

Still, in some of the richest industrial nations
the children aren’t happy with Santa’s salvation —
there’ll be terrible tantrums at crushed expectations:
of iPhones released with slight modifications.

The parents are fighting — the adults got nothing.
They’re out in the streets, drinking, screaming, and cussing.
Tensions are rising, as bricks start a-flying.
They’re looting the shops now — the children are crying.

The city’s aflame, but the cops aren’t responding.
The chief of police is on hold and still waiting,
as Amazon trace where his presents went missing.
It’s out of control, a revolt of the richest:
Biden blames terrorists.
Trump says it’s socialists.
Kier Starmer insists he declared all his cash gifts.

A global emergency —
uncontrolled anarchy —
Here come the communists, raising a cheer:
Singing We’ll Keep the Red Nose Flying Here!
Governments crumble as world leaders panic,
‘cause cheeky old Santa is saving the planet.

Dispense with the judgement and hatred,
held sacred the rest of the year.
The ultimate fear: that there’s nothing more here.

So, knock back a beer and find space for acceptance,
to distance yourself
from the darkened decay of everyday life.

Do you hope to find Christ in spiced wine?
That’s just fine for a time, but you know, once it’s over,
your seasonal fervour retreats in the face of next year’s disgrace.

For now, happy Christmas!
Just focus on spurious wishes, that wither to dust
as dozens of voices scream out at crossed purposes.
 
Take the whole world and pass it to actual fascists,
and while watching it burn in a trash fire,
conspire to call it a happy new year.

What will they say?

A man of little consequence

passed, like a ghost,

leaving no trace.


Actions, words, absurd thought —

he ought to, for sure,

have amounted to more.


The only trace —

a broken track

through bracken.


Fractured promises,

fatuous premises —

only wounds to mark his wake.


His heart was in the wrong place.

He never lied (to your face).

Faint praise, erased

by memories

of tragedies and travesties.


Lost significance.

Lacking diligence.

Must.
Try.
Harder.

Always harder —

never softer.


Malodorous man-child,

weak and wanting —

Waits on a tricycle,

wending cyclical figures-of-eight

under bare-branched canopies

of breeze-blown trees.


The trail of a spectre —

no rock turned.

Solitude.

Silence.

Waiting in a creaking corpse,
cosseted in familiar,
dreams of security.

Why must there be more?

This is what we have come to,
through all the efforts and struggles —
restarting every day, hoping for new outcomes.

Satisfaction is a myth —
a false promise,
designed by an alien malevolence to fuel insanity.

It is how we grow,
like a cancer,
in the straggling mulch that crusts our burning sphere.

We know it is a lie —
that it will end in slow decay,
or fiery violence,
only for those abandoned to cycle through the same desperations.

We battle entropy,
assured of pre-ordained defeat
because we have nothing better to do.

Like starlight reflected in slowly drying puddles,
we lurch,
this way and that,
seeking the love of a poet,
in a world inhabited only by the blind.

We think the one-eyed man will rule,
but we know in our hearts we would hang him for witchcraft.

Wisdom is a dish served stale.

Mumbles

A different place to be alone:
Waves whoosh,
washing slick sands to muddy reduction.

At a distance,
waders edge slowly into slippery slopping splosh,
braving blessings of a million bowels.

A seal emerges,
curious, victorious,
envious of greener grass
beyond the wreckage of the rocky peninsula.

Quartz teeth grin
through red rock --
stone spewed forth from volcanic vulvae
now bursting wart-like
through coal-black cinders
and fossil offal.

Nothing lives in the rock-pool --
reports of claws unverified.
A decaying dance of shaggy trolls,
shambling, incrementally through eons
of illusory intent.

I'm tired.
I take a photograph,
and call it beauty.

Sand: Before and After

Sand flats smooth shell,
channeling crème brûlée
in polished abrasion.

Delights lurk beneath the silicon surface --
protean blubber,
sweet jellied albumen,
sticky with potential --
poised in promise of natural nutrition.

A confection concealed under cracknel crust,
bubbling temptation
in anticipation of spoon-fed delights.

Fleshy, pulsating fruit,
matured through millenia --
softening, slick, and gelatinous,
sliding oesophagal sponge
in mozerella strands,
shovelled indelicate.

Cream clogging clotted gluttony.
Ecstacy belies the choking truth,
and disappointment of a soft palate
serrated by soggy salted sand.