POETRY
Posted: Tue Oct 01, 2013 9:38 pm
The Starlit Tomb, by Charles Carreon
[When I was at H.H. Dudjom Rinpoche's birthday party in San Anselmo, California, in 1980, I fell asleep during the Yeshe Tsogyal empowerment. I dreamt that I was looking at a pure white field of crushed pearl dust, and on that white field, as if someone were creating a sand mandala, a red swastika began to appear, pure red like ground rubies. When I awoke, having lost my upright balance, I stuck out my hand sharply for support, which made a loud thump heard throughout the large hall. Everyone turned to look.]
One would like to think that the business of writing is ordinary, that the life of the printed page is simple and direct, but the truth is otherwise.
To be a child of language is to be a slave. A slave to the flow of discourse, to the flow of meaningful sound. Should you fail to heed its insistent flow, you will pay a price.
Nothing surprises one more than loneliness. Just when you think you are insular and self-sustaining, you discover that you are no one when there is nobody but you.
Still you have your words. You can wind meaningful sounds through your fibers of being and seek in meanings transitory and broken the substance of your ignorant knowledge.
The night breaks open like a stone to reveal a heart of emptiness, a tomb of designless design, as quintillions of stars cascade through without explanation or destiny.
You remain wandering in the distance of your precognitions. You persevere in the toiling sands. You wash your water and mind your thoughts. You break down into a tiny pile of ruby dust and frosting of diamonds.
[When I was at H.H. Dudjom Rinpoche's birthday party in San Anselmo, California, in 1980, I fell asleep during the Yeshe Tsogyal empowerment. I dreamt that I was looking at a pure white field of crushed pearl dust, and on that white field, as if someone were creating a sand mandala, a red swastika began to appear, pure red like ground rubies. When I awoke, having lost my upright balance, I stuck out my hand sharply for support, which made a loud thump heard throughout the large hall. Everyone turned to look.]
One would like to think that the business of writing is ordinary, that the life of the printed page is simple and direct, but the truth is otherwise.
To be a child of language is to be a slave. A slave to the flow of discourse, to the flow of meaningful sound. Should you fail to heed its insistent flow, you will pay a price.
Nothing surprises one more than loneliness. Just when you think you are insular and self-sustaining, you discover that you are no one when there is nobody but you.
Still you have your words. You can wind meaningful sounds through your fibers of being and seek in meanings transitory and broken the substance of your ignorant knowledge.
The night breaks open like a stone to reveal a heart of emptiness, a tomb of designless design, as quintillions of stars cascade through without explanation or destiny.
You remain wandering in the distance of your precognitions. You persevere in the toiling sands. You wash your water and mind your thoughts. You break down into a tiny pile of ruby dust and frosting of diamonds.