Archive for April, 2007

Merging into the Presence

Wednesday, April 25th, 2007

Poem: Warbling Before Breakfast 

Listen: [audio:]

Warbling Before Breakfast

Wednesday, April 25th, 2007

By Roy Doughty
Written 12/06/06

The edge keeps moving outward and the people
Whom time and place have formed,
So that they seemed different from ourselves,
Lighter or darker or speaking another tongue,
Are brought into that intimate sphere
Where music rises, their voices weaving wonderful
Polyphonies, meldings of resonance and light
As of the starry flags of breeze-stirred leaves,
Or of the ruffled skin of water.  The walls of sight,
The fortress of the ear, give way to channels
Of a special sense, whose effluent is bliss.
It was not always so.  Once, everyone was Other,
And the Other plagued us.  But now the peaceful
Apocalypse moves through this man’s, this woman’s eyes,
And tells us of that special, beautiful secret
Revealed each dawn in the language of the birds.

The Secret Plus

Wednesday, April 18th, 2007

Poem: At Home At Last in the Mansion 

Listen: [audio: Secret Plus.mp3]

At Home At Last in the Mansion

Wednesday, April 18th, 2007

By Roy Doughty
Written 4/16/07

We have walked and walked, meticulously mapping
The self-sanctified discipline of our measured steps
For days and months and years, believing
It might be possible to fly by plodding
Determinedly through Time’s deep snow,
A white that buries white in that bright darkness
Of ultimate barren cold. But today, today, the calendar
Annuls its grid, and everywhere bees hum
The ancient, newborn serenades of spring.
Our discipline dissolves into devotion.
Here are the trees, great panoplies of green,
Swishing their gladness through elated blue.
“The day of days is now,” sings that one voice,
And in its vast pavilion we rejoice.

Healing Health

Wednesday, April 11th, 2007

Poem: Discovery

Listen: [audio: Health.mp3]


Wednesday, April 11th, 2007

By Roy Doughty
Written 4/10/17

Two hours from now, near dawn, the moon,
Half wasted, will rise, very late, and be chased
All day across the blue-bright sky, ignored
By every one, but the sun, which will seek
In vain to embrace her.  This is shame, writ-large,
The essence of sickness, the sky that shuffles
Vast, intensities of darkness over our sleepless
Heads, through a night, whose primary symptom
Is its interminableness, its one unendurable
Mantra the vile promise that each minute
Will seem like an hour, stretching us from misery
To misery with the phrase: On and on and on
And on and on . . . all of our discomfort screaming at us:
“Escape!”  And so we struggle, like a panicked
Animal whose movements merely tighten
A razored snare.  It is here, just here
That we find the opening — the sense that says
“Lie still, and spin the thread, the inner thread
Of fine and endless gold.  And so we spin and spin.
They are so tiny, these filigrees of preciousness
Ascending our spines in intricate elongations
That rise and fall and rise so placidly.
What is happening to us, that darkness, deepened,
Births itself as light, and weaves from our
Weakened body this spell of glory whose very
Ephemeralness is more imperishable
Than garish, boastful day or ancient night?


Wednesday, April 4th, 2007

By Roy Doughty
Written 8/6/07

The sweet tellings of the wind this morning
Disclose the secrets of the embraces of lovers,
Of the endlessness that knits segmented time,
So that the you, the I, slide in and out of sleep
And of each other, all darkness and warmth and comfort.  Ah.
The long passage of days has slowed its count
From three to two to one,
So that one lover and another merge together,
So that the wind, the discloser, swirls around this pair,
This single entity comprised of all, their tale of love to tell.