Archive for September, 2007

Seaside Chapel

Wednesday, September 26th, 2007

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 9/17/06

These essences of the sea possess a chromatic intelligence
That allows them to interact with the human eye,
And thereby mesmerize their subjects
With the sweetest decrees of garbled ecstasy.
The tongue can only disjointedly stutter words:
Golds, rocks, eccentric, intoxicating,
Fluidic, aqueous, silken, delirium.
So the cast-iron vision keeps surging, as this sea
Enflashing molten coolness, weaves skeins of brilliance
To liquefy the iron.  The people accumulate
Along the deckled fringe, and, again and again,
Crash down to the depths of themselves.
Lost in a slithering welter of images,
Their trivial tinsel finally made profound.
The colors swirl in dazzling fulminations,
Singing, “Come, come,
Slide into this Single Self of severed selves,
And feel the seraphic transparence of salvation.”


Wednesday, September 26th, 2007

Listen: [audio:2007_09_26.mp3]

Poem: Seaside Chapel

Coming Through

Wednesday, September 19th, 2007

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 8/27/07

When did these things begin to speak to us,
So that the presence of things became the presence
In things, so that the soft sweep of sky
In the nebulous hour before dawn became an enitity,
Sweetened somehow with an internal form,
A knowing that touched the waters and the mountains,
Enlivened the common trees around our houses,
Birthed roses plumping mauves in cobalt dark,
And molded people, those faces and those hearts,
Into the living vagaries of our dreams?
When did the organism of this strange beyond
Become the supremely intimate thing,
The personage hidden in the wave of time,
Who makes our time eternal?
Somehow the softness combs our breath with ease
And speaks of peace in the center of the hive,
Wherein our fears, though we live in the humming darkness,
Are swept away with the fog as dawn arrives.

Birthday Greeting

Wednesday, September 12th, 2007

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 8/15/07 Ananda Loka 3, India
For Amma

It is not as if we can ever cease being born,
Each moment of each day, all that is
Suffers the enormous travail of emerging
Impossibly from the cramped immensity
Of the void.  We see a leaf, a fly,
A gecko traversing the smooth glass of a wall,
The vast and the small, the mite and the thick green river,
The great red mountain, the gnat, the sea, the moth.
The whispering and the loud, all squall, constricted
In those terrible throes, as in each moment,
Of each day, the scavenger, Nothingness, watches us,
Hungrily.  This is our peace, that without flowers
Or ceremony or celebration, silence keeps chanting:
“That which is is no more.”  Mother, all life,
All death, the lean dog with withered dugs,
The serpent with too many eggs to tend,
The sun with all the planets in his charge,
You are the only mover moved by care.
Care for us in this instant of our birth,
And save us for a brevity of joy
From the endless pick of the axe,
The tick of the clock.

Raniji interview

Wednesday, September 12th, 2007

Listen: [audio:2007_09_12.mp3]

Poem: Birthday Greeting


Wednesday, September 5th, 2007

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 8/8/07 Ananda Loka 3, India

The sun has already withdrawn from the western
Skies, which are, in any case, walled by muscular,
Ruddy charcoal, stacked in vaporous boulders.
Looming billows walk the horizons as distant rain,
Or tower suddenly to mount snowy pink
Challenges to background sheets of blue-gray
Lavenders.  All of which, taken together,
Lavish us with Olympian quietude.
And yet, this is a sounding quiet, not quiet to the ears,
Not silent quiet, but wind-rush contorted
With the emotive thoughts and breaths of a billion
Busy people, a force sucked or squeezed by
Unequal pressures to rake across or through mountains,
Jungles, cities, seas, always to be saturated by
A constant insect thrum, by the clatter of birds,
By the cries of the harried humans and their machines.
Ah, the quiet of India, which these skies
Continually transmute into balm for the eyes,
Chaos for the defeated urban planners,
Calm for the central being.  The organism
Of this country is thousands of years old
And it stokes with equal toxicity and nourishment
A monstrous spirit and a majestic squalor,
So that when this half-Elephant, half-human
Conglomeration trundles through the heavens,
Bellowing mantras through his mighty proboscis,
And smashing obstacles with his thousand arms,
His ten-thousand hands always bursting with floods of riches,
We say, completely appeased, in this perfect quiet,
“The clouds are thick tonight.  The country is blessed
With the perfect wealth of rain.”

Obstacles on the Path

Wednesday, September 5th, 2007

Listen: [audio:2007_09_05.mp3]

Poem: Ganesh