Disclaimer: I haven't had the chance to type up all the days inbetween while I have been on retreat, so to make sure I don't loose the rhythm, please find todays poem and I will post the others when I am able.
I have been reading Sangharakshita's history of his going for refuge and he talks about how his poetry took on an autobiographical form in that they spoke about how he was feeling or his throughts in a way he could only express in a poem. This following emerged during a walking meditation after a mindfulness of breathing sit this morning.
When belief in control is let go
consciousness drifts down the spine.
A swirling nebula of sense and stimuli.
Skin tingles with cosmic possibility,
the thinnest guaze, inviting nourishing light
while barely stopping playful cells
from exploding into the surroundings.
All it takes is a voice from another room
or the needle point of spider legs on flesh.
This heady scent of longing and aversion
for me to bind this body again to my will.
I fuse muscle to form armour against other.
I use these hands as tools, skeletal guantlets,
for cleaving the world with my craving.
I know one of these states is unreal,
I just can't tell which yet...