Mystic Journey: Fire 1
overhead sun is blinding. when we stare into
it, then turn aside, the world seems cold
and dark. a moment before it was warm
and bright. peered at through a pile of old
photograph negatives, it's a pale fire mortal
eyes can endure, but only a moment in time.
and so we must wait, not being allowed
to look upon the raw flame until we can see
only a blood red wafer being swallowed
into the mouth of dying day, as when day
itself dissolves into the cold, dark underbelly
of night. we must wait for that time when
layers of rose-color cloud mask the weary
fire, stripping it of its power. wait then
with the wise who say, 'dusk is climax of day, '
a replay of recent themes. then what can
be said of an alberta* sunset in late autumn?
as the mythic mask painted on a character
in an ancient chinese opera whose expression
of emotion, precise as a surgical incision,
is made by knitting and untying of muscle,
the changeless face of dusk is changed by
the clash and recoil of clouds. death of day
begins with the scent of dust in brushing
wind. then the eye walks amid cool pastel
wood. gold rays gild green trees, turning
them to brass flutes. browning leaves tinkle
like triangles in darkening air. the blood
and breath slow. the busy brain sleeps.
anything that stills burning blood is good.
the second movement will start with a sweep
of the eye, but first it is earth we notice,
its sounds and shades most familiar to us.
we feel the good in its pervading presence,
an unconscious matrix we instinctively trust.
yet we are water beings. wrenched from womb,
our first gulp of alien air felt like fire.
that sheer terror stays with us. the nether
gulp we fear too. so earth does not satisfy
for long mind's need to know more than eye
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poem by Doug Bentley
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