A friend of the Trust has generously shared a selection of their poems with the psychosynthesis community, each inspired by the Winter Solstice.
Hope Falling
In the beginning
we didn’t need a god,
our prayers were 0ur lives
and we walked in wonder,
the thought that we were
separate from what was around us
hadn’t yet occurred to us,
but when it did fear came with it,
took the place of trust and love
and we became what we are,
people who watch out,
rather than looking in.
But all is not lost,
sometimes when I’m out walking
under the trees and through the birdsong
I feel the same quiet sense of belonging as
I imagine our ancestors must have felt
and I fill with gratitude and awe.
Worlds
Everywhere you turn these days
people are talking about the end,
how we’ve eaten our way into a corner
and it’s too late for us to do anything about it,
they’re making films about it, writing about it
and now it’s become something we expect,
but who is taking the time to imagine
a future in which things work the way
we want them to, a world in which people
can become who they long to be,
able to look out for each other
and share what they have,
not just with other people but with all life,
a world where we can see the light in the eyes of others
and know it to be the same light that shines in ours?
Breathing
I heard your name in the night,
when not a breath stirred,
then I heard mine, outside the window,
borne on a gentle breeze,
so I rose from by bed
and lifted the sash,
the street was deserted,
filled with starlight and stillness
and I felt you quietly breathing in me,
I left the window open and went back to bed,
knowing that I wouldn’t be able to close it again even if I tried.
Remembering
Our world is full of people
who need love and are yet unable to bear it,
people who have forgotten
the source our lives sprang from
and that only one hand
is filled with despair,
the other is filled with light,
people who have forgotten that when
light and despair weave together in our hearts
they generate love, a love that spans the entire world
and leaves nothing but peace in its wake, nothing but peace.
Threads
We are simultaneously
great and small, all of us,
there are no exceptions,
we are both generous and mean,
warm and cold and open and closed.
To be one or the other is easy,
it’s finding the point of balance
between the two that’s difficult
because the point of balance
is a delicate thread that’s held
between the forefinger and thumb
of our Souls, which in turn belong
to a great light in which the loves,
lights and hopes of all humanity rest
and the threads that hold us tremble and sing
with every thought we have and every thing we do.
The starry cloak
We enter this life
with the starry
cloak of creation
draped around our shoulders
and quietly in the background
it choreographs our lives,
not towards what we want
but toward what our souls need
in order to grow, learn and thrive,
up hill and down dale it leads us
and at critical times reveals itself;
when we are reading a poem,
at times of great love or loss
or when we are on our knees,
but mostly we cannot tell why it is
that we must know both joy and pain,
all we can do is accept what the gods send
and help each other to become great through it.
Soul
I am I, you are we,
I live on the street,
you live in my heart,
I see what, you see why,
I am senses, you are soul,
without you, I don’t exist,
without me, you have no place,
without us, there would be no life,
I am the pen, you are the page,
I am for now, you are forever,
I am earth, you are fire,
I sow, you reap
and together
we love.
Kindling
At times like this,
when the going is difficult,
I am so glad for the years
I endured in exile, years when
the going was even harder
and the darkness was even deeper
than it is on this wet morning,
because those were the years
when I found the lantern inside me
and learned how to kindle
its flame from starlight,
now I am no longer alone,
I don’t need the lights of others
to find my way home, I am already home,
even though my flame flickers as I walk,
I am already home.
Wholeness
This morning it’s bitingly cold,
the parked cars are covered in frost
and the pavement at my feet
is sparkling in the moonlight,
this is what I came for
to affect and be affected by life,
to look into your eyes and know love
then into your empty chair and know loss,
I came to separate the mortal from the eternal
so I could understand each of them better
but what I have understood instead
is that it cannot be done.
An appointment in town
A dozen years ago
I had to take the train
for an appointment in town,
it was winter-time and a cold, wet, grey day
so I put on my stout brogues and a long overcoat
against the weather, then set off.
As I was climbing up the stairs
to the railway platform I caught the toe
of one of my fancy shoes under a step,
lost my balance and went sprawling.
A young woman on the stairs above me
heard me fall and turned immediately,
her hand outstretched, but I was embarrassed
and made light of it, ‘It’s OK, I’m fine, thank you.’
I got up, my knees hurting and my hands grubby
and climbed the rest of the way up to the platform,
glad that nobody else had seen me.
I often think back with gratitude
to that young woman, I was deeply touched
by her unthinking kindness but my gratitude is tinged
with regret too, that my old man’s pride had prevented me
from actually taking her proffered hand.
A poem for old poets
Don’t give up beloved ones,
don’t turn away, put down your pen
or stop your prayers and meditations,
I know you are old now, that the promise of youth
has long given way to the wisdom of age
and the world seems strange to you
but beloved ones don’t stop,
I know you have been cutting through
this heavy bough for the whole of your life,
that your backs ache and your shoulders are tired
but if you stop now then what needs to be cut away
will never fall to the ground and make way for new growth,
don’t stop your prayers and meditations even though you want to,
keep cutting for as long as there is a breath left in your body,
cut beloved ones, cut for us, cut for them, cut for us all.
Sometimes
Sometimes, after I’ve sat down
and read through my old poems,
I take a handful of them downstairs
and hang them on the line,
then I fetch the carpet beater
and I give them hell.
Other times after I’ve sat down
and read through my old poems
I think that somebody else
must have written them,
they are so full of pain and beauty
that I start to cry, deep, healing tears.