Big Sky

I've written a book of poetry. It's called "Big Sky," and it's 40 poems. And it's epic.

You want it? YOU GOT IT.

Here, on this blog, is the longest of them all  - a teaser, a taste of what the book is all about. If you like this post, then email me @

aussieevolver@gmail.com

and I will promptly send you a link to access the full book, with 39 other heart-opening works by yours truly.

After that, after I send you the link and you have the book for your very own... then you decide what you think it's worth, and you can pay that amount to my

aussieevolver@gmail.com

paypal account.

Didn't like it? Cool - $0.00. Loved it to pieces and every poem shattered your heart into a bajillion little pieces? Awesome - $100.00. Suggested donation is $20, which is $0.50 per poem. But truly, you pay what you want to - please give whatever amount feels fair to you.

As for me, I'm happy to have finished this project - to have actually compiled 40 pieces of art that I feel are worth sharing.

And without further ado, here's the teaser - a taste of "Big Sky."

Enjoy!

How do I become fully present,

become real?

Through the creative force of Love.

I am made real only in the action/activity of loving.

Without that I’m a shadow.

I’m just an illusion,

an impotent ghost,

floating along imaginary lines

of identity-construction.

I spin these words

and if anyone else gets excited

it’s only ghosts,

and my voice is just the breeze

blowing through some dead thing.

I cannot will my Self alive -

and yet what passes through my hands

in the action of surrender

is creative energy incomprehensible.

As Love exists in my mind

She’s just a whore,

just a thing:

an idea,

a concept to be penetrated.

But when I’m empty of ideas

and She is truly resurrected -

when She’s brought to life

and my words

and my hands

are guided by a wisdom

far beyond what’s possible

for anyone to acquire...

in those moments,

She’s no whore.

In those moments

She’s all there is,

and there is no one else left

to call Her anything.

In those moments

my oscillations

of seeking and finding

fuse and merge

and obliterate

all traces

of this poet

and there is just

Love,

radiant -

suffusing all of life

within feeling-distance

with meaning.

It’s why some choose to sit in stillness

their whole lives,

seeking the ocean inside

and hoping the tide will catch them

and drag them Lovewards.

It’s why some do nothing but write,

and write,

and write,

like this poet’s doing now -

wordsmiths painting pictures

that will never do justice to the real thing.

For I cannot will my Self

into existence, after all...

all I can do is cultivate preparedness

until I’m obliterated,

and so made real,

before being left

to my own devices

once again.

And that leaving,

Her ceaseless coming and going,

makes me think She must trust me.

Because while She comes and goes

here I remain,

irrefutable -

so whenever She leaves me to my own devices

I assume there must be a wisdom at work.

There’s always some vague clue lingering within,

when She’s gone...

some scent,

some dimly-sensed tickle

in the back left corner of my skull,

something thin between the earth

and the soles of my feet

pressing me upwards,

not quite allowing me to forget.

It’s whatever She leaves me with

so that I don’t confuse myself too much -

a recollection,

so I remember that

whenever I resume thinking about Her

as an abstraction,

as an object,

I don’t go too far in that direction.

It’s Her gift of remembrance,

a trace of Her presence

intended to let me know

that no matter how many poems I write,

this poem-writing will not be ‘it.’

And so the question,

dear poet,

the question:

“How do I become fully present,

become real?”

has just one ache of an answer,

heartbreaking:

“You cannot.”

You cannot will yourself alive.

There’s nothing you can do,

it’s not within your power,

even with pen and paper.

Real is something you become,

like being born.

To be born embodied is one thing,

but to be brought to life,

in Love,

is something quite different.

No parents,

and no fornication

preface this much greater miracle -

just our choice to surrender

and the unknown capacities

of our divinely human heart.

YES I am impotent

and YES there is wisdom in that,

so cry I’ll it out in prayer.

I’ll weep with impotence

and rejoice in the possibility

of Her coming,

and I will not for one second

presume to have plotted the course

of Her movements.

Love is not navigable,

not in any linear fashion.

I try to follow forms, and shapes -

things I hope

will lead me to Her...

but instead She sneaks up on me,

and I am always surprised.

Not to say not to follow the forms!

I will keep to my practices,

and whatever else it is

that helps me remember

that She is always there,

looking out at me

through the eyes

of everyone I meet.

I believe our own

small kindnesses

to each other

may save us,

in the end...

for that may be

what wins Her heart

and moves Love to come,

to come and to stay with us,

once and for all.

<3

... ... ...want the other 39 poems for your very own? Please email me at aussieevolver@gmail.com, have a read, and then pay what you feel.

love,

-ry