Newsgroup: it.cultura.libri
Titolo: Johnny Blue for Ezra........

Page Two: The Grounding of Johnny Blue
                                          August 22, 1998
  Deepest winter and snowing heavily in these mountain pines at sunrise as I
read  the Eluard and wonder how he knew of that ancient mirror in the Paris
of 1926,  yet he must have seen moments clearly, heard of the Emperor's view
at Ise...  Will your eyes open soon with their blue awakened fire and holding
still ways  of gazing into one's lover? Soft aglow face with lips relaxed,
slightly opened...  Flowers drying in a celadon window, colours revealed as
remaining moisture captures  this first light of day. Beauty fades into a
yugen past form, then softly disappears.
                                              * * *
                                Oil painting days, strong summer colours
                                 Mixed in the mind with riverbank clays,
                               Dried bone whites along high mountain trails,
                                     The hues of soft brilliant sky.
                                         Vision deepening...
                                          Colour and scent
                                     Worked through the fingertips
                                       Of that long, still gaze...
                                 Phenomenon seen as translucent flow,
                                  Unreal, yet visible, floating thatness
                                   In this oceanmind world we swim.
  Pueblo de Taos, the marketplace Indians and those colourful summer days 
with their blankets bright woven and the adobe children with deep darkened
eyes in their  wonderland play days and the earth wet through their toes and
lips as soft  as cottonweed. Hours distant into the west the pastel
thunderhead clouds and to  the east, highland green mountains with sacred
spirit lakes and crystalline drala caves.  At the edge of this day's light
fading quickly into darkness the wildflowers turn softly into  their glow,
sage and juniper scents grow fainter, then slowly disappear. Bloodwarm
animals  move ghostlike from shadow into shadow, the aging desert coyote poet
speaks his mind then  dissolves slowly into the yellow. Mind moves...the
desert lies quietly for centuries.
  One slight movement...do these thoughts awaken you,  entering your dreams,
entangling, falling  through the blackened, formless mind of your sleep?
                            I will be still while you lie sleeping, I will be
still...
                                 Eyes: Blue...closed. Complete silence.
                     Clouds of mind's discursive greyness punctuate with azure
glimpses,
                    Then suddenly a completely luminescent sky engulfs me:
Ordinary mind!
                                 Stillness until one slight awakening stir,
                        and out an opened window the beauty of slowly falling
snow.
                          The pines grow bluer in the shadow light of this
storm...
                                      pearldust drala wonderland.
  A butterfly's kiss onto one soft cheek with a glimmer of smile on your slow
awakening face,  then pulled together naked beneath pure silk  exploring the
beginnings of wetness  in first touch tenderness as nothing is said yet
intonations occur and the snow cold  purrings beneath warm down build and
build further to dissolved opened swimming in  wetfire morning soft passion
and through it all eyes yet to open, awakened eyes  beneath closed lids,
closed through the joys of holding yet not being held and  the letting go and
pulling to of the slow dance of plunging into, melting and exploding  into
and the deep morning spasms of your soft woman ways. This windowbed morning
awakens  with unquenchable passion. Soft aglow eyes slowly open...
                                             * * * * *
  Child's mind is beginningless and has no end with light and colour shapes 
of imagination play darknesses opening into a continuous present childtime so
 preconception rich with laughters and short sadnesses and tears-love-pain so
 vividly woven into abstraction days of stormpassing yellows and shy
vermilion  desires heart-touched now to a remembered soft blue and as one
grows older the  illusions of goals and fascination with speed erode the
sensibilities and benumb  the feelings, nourishing the chasms that develop
between who in reality we  are and what in thought illusion we pretend to be.
Conceptualization obscures  basic perception and we grow lost, preoccupied
lost in a thick blackened fog of  impotent literary materialism with the
childwonder corrupting into superficial  distraction, continuously falling,
deeply fading falling into the depths of a  convinced self-solidity.
                                             * * * * *
  We lie one together with thighs entwined looking softly to faces with so
little	to say as the smiles say enough, silently speaking their electric
tender sounds  up the spinedance nakedly moving past fingertips to lips
gently touching with the  snow still slowly falling and the warmth pulled up
past nakedness, then once again,  dawn drawn down into the morning tenderness
of our soft awakening bed. A seal of  your lips with the time quickly passing
and never could one get enough of another  even if the morning was a thousand
mornings long, and these are the moments when  each particle of our illusory
solid being seems shared by the warm soft swirl of  tongues.
                                   "C'est avec nous que tout vivra....
                        On the nightstand a note, fine, young, cobweb
handwriting....
  Late night, lying alone...  The moon and I wait for you  Til cold and the
silver night clouds>br> Wrap her up, carry her away.
                                        Only a fine night mist
                                       Is left to caress the pines,
                                        They sigh...I shiver.
                                       I've left the door open,
                                      Hoping to hear footsteps...
                                      Your red candles are lit...
                                   Will their warmth bring you home
                                             Tonight?
                                             * * * * *
  Late morning, alone exploring the details of crimson on candlelit brocade
as I practice  with the brush then offer the morning tea and the two
visualizations and remembered  incantations with the blackstroke ink
dissolving down the central crystal channel  to the white heart projecting
and awakening all the while to the inviting white smoke  of dried juniper
rising into the windsongs of sky galloping horses and the snow...  the snow
still falling...perfectly slowly falling...dissolving...  rising, swirling,
striving, purling, falling...melting...
                         this landscape binds into a refulgent crystalling
splendor...
                                  binding, falling, dissolving, rising...
                                   life, and death too, are both good.
                                        Having seen your face
                                    And heard your soft high voice
                              Watched you slowly limpwalk into the room...
                                  Glimpses of openness suddenly occur
                                   And what always seemed to be me
                                       Softens into yearning...
                                 A young man with a corpse on his back
                                      Proceeds slowly eastward
                                   Through the phenomenal swirl...
                                 Early September...the radio and writng
                         Out an open window...patches of snow up the
mountainside
                                 Sky: clear and blue like ordinary mind.
                                  Pine trees and streams, rocks...Yun.
  Last night a full moon too beautiful to speak about  Today, relaxed and
thinking of you...  The flow of your gentle warmth through these veins 
Geomantic completeness...  Empty Heart.
                                             * * * * *
  Slowly falling snow through a dream morning window...senses exploring
senses,  mind training mind....then unexpectantly, one timeless pause in the
absolute  center of completely centerless space.
                 About this writing room, childvision remembrances...collected
white stone from
               long summer walks down wildflower paths to the drying hay
building with the bright
                sunlight filtering through lumbercracks darkened by high
mountain storms and the
               meanwhile scents of sage mixed to columbine with marpa point to
the south reminding
               and awakening us constantly with its shared magical cliffs of
incredible lha protection
         and the chestnut horses coming down wondering (the way they must have
wondered) of the motions
               and poses of our strange naked summer ways...and the flowers
collected....the colors
                                  fade more quickly that the memories.
              Our short door house with the remembered summer paths now so
deeply buried beneath
                                 the snows of that gathered white storm.
                                             * * * * *
                                     In a crystalline shallow pool
                                    Deep in some distant mountains
                                       A brilliantly golden fish
                                  Swims wavely perfect in aloneness.
                                  Albe to speak...there is none to listen
                                   Surrounded by steep, rocky cliffs
                                    The clear, pure water can't flow
                                         To the faraway sea.
                                      Lonely for his true parents
                                    This flower of the dream-water
                                          Prepares to fly...
                                             * * * * *
  Chateau Lake Louise. Winter 1981. During those first difficult days of
gently persistant outbreath  sitting I completely lost ground...swimming in
quicksand so murky and bottomless  with complete confusion swirling and the
tremendous energy continuously coming and the  perceptual world without any
solidity. My body was no longer clearly defined with the  boundaries of skin
to which I had long grown accustomed and I had to take long. cold showers  in
order to return to a more solid state.
                    I learned from the quicksand not to panic...regardless of
what occurred,
                  nor to push my way through. The present moment required
complete focus.
                                             * * * * *
                            Komachi of Noh understood that the source of light
                                illuminating appearance is not a distant star
            buring alone in vastness...nor locked in the eyes... confused in
their continuous visual swirl
                                       Light comes from THAT
                               MIRROR of phenomenal unfiltered brilliance
                                  awakened as mind looks directly into
                                     its own crystallin projection.
                                  In the vividness of the ink on paper...
                                 in the rich display of luminous reality...
                                       dwells the true poetry.
  As those days of terror/wonder passed, the sandvision turbulence clarified
to an ocean of energy which flowed into  through and about and never for an
instant was one separate with climbs past rockcloud kleshas and the soar into
 mind/blue/sky, that first tremendous shock of blue. A very strong connection
with the earth began to occur and I could  always feel its incredibly
powerful energy flowing up through these heavy feet...
                               Dream past dream. present dream...future.
                                Awakening from a lifedream of confusion,
                              Feet painlessly nailed to this powerful earth...
                                 And whatever I write these days to you
                                 Is a giftstone tossed to a surfaceless sea,
                                  Playful waves polishingly churning...
                               Ghostdance sailors on golden-butter waves.
                                             * * * * *
  Beginnings of the river of mind flow into fingertips warmed by the
heartblood of royalty, then one first dot into white  paper and the long fall
into language with subject and object so cleverly separated, so senselessly
insisted. Blackened  tongue ink past first touch hesitation bleeds into silk
textured paper and out our crystalline window, a starfilled morning  sky
glimpses a ghost whitened landscape....
                            Waiting downstream for the poetry boats of Li Po,
                            a brilliance of occurrence unfettered by sense
organs.
                                          Nothing comes.
                                Cool blue face with mirror reflection tears,
                                     eyes wetsparkling....reality.
                                In an ocean of love there is no seduction...
                                  these eyes don't turn away nor quiver
                              yet my heart does....(it has so little
discipline.)
 That first visit into Banff was extremely sad. People along the streets
seemed glued to their perceptions, mindlessly drawn  from one shop window to
another. Eyes away cold on faces with no light and I as usual with so little
to say walked that  day slowly through the filmlikestreets watching...
                                        Sparkling clear night,
                                          brilliant ink floats
                                      across silk textured paper.
                                      Luminous thoughts streak
                                   through a blackened empty mind...
                                     pure perceptions once again.
                                      Diamond chamber colours
                                         leap vibrantly at me.
                                         Pure perfect sounds
                                       resonate deeply into me.
                                     And through a tongue frozen
                                          without any taste,
                                      Mind flows completely...
                                          leaving no trace.
                                             * * * * *
  Deep into that Canadian blue/glacier winter, powerful experiences continued
to occur. Late one nightmorning as you	spoke I began to experience an
extremely vivid mirror-like reality and from the center of that exploding
perception  brightness you smiled a go further look and suddenly with a
tremendous jolt the body completely dissolved and there I sat in goneout
johnny wonder nodding gently that I finally understood the precious mind of
the lineages and all the while I felt  like ancient grand Tilopa sitting
alone unseen in complete reality madness on the banks of his faraway river,
Joyce's  riverrun.
                               The world we look to is a shadowcave mirror
                                     Platonic play dreampuppets
                              reflected on mind resting nowhere in stillness.
                            Reflections impossible to grasp, taste, even
touch...
                            nothing listening to nothing, nothing happens to
see.
  Died alive Johnny, Blue-eyes breathing fire  Precious heart pumping into
crystal vein channels.	And into that mirror without any dust there is
nothing left nothing...  nothing left to say.
                                             * * * * *
  I walked those empty hotel corridors deep into that sleepless night
somewhat past aloneness and all the while felt so  sensitive to the softer
light worlds of the dead and sat at that glacierview until dawn in a
candleglow appreciation of the	richness and patience of your great lineages,
and of the oceanmind world of the Rigdens which was unknown until that	alone
luminous night.
                                             * * * * *
                                   Motionless, bones harden to rock.
                                       Mind pours into itself...
                                   Senses achieve astonishing clarity.
                      Awareness without memory, luminous vision with no
expectation,
                       An indestructible essence is realized... there is no
longer any fear.
                    To taste again mind without any taste, to swim in an ocean
of brilliance.
                      To touch this earth with these soft hands, mirror-lines
reminding...
                              To leave foot stone prints for others to follow.
                                    Two mirrors.....no reflection...
                                    First Trungpa, weeks later Bleu.
  Into the closing hours of this reverie room, naked feet warmed to a
footprint stone floor, the fires of the earth slowly  rising and from that
which flows so mysteriously of mind unseen into this seed of crystal heart
and through a whitened	throat of generosity with the words as blossoms then
down your powerful arm, softstroked to the touch yet deep and  powerful
within, a current of pure steelhardened energy...that look in your eyes.....
slow continuous into these rockbone  fingertips, and what few words came,
rose from a speechless untransmittable silence.
                                      Cremation Day: Vermont.
  Spring cricket music fields edged by a fragile green forest.	Birch and
alder leaves blown softly across a pale blue sky.  In a distant valley,
woodcutters...	Yet mostly silence, mostly beauty.  Back into the forest,
traces of white smoke continue skyward...  So many faces today.
                             Awakening once again to an ocean of aloneness,
                                   I feel the breeze of your soft breath
                                 Across my face and through my body...
                                       And vow to repay you.
 Your faceless face on the blackened charred head in airless bellglass so
vividly seen yet more than a skull because there's  so much burnt tissue
especially inside with the right eye socket blown out so completely and the
left with blackburnt  bandages still ashened across it, a few hairs.... no
lips, no nose, no tongue, nor ears nor eyes... Your unmistakable  forehead,
while across this same room a photo and I look back and forth from image to
relic with such astonished wonder  and such incredible sadness. Your smiles
will never come again, nor the jokes and the complaints from the soft cheeks 
kissed and no more poems from those firemelted lips.... the commands have all
been given... Coal blackened head with a  memory face etched so completely in
that Lake Louise mirror. Your soft, high voice with carefully arranged words 
uplifting so many with simply said things. No longer a throat, your voice
cords to white smoke. You are (as always) too  real to look at, a presence so
strong and as I bend sadly into one last farewell your invisible heavy hand
comes down to  bless.....Ki So Cha....
                                             * * * * *
   It was the Rigdens birthday poetry, nothing was to be eaten. I sat in the
secret of the rocks above, August morning
 watching my Shambhala sun.child dive happily into torn tent openings. A good
place to die, mind chained to these rocks
  undisturbed a few timeless days with the roller coaster of elements quickly
dissolving, earth body to water then fire into
                 wind and whatever, the softer light ones vermilion sky
dancing... ...the clouds!
  It's a Rilkian inscape, the senses can come too, with the poetry dancing
it's touched naked appreciation...
                                     Stormed palace lady of red...
                                         oh GreatBlue......
                          Chrystline Horse Undoubtable Yidam Essence Shiwa....
                              Above the relic plain, things settle themselves.
  John Asher Hopkins  4. April 1987  Having ridden the powerful breathhorse
into the fourth time  and viewed Shambhala with it's gemstone streets and 
brilliantly coloured forests and valleys...
                             Walked this earth with it's molten sunlike center
                          and for months carried it's powerful, nourishing
energy
                                    in these incredibly heavy feet...
  And then one day a glimpse of your soft eyes	in an unexpected meeting and
my life is once again  abandoned to the madness of poetry...
                                    Email: 
jean...@hotmail.com
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                                    Email: 
jean...@hotmail.com
non ho parole!
--
Laura
lba...@mailcity.com
 ; 
lab...@tin.it
Chi e' messo alle strette o ha il cielo o ha i libri.
In tutti e due i casi la sua solitudine e' invasa e medicata dalle voci piu'
belle del mondo.
(Erri De Luca)