The dark summit of the mountain looms beyond in the darkness.
He feels the hard wood of the porch under his back.
The mountain wind soughs and rushes over his body,
Cool and damp.
His companions sit on the wooden benches and listen as their leader
Explains the anatomy of weather, atmosphere and mountains –
The reason for the perpetual cold and damp that grips the hut
And for the bent spruce and hissing grasses
That surround it.
The Transcendentalist lies with his hands crossed behind his head,
Half listening to the voices of his fellow travelers
And half to the wind that flows from the silent peak,
A cold, fast river that makes a rushing sound
In his ears.
As he lies there, the clouds shift without warning
And the ineffable heavens are displayed,
A scarf thrown across the sky by an unseen hand,
Woven with shimmering strands of heaven-sik
And bright, glittering jewels.
A falling star darts across the sky and is extinguished soundlessly,
The mountain wind soughs and rushes over his body,
Cool and damp.
His companions sit on the wooden benches and listen as their leader
Explains the anatomy of weather, atmosphere and mountains –
The reason for the perpetual cold and damp that grips the hut
And for the bent spruce and hissing grasses
That surround it.
The Transcendentalist lies with his hands crossed behind his head,
Half listening to the voices of his fellow travelers
And half to the wind that flows from the silent peak,
A cold, fast river that makes a rushing sound
In his ears.
As he lies there, the clouds shift without warning
And the ineffable heavens are displayed,
A scarf thrown across the sky by an unseen hand,
Woven with shimmering strands of heaven-sik
And bright, glittering jewels.
A falling star darts across the sky and is extinguished soundlessly,
Another, then another appear and are gone.
The Transcendentalist gazes into the Milky Way, into the depths
The Transcendentalist gazes into the Milky Way, into the depths
Of a Universe that has no beginning
And no end.
Then the platform upon which he lies seems to rise.
It floats higher, taking him closer and closer to the stars
That continue to shine steadfastly above the heedless earth,
The earth that has chosen to turn in on itself,
Unattached, unaware.
The Transcendentalist, aware, floats among the stars.
(Or does he? Does he remain on the rough wood of the porch
Hands laced behind his head, looking up and losing himself,
Dreamer that he is, imagining that he can touch that which
None have touched?)
Whatever the case, he is wrapt, enthralled by the incandescence.
And he forgets the hut and mountain below him.
He forgets even the rough wood that chafes his back.
He forgets his clothes, his stiff boots, his body.
Then the platform upon which he lies seems to rise.
It floats higher, taking him closer and closer to the stars
That continue to shine steadfastly above the heedless earth,
The earth that has chosen to turn in on itself,
Unattached, unaware.
The Transcendentalist, aware, floats among the stars.
(Or does he? Does he remain on the rough wood of the porch
Hands laced behind his head, looking up and losing himself,
Dreamer that he is, imagining that he can touch that which
None have touched?)
Whatever the case, he is wrapt, enthralled by the incandescence.
And he forgets the hut and mountain below him.
He forgets even the rough wood that chafes his back.
He forgets his clothes, his stiff boots, his body.
He is pure thought.
Incorporeal, existing as mind alone, glimmering in the sky
He bends his energy and apostrophizes the whirling orbs.
Then he turns mute as the ancient lights slowly divulge
The small part of their vast astral wisdom they have
Incorporeal, existing as mind alone, glimmering in the sky
He bends his energy and apostrophizes the whirling orbs.
Then he turns mute as the ancient lights slowly divulge
The small part of their vast astral wisdom they have
Chosen to reveal.
Posts
