The Republic of The Soul

In tragedy, in epic, in comedy, in poetry, the soul twists and turns, waiting for the gyration which will produce happiness. The soul is a great republic which needs its benign rulership. Plato wanted to ban poetry from his ideal republic. This wasn't because it was disturbing or subversive but because it stood, in his view, three stages removed from truth itself. He saw it as an imitation of an imitation of the real. We may be indignant at this proposal to banish something which - in our estimation - enriches life, but on the other hand we might also be able to admire a worldview which has at its heart such a pure vision of virtue and truth that everything else must seem like unenlightened agitation.

There is certainly something in this. Nine tenths of life is played out on the level of drama which might or might not yield self-awakening. It's almost impossible to conceive of one's own life in terms of genuine enlightenment or a vision of the good. But the moment comes in the midst of it all when a clear light appears - fleetingly - before the inner eye. In that second the light works retrospectively and illumines all those gyrations of destiny which lie in the past. The way I see it is this: the moment of light is like the end of a giant archway which reaches up into the sky, into the past, disappearing for a time, but having its other end at a point in some distant epoch - perhaps in the time of Plato or some other period of particular importance to your soul. This presumes, of course, that the soul has existed prior to birth and has probably enjoyed (if that's the right word) many other lifetimes. In other words there is a clear true path, symbolized by light, overarching all of our existence.

In this sense poetry, tragedy, comedy, epic are all expendable. The truth which illumines our existence is all-important. It's like the light which reaches down and floods the dark streets of our soul with radiance. The republic of the soul.

Jay

© Landar 2012. All rights reserved

 

Picture: The School of Athens, by Raphael

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The Year One

There is a way for the world to be in the future - to embrace being - and really it starts now. It is the way of creativity or creation. Essentially it is the only way: either our planet takes up its place as a shining star in space or it becomes, over time, a dead and barren moon. Human beings will decide this - not atoms, molecules, gravity or fusion. These forces follow patterns of thought not the other way round. The vexed question of what '2012' means and the end of the Mayan calendar - a question which will still be asked in ten years time - concerns this: Creation always starts with the year One.

There are two ways of working - the way of the living star or of the barren moon - and both have to do with the human brain. This is also a question of illusion. When we wake up in the morning we return to waking consciousness and the functions of the brain. In sleep, in night-time consciousness, we were free of this and able to experience the world of light on its own terms, albeit unconsciously. During the hour of twilight we come down towards the earth again, knowing it to be the great field of creation. I always think the dawn chorus - so strong in spring - is the supreme symbol of creation, the purest expression of natural praise. And then we wake, and very quickly find ourselves locked in the brain again, with all its illusions of worldly truth.

The brain itself is also a function of creation but it can operate in the two ways mentioned above. It can trap us in its pathways, in its grey folds - in which case our thoughts become moonlike. Or it can serenely open to reveal the heart of being, where birdsong begins and creation receives its praise. This is a question of orientation and openness - of attitude towards creativity. It is what will sustain or destroy the planet. In a sense the brain is merely like a curtain: it can ripple with thoughts and remain closed or it can open slowly to reveal the light behind.

This is where we stand now in the year 2012 - or the year One. This is the meaning of the new consciousness: always Creation and creativity. It lies within our capacities to open up the pathways of the brain. We need to stand ready and prepared for this adjustment, for this opening. It's something which happens by itself and which we cause to happen by our openness, by our loving praise and dawn chorus. It's not as obvious as it seems: '2012' is something you do and therefore a moral event. At the same time - as I believe - the brain itself is undergoing an evolution. For those who don't change their calendars in this way, the question will still be there in ten or a hundred years time. It's true also that the world is like a brain in its own right: if we will let it, it will take up its post in space as equal thinker with the shining stars.

Jay

© Landar 2012. All rights reserved

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A Conversation

The poem says it all. Then any commentary comes to seem superfluous. But here it is, in the nature of a conversation. Even to talk about spirit, higher truth, inner being, is an unwieldy process. We seem to wake up to words, in the morning, instead of to being. A stream of words - and among those words your own name. This is my feeling anyway. And in the course of using words, as a poet, I arrive back at spirit, at being. For me, then, the inner being is a conscious, living, indisputable fact. And strange to say it is the person who writes as well as the person who is discovered by writing. This is the strange anomaly I find in my work: I am teacher and taught, creator and created. Therefore while I would like to speak and write as a teacher, authoritatively, I can only acknowledge that I am also a pupil, learning.

The best part of myself speaks to the best part of you. It is here and not here, just as yours is here and not here. This is the conversation. It is a conversation of spirit, between inner voice and inner ears. It can lift right off the page if we will allow it. And that is what I wanted to say to you today.

Jay

© Landar 2012. All rights reserved

 

Photo by Ilan Shacham
 
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Crow

I wrote this small piece for my friends at Evolver (drop in to Evolver.net if you have a chance) and was surprised by how passionately people feel about these birds. Here's the interesting thing: the crow seems to have a different significance for each individual, perhaps more than any other creature. They are emblems, myths, symbols, omens, delights and just plain birds, along with many other things. Should we let them be? Not until the day comes when we can let our own humanity be..

CROW

 ~The crows are bearers of light and hope and promise. Each and every one lifts straw or twigs to the nest. When is a crow silent? When it is building. Sunlight flashes on the underside of their wings. They slalom miraculously through the branches. They career round corners of the wind. The treetops are eager for them, bursting into the upper light. There is genius in their working - magical, canvas-filling skill. In what sphere did they learn their gifts? The god of crows is living here and now. I stand in its presence, a pupil of origins, groping for words to express its being. There is no other prayer worth raising on this day. Crow.

Jay

© Landar 2012. All rights reserved

 

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Into The Dark

The poet must carve a path out of the world's stone that leads up to the word of God. And this without knowing whether his words have the fine engraved edges of words in a monument or the movement you see in the travelling stars or opening flowers. In a child's first footsteps. How much we don't know! The world is the scope of our ignorance. Life in the world is a magnifying lens which focuses my ignorance into speech.

My door into the dark is carved in stone, like the eastern door in a great cathedral, inset with row after row of fantastical carvings. It's the door of ignorance and knowing. My feet take me there, having passed through wonder and the praise of wonder. I am required to be the light.

But neither is this the word of God. Is it the passage in or the passage out? Only if speech says so. Is it the achievement of feet, standing, walking, from infancy to old age? But I've walked into the dark since my light was first sparked from earth's heavenly beginning. So far beyond the keenly engraved boundaries of this life!

The laughter is a memorial too, carved in life's eternal present. Those letters are pleasing to contemplate. Why, the world is itself a monument, with names of the fallen on its million faces.

I don't wish to be merely mystical or poetic-sounding. There is a fine focus to these words. A fine engraving, a carving, leading up to the word of God. But it lies in the magnification of ignorance, the pattern of speech, the regulation of feet. These wonders, these songs of praise, let me be the light as I go, through the door of each day, into the dark.

Jay

© Landar 2012. All rights reserved

 

Image: Pythagoras from Chartres Cathedral Door

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Dawn Before Dawn

The word of resurrection hurts the ears. Somehow at this time of year - before the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox - no matter what religion you are, something strains in you, in the hour before dawn, to know if it is going to be allowed to walk the world again. Before, before, before - and after.  The hour before dawn - when pre-dawn and dawn mix their bloods - is the time when the body listens for its name. It listens in that eternal mixture of humor and despair which is its lot.

I return to this theme every year. It's important to know if the body is going to go on. It's important - magical - to name the wonderful sequence of cosmic events - full moon, equinox, day of rest - that signal resurrection. It's important to ask, no matter what religion you belong to, because the body itself wants to know. And it's a word which hurts the ears because, each year, there is no certainty that the victory has been won until the cosmos declares it.

According to the materialistic narrative, which science has largely adopted, the body dissolves after death and there's an end to it. Yes, no doubt. But a larger science - also an empirical one - hears the voices calling out before: before dawn, before creation, before I am. It senses the humor and despair. It allows the absurd question because the body - physical matter - itself is asking it: is there a resurrection for me? Then comes the other question of course - how am I, as an individual human being, involved in the process of resurrection? That's a narrative for another day when, perhaps, I've gained in wisdom.

Jay

© Landar 2012. All rights reserved

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Wingbeats

What a strong link there is between creation and resurrection. - Under the dead green tree I sit and sing my only song. There is nothing else left, the sap has gone. No wonder I feel the way I do, like a root which has dried out. Who or what can restore me? Can I be restored? Or resurrected, which is an entirely different thing?

I am bidden to sing, as Caedmon in the story was bidden to sing by the angel in the tree. 'Sing the creation to me.' This is not the song alone of how the world was formed, but the song which generates the sap in my limbs. Creativity seems too mild a word for something which saves your life, but it is that too.

Like Caedmon, I don't know how to sing on my own, away from the choir, from the support of the thundering organ and the congeniality of company. 'Sing,' bids the angel. My voice is as rusty as that gate behind me, my muscles seem perished with dew. How can I raise a song? 'Sing,' says the angel.

There is no hint of theology here, no god of any religion whatsoever. For my sins I must sing. For all creation I must sing. Only the angel hears. I think the crow in the tree can do better. But it is enough. The choir is here now, the organ pipes are here with me, in my voice. I could write a library of wise volumes and not know what I meant. Or I can sing, and never know if the angel is pleased. But I have done what was bidden of me. 'Sing the creation to me.'

Jay

© Landar 2012. All rights reserved

Picture: Caedmon on the celtic cross at Whitby (from the story in Bede)

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