The Diving River on Facebook I have decided to run my entire book, The Dividing River / The Meeting Shore on a daily basis until it is done. This book has had an important impact on those who have suffered the passing of someone close to them. I know from the mail I have received; including a letter from someone who picked up my book in a paperback bookstore and wrote to tell me that it had not only helped him get over the death of his friend, but also prevented his suicide. I did not write my book with any outside objective in mind, but simply to deal with the untimely death of my closest friend from childhood. I had no idea when I began writing how deeply this would take me into my own reality, or how profoundly it would reflect on and draw from the esoteric teaching I had been engaged in for many years. My poetry has over time, become more and more spiritual, which was reflected in the blurb sent to me by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross for my book: “A beautiful book of poetry. Poetry about life, friendship and death. Recommended for all awakened souls who are looking for a real treat.” She had italicized real, a font, unfortunately, not available on Facebook. Later, when my book came out, she wrote to tell me she was using my book with her patients. The poem I posted yesterday, was the first poem I wrote after my friends passing, not knowing then that a book-length book had just begun. I will post a new poem each day, pretty much in the order they were written, because they grow slowly in intensity and depth, in accord with my understanding. Writing has always been my way of bringing intelligence and order to bear on past experiences, experienced without complete understanding at the time; for this deep pondering was required. One needs much more than psychological understanding to find ones way—a discipline and a method are also necessary. Writing for me has always been my way to the truth, because our real life can only be found in the unconscious, which is where our conscious moments are preserved. I will say no more about the poems, that you to experience them for yourself, to apply where they fit. Art is the great therapy of truth, and truth is the way and the light and the glory. ONE Last night I dreamt you died— but who was it? Was it me? Was it you? I awoke not knowing. By morning the dream had already lost its speech, and, having moved outside the corridors of language, its circumstance is also lost and must grope alone for a meaning. You were my essence friend of childhood. But the meaning of your own life was never known to me. Nor could my life be known to you. Friendship. Childhood. Seed of life. Was it my essence that you represented— because it was your essence that I saw and not my own. And now you are dead. In dream. And something in me has remembered. But you are gone—my reminder— leaving me to torture forward for myself, toward that light that children never name but never forget, that your memory brings me to now.
Posted on: Sun, 28 Dec 2014 15:26:10 +0000
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