Archive for October, 2007

Swan Song

Wednesday, October 31st, 2007

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 8/21/01 Golden City Campus One, India

On the last day of the world, the remnants
Of the true believers will suddenly, and a little
Sadly, realize that the temple was never devised
To be completed, that the great marble edifice
With its cupolas and minarets, its impressive arches
And spiraling ziggurats, will be home only
To a few feral dogs, its porticoes echoing
With the clatter of pigeon wings.  Amidst
The construction debris, these ghosts will be
Ascending the concrete stairs, viewing
What is left of the last day, golden sheets
Of tropical squalls slanting rain across
Green lines of small, hysterical trees
That will never grow large enough to shade
The boulevards, and the sky, its vast dome
Shattered with the incomplete grandeur
Of trying to express too many things, will be
An enormous hovel of broken rainbows,
Of massive thunderheads, purple and orange
And white, of the sinking last day sun,
And of the final, never to be full, half-moon,
Silvered and set against the foil of an impossible cerulean.
On the last day, the revenants, not wholly sincere,
Will realize they were actors who had forgotten
Their lines, and each one, each devotee, will be
The one speaker of a tongue shared by no other.
They will gather, these ghosts, of the primeval, dying mind,
In a last stand of flesh against the onslaught
Of eternity, holding hands in a circle beneath
The darkening dome, and they will chant, forlornly,
Happily, words they do not understand.

Changing Costumes

Wednesday, October 31st, 2007

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 10/15/07

The magic is no less affecting for its
Commonality, how the unseen motion
Of the magician changes the early morning
Indistinctness to the sharp edges of sunlit
Jewels without our seeing the instant
Of his slight-of-hand.  The soul’s effects
Are equally dramatic, equally untraceable
To their origins, and so we rise from
Indistinct foundations, into the sharp
Destinies of the present.  This now
Inside the jewel, wherein the accumulations
Of history, their nebulous, sweeping
And obliterating fogs, their sufferings
And disappointments, are suddenly seen
As what they are: what we are, the miracles
Of a moment as fleeing as dewdrops
And as durable as diamonds


Wednesday, October 31st, 2007

Listen: [audio:Oct_31_07Soul6am.mp3]

Poem: Swan Song

Spiritual Commitment

Wednesday, October 24th, 2007

Listen: [audio:03-Oct_24_SpiritaulCommitmentpt2of2.mp3]

Poem: Housekeeper


Wednesday, October 24th, 2007

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 10/20/07

When all are sleeping, the Mistress of the Skies
Is awake, even in darkness, piling huge amorphous
Amphorae of vapors above the mountain, arranging
For starlit apertures, collecting cotton around
A sinking moon.  An artist without audience,
The hugeness of her effects nevertheless
Penetrate the somnambulists, molding the channels
That guide their slumbering perceptions,
So that already when they, when we, awaken,
Her work will have made the selections,
Which will color the content of our vision,
Focus our ears’ attentiveness and determine
Those nerves of felling to be stroked.  The clouds
Of bones, the clouds of blood of which we
Are miraculously composed, are shaped
By a breath that is not ours, but hers:
The giant of our giant interior climate,
Whose vast, celestial mansion is our home.

On the Way Back to Bed

Wednesday, October 17th, 2007

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 10/16/07

Tonight, the co-arising of sleeping and waking
Creates a mottled effect in which the sky
Keeps moving great bulks of forming and disintegrating
Clouds above an horizon that subtly fluctuates
Between dark scarlet and veiled white, the reflection
Of city lights and an unknown pallor,
Neither from the moon nor from its absence,
But from the clarity of another dimension poised
Midway between earth and heaven.  Entities
Come near, but as they touch us, that part
Of ourselves which might receive them
Becomes as indistinct as they, and the rendezvous,
Though intense, is not experienced in the vector
Or earthly remembrance.  So it is that the dead,
Or the uncertainties of the night, move
Through us without our knowing, and like that moon,
Ourselves, floating between speech and silence,
In which something momentous reaches a verge,
And falls . . .


Wednesday, October 17th, 2007

Listen: [audio:October_17_07_Prayer.mp3]
Poem: On the Way Back to Bed


Wednesday, October 10th, 2007

Listen: [audio:October_10_07_Protection.mp3]

Poem: Changing Costumes

Open to Prosperity

Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007

Listen: [audio:October_3_07_OpentoProsperity.mp3]