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Towards Atman (Excerpt)
By Roy K. Austin
November, 2006, 11:40

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With that invisibility of age
I can fly my life like a kite!
Uninvited and unseen,
albescent, grey, you know what I mean,
(not the first flush of youth or strong,
the young forget that we were young, )
hold on to that, the string of that
to grip the meaning of it
as I grip the iron balustrade
along the miles of esplanade;
think the century's wise men are ignored,
each lamp a light, a sage for each lamp.

Drawn to the Sailor's Arms, her kegs
the weight of years upon the legs,
for whispers round an inglenook
where galaxies are in the glass,
to swap a tale, another round,
a golden fleece, a crumpled map!
Or waft around for words, like smoke
along the butt-ends from the tar,
or vanish down into the draught
if Alan Watts is at the bar.

Below, where gulls quarrel in kelp
no harbour there need shelter me,
no life-boat slip to cries for help
need bring my spirit to the lee
I hear the past with all its murders,
the wind wail through the rusting girders
yet still am I, free to fly with you
who lean against the railings, too!

The world may seem to come in bits
let non-duality begin?
Come celebrate your opposites
for all depends on loss to win!
Tribal culture in your face
to win is everywhere you turn,
if God is losing all the time
then will we ever, ever learn?

"You'll win," he said, "it's in the bag,"
out on the point
what can the mindless wind do
but wave the flag?
Missing the point forever
signalling our nascent spirit.
And the voice said,
"raise your head when the night is cloudless
and tell me who you are subject to,
remember the truth of your own story
as your eyes take in the glory."

Full to be empty, empty to be full
do you hear the paradox, do you feel the pull?
I do not mean to be patronising,
have I asked you too soon?
Do you see what I mean when you gaze at the moon,
when the full moon, lifeless is full of light?

I sit upon the lobster pots
that decorate the harbour wall,
if you come a little closer
you can see me in the hall,
if you do not hold the key
Mrs keepings locks the door,
I'll be looking out to sea
after eight but not before.

Read Roy K. Austin's INside article on writing poetry.
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