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awareness
November 2009 
I am not awake
Posted on Oct 14th, 2009
by 
Centria
Centria
I am completely asleep.
A person thinks she's writing this poem.
A person thinks she split wood.
The wood splits separate from the splitter.
The splitter lies dormant, a hunk of machinery
heaving in and out.
Person and wood:
cleft in two.
Thoughts running around between logs;
separate thoughts, cunning thoughts,
thoughts of judgment sharper than the wedge.
Thoughts veiling wood, thicker than bark.
Beliefs rampant.
Dreams of heat,
of smoke puffing sky, all separate.
Dreams of striking match, of fire.
Dreams of weight and creosote.
Dreams of frigid snowy mornings,
kindled desire, kindled rage, kindled self.
I am completely sleep.
It's dark in here.
I long for fire to spark,
for logs to burn,
burn me back into themselves
back to that place
where you open the woodstove door
and know yourself to be
the seed of the growing tree,
the silver-edged axe,
the fire stoker
and the raging blaze.
Where fire and person unite in ecstasy,
the log burning Whole,
charring everything except the dance of flame.
The fire longs for itself.
I simply write its orange words
of flame and ash.
A person thinks she's writing this poem.
A person thinks she split wood.
The wood splits separate from the splitter.
The splitter lies dormant, a hunk of machinery
heaving in and out.
Person and wood:
cleft in two.
Thoughts running around between logs;
separate thoughts, cunning thoughts,
thoughts of judgment sharper than the wedge.
Thoughts veiling wood, thicker than bark.
Beliefs rampant.
Dreams of heat,
of smoke puffing sky, all separate.
Dreams of striking match, of fire.
Dreams of weight and creosote.
Dreams of frigid snowy mornings,
kindled desire, kindled rage, kindled self.
I am completely sleep.
It's dark in here.
I long for fire to spark,
for logs to burn,
burn me back into themselves
back to that place
where you open the woodstove door
and know yourself to be
the seed of the growing tree,
the silver-edged axe,
the fire stoker
and the raging blaze.
Where fire and person unite in ecstasy,
the log burning Whole,
charring everything except the dance of flame.
The fire longs for itself.
I simply write its orange words
of flame and ash.
Access: Public
and so beautifully, Kathy…
I notice how negation of the truth always works like a charm for me.
So, let me join you in repeating, I am not awake,
I am completely asleep, I am bereft of being itself,
I am not here now as I should be…
Telling myself this, invariably brings the opposing view into stark relief: Ha ha, by saying you are not awake, you just proved that you are awake! And how can you be completely asleep when you're awake enough to notice this? And, doh!, of course you are Being Itself, right here, right now, as you should be.
Instant relief.
This law of the reverse effect is so lovable. It always kicks butt for me when all else fails.
Here's to endarkenment then, okay? Cheers, dear Kathy!
i love this one !
loving you as you are, here, now, all manner of thing shall be well…
As I sink down with your words Kathy I embark on the journey along the winding stream. Like a old piece of drift wood floating in the cold water I am half above and below the surface. I long for the days when I was part of the tree, now I am just part of the current, a lost totem, separated, waiting to be consumed by the fire of night.
in dreams of unenlightenment
Before I wrote of this.. Smell the trees for even when the appear to burn it is but an incense to life returning to bloom again.
Thanks for the smoke.
J.M.
Mascha articulated the “implosion” I've been pointing to!!
Thank you for the beauty of the experiences your words have pointed to and taken me through, Kathy. How inspiring and enriching your presence in my life is!!!
Love, OM
thanks ya'all for liking the poem. Don't you think poems come on you like pregnancy? You're not really expecting to have a poem but suddenly there you have it, and it must come out. Except it usually doesn't wait nine months. More like nine minutes. Awake or asleep or dreaming, I DO so appreciate you all!!
Absolutely. Poems even more clearly than prose come THROUGH us in their own damn timing!!!!
Love, OM
Yes, if I TRY to write a poem, it doesn't happen. It gets all flustered and crazy and choppy and never ends up saying what you want it to say. But if you stop trying and let the Poem say What it wants to say, then everyone's happy. Their own damn timing! :)
I set an intention to find a poem today for a friend who passed on Monday last.
How pleasant that it found me here. I shall share it with his breathing friends at the meeting tomorrow morning.
Namaste'
I love it, Kat, you beautiful sleeping but awakened soul, you :)
And what a cosy, crackling fireside ending….
It's simply explains the whole universe to me…only me :)
“The fire longs for itself.
I simply write its orange words
of flame and ash.”
much love and joy to you dear Kathy…and to all your I's…gol…
loved, loved, loved the prose…it mirrored the depths of your being…beautiful! always, star…
p.s. throw another log on the fire…it's cold! lol…
~~~ Lars, big hug! I am glad the poem will find its way into the hearts of those still breathing who loved your friend.
~~~ Dear Goddess, oh yes! (I inadvertently typed “oh well”….hmmm) beautiful sleeping awakened souls. That's what we are. Except for some of those Others. Who are fully awake and have decided they don't like the bedcovers any more. Question: but isn't it lovely to go to sleep? Don't you just scrunch up in excitement every night when you lay between the sheets? Don't you think: oh, this sleeping is where it's AT! ?? Grinning: I do. Love, love, love to sleep!
~~~Starlight, Starbright, first Star I see this morning…it's an honor to hear that you liked the poem, you poetess! (Is poetess a word?) You know what seems to be so important? To write unflinchinglythe truth of where we are. Both sides of the coin. Which, in the end, is still the coin. We're so afraid sometimes to just say we're asleep. (If we can find parts of us that are sleeping, that is.) Just writing this poem…oh and sixteen things that happened the other day…had led to an amazing feeling of just Surrender. It feels so friggin' delicious you could put whipped cream and a cherry on it! Love you.
~~~Love you all.
Psst…Kat, shh…..not so loud…”those Others” might want to grab up all the delicious sleep and we both know how limited sleep can be, right.
Lol. Or as my darling friend, Star would say, gol.
Huggies and bunches of love and may you and all our other divine friends have the sweetest, deeepest delicious sleep ever, even when we're wide awake….
OK…shhh…won't say a word about lovin' sleep! :)
I can truly relate to your incredible poem Kathy. Reminds me of the lessons from John Daido Loori in “The Zen of Creativity”
Terrill, thank you so much for reading. I will Google John Gaido Loori and look up his offering. P.S. your comment filled me with joy this afternoon!
Just so you are not caught by surprise Zen master John Daido Loori Roshi died recently (October 9, 2009) http://bit.ly/1PBcF8
Kathy, this is inspirational!…!
If you think you are awake, that is one of the greatest mistakes! It keeps you unawake. The very idea that you are awake is a deception! If you think you are awake then there is no need to do anything to awaken. We must realize we are drunk, drunk with greed and lust, anger, ambition, ego. All these are drugs! Drugs are not as bad as these…some drugs can actually give you an experience of awakening…but none of our inner drugs can. We are so unconscious!
I feel your poem…and enjoyed it deeply!
with love!
Cheyenne
Cheyenne, the poem thanks you from its drug-induced unconscious state! So glad you enjoyed it. :)
P.S. Terrill, followed the link to that page. So very sorry to hear about the death of that Zen master…