INDIGO BEYOND

The ether, indigo beyond our view.

No fragrant Frangipani petal fall.

No soft caress of lip in darkened hall.

No word, no dream, nor mortal thoughts ensue.

A silence still serene in open space.

No water taste of salt on tip of tongue.

The air of song, a song that’s never sung,

Reveals the mirror’s deep & depthless face.

The waves of light that enter go straight through.

The mind demands an avenue, a wall.

The heaven beyond begets no time or place.

The bell that peals its peal cannot be rung.

We live in ether’s empty endless void domain.

We live a mystery in mystery’s ethereal plane.

JOY

To discover joy, you must go to the far north in the middle of winter. I propose a journey up the ice road from Inuvik to Tuktoyaktuk in late January. They houses are small. All are painted the colours of tropical fruit... of Popsicles. The sun has not risen yet. Twenty four hours: no dawn. The stars are brighter than you can imagine. Hera spills her milk across the blue bowl of the heavens. Aurora Borealis sways in curtains of Chartreuse, phosphor, ivory, gold with tints of red. Bertha from Sach's Harbour whistled to make the Northern Lights dance. You whistle. The sky dances. For four hours every afternoon the sky lightens to dusk... purples, mauves, lavenders with hints of avocado green. The edge of the horizon aches to release Old Sol our star in the sky. In twilight ice fog hugs the ground. Smoke climbs straight up. All is still. The air is brittle. Moving through a pastel landscape.The edges are soft. The wolf fur of your parka hood holds the silver mist of your breath. This is the air the Ravens call home. You feel Joy. Pure Joy.

BIG BLACK BIRD

Death, be a Raven. Be a big, black bird with an absurd, rough call. Fly black & awkward & observant into the blue, arctic air at the town dump to land on the highwires & chimneytops. Be intelligent Death, with the malicious intelligence of Raven, whose every movement is a raucous insult to life in a colourful, clapboard house. Death, be a Raven, big & black & fearless. That's what I fear about you Death: that you are as inscrutable & humourless as a rock's shadow or an expired breath. Death be a Raven for my catnapping mood & my fifty-odd years on the grass below the trees. Fly to the rooftops of other peoples' houses &  I will respect your coalfeathers & your prancing tapdance of mock doom. Death, be a Raven on the rooftops but do not perch at the foot of my bed to preen your horrid, inky wings, not tonight, nor tomorrow night. It would not be funny, not at all  Go away, big black bird... & leave the dog alone!

SELF

I have spent most of my life trying to release myself from myself. To achieve ecstasy. To be beyond or outside of my body. The Raven teaches me to seek the great joy of being embodied. My ego, my identity, my personality, my aging body, my smile, my thoughts, my memories, my dreams. These are the attributes that cohere to the core of me. Each raven is so individual, so contained, so perfect in who He or She is. I was mimicking the warble-song of the rooftop Raven. The Raven hops down to the edge of the eavestrough to spy me out. I spy him out. One sentient being gives the nod to the other. You are who you are. I like you who you are. You are not me. You are the one, the  only you. As Boddhi taught me "There was never ever anyone like me in the history of the Universe. There will never be anyone like me again." Revel in your you-ness. Greetings, Raven. I am the Me.

 

SOUL MATE

Ahhh.... the ideal. Two solitaries meet, find in each other the completion of union. Two become one. One eighty plus one eighty. Three sixty. Synergy. Love. Ravens accomplish the two in one. They mate forever. Whenever you find one raven you will always find two. Love is recognition. You come across the other in a place of strangers. The recognition is complete, undeniable. It crosses eternities. It transcends the bounds of mortality. This life. The next. The previous. Study the Raven. No possessions. No fixed abode. No complexity. Just the wind. The wind & a perch high in the Limber Pine. Just each other. Simplicity. Completion. I found my other. She & I. One. The recognition is complete. Simple as a tumble in the winter sky. I pray. I pray we come back next time, She & I, I & She.... We... as Ravens.

SENTIENT BEINGS

  A wise man told me once there are three ways to act as a Human Becoming.  I can act for myself. Myself Alone. I can act for us. Me & my woman. Me & my family. Me & my tribe. Me & my country. Me & this hollow, crumbling civilization. Finally I can act for the benefit of all sentient beings.  The Ravens taught me this also. It took me years to realize the World does not belong to Man. Go to the North you will find the North... the true North Strong & Free belongs to the Raven. Just like the surface of the earth belongs to the ants. My body belongs to the trillions of bacteria that occupy it. The mycelia of the mushroom nourishes the entire planet. That is just the beginning. The Ravens of the Arctic Circle taught me I am just one small mystery in The Mystery Itself. When you pray, pray for the benefit of all sentient beings. The Ravens told me so. The Ravens told me so.

SNOW

The Emperor of my country... the Divinity if you will, is Snow. Snow informs every day of my life. Even in the depths of summer on the hottest, muggiest day I recall Snow & how soon it will soon be drifting down out of the grey, grey clouds. Go to the Arctic. There Snow reigns supreme. Snow & the cold. Our toughness as Canadians & I daresay our gentleness comes from our ability to love the Snow. The White Raven is in fact the Snow Raven. The Snow Raven is in fact the Snow God. The Divinity is nothing if not white. Imagine a world that overnight turns white. That is my land. That is where I belong. Snow isolates us in our furs. Walking in the Snow.... it is me in my cloak & the big, wide, white, world. Only in Snow can you see your breath. Snow proves I am alive. Shiveringly Alive! Toques off to the Snow Raven!

RAVENS ON STUNTED BIRCH

Too cold too cold too cold

the air cracks and ticks

with bone emptiness.

Inuvik’s streets are bare.

February’s new sun

pauses north-northwest,

reaches streaks of red

over ridges of stiff snow.

Flagstaffs of smoke rise straight

from lines of rowhouses, painted

the colour of tropical fruit:

mauve mustard emerald.

At the town dump:

twelve ravens,

each atop

a crooked birch.

Smears of tar in a tree,

feathers balled out black,

they wear white bibs

where beak-breath frosts.

Dark as winter lakewater, 

they, at least, stay put.

Twenty four eyes shine jet,

inspect me, curious:

What is this creature 

out here in the cold?

 - Inuvik, NWT