Archives for the month of: January, 2013

Every young woman I see
Reminds me of you, Beloved
Her face a moon
Her radiance a reflected beauty
But Love, drawing me forth
Bids me find the elusive Torchbearer
For when Dawn breaks
Who will desire a lamp?

23 May 1995

Copyright Simon Kidd

I wish I knew how to be wise
And have that knowing look in my eyes
Remaining silent while you nattered
As though I knew what really mattered

I’d never chat about the weather
Or discuss TV when we’re together
Always wearing a benign smile
Eternal bliss would be my style

I’d radiate endless compassion
Forgiving all, as is the fashion
A fathomless well of generosity
In love, unbounded precocity

I really think I’d have a flair
For worry beads and matted hair
I’d hover inches above the ground
Odour of sanctity all around

My aura would light the darkest place
While mortals worshipped my radiant face
Transfixed by supernatural beams
Flowing like Himalayan streams

Now and then I’d emit a platitude
While those around would melt in gratitude
Dumbstruck by my ethereal emanation
The fruit of yogic bowel elimination

But if you bowed to kiss my feet
(I think that would be really neat)
You’d better not smudge my toeless sandals
Or comment on my holy love-handles

If your chakras had some obstruction
I’d offer my course in karmic reduction
Having a diploma in kundalini power
All cards accepted, pay by the hour

I’d burn incense and chant a mantra
All legitimate and based on Tantra
Tutelary deities could well preside
I’d keep a few on the side

While priests and sheikhs and rabbis slept
I’d meditate like a true Adept
Transmitting subtle healing vibes
Like the ancient Tibetan scribes

If I were wise I’d have no care
My whole life would be a prayer
No tiresome rules to bother me
I’d commune direct with divinity

I’d have no truck with full prostration
Or other forms of mortification
Knowing Maya in her other guise
New ways of binding with golden ties

Self-abnegation is for lesser beings
Fasting, bowing, cleaning latrines
Can’t you see it’s below my station?
On the path to Realization

Yes, I wish I knew how to be wise
But I might just have to compromise
I’m not in that vaunted league you see
I’ll have to settle for philosophy

Copyright Simon Kidd

What! Did you not know?
Were you never told?
That once upon a throne you sat
A royal nursemaid to attend your need
Servants waiting hand and foot
To fulfil your every whim

And when the walls were breached
They dressed you as a waif
A foundling were you made
Royal blue eyes behind a scowl
A noble countenance beneath a cowl
And while you turned the sods in spring
You slept and dreamt you were a king

Make haste to your patrimony!
For your country is in disarray
Your subjects seek a restoration
And you must assume your kingly responsibility

29 April 1995

Copyright Simon Kidd

Introduction

Some people write odes in praise of joy, the West Wind, or Grecian urns. Being dissatisfied with the limited nature of such objects, I decided to write an ode to end all odes. And what could be more comprehensive, more limitless, and more all encompassing than Being itself.

I wrote the following in 1987, after a second-year philosophy exam. Having memorized the technical jargon of Thomistic metaphysics, I was compelled to regurgitate it in poetic form. My muse clearly had her tongue in cheek when she possessed me on that occasion.

Ode to Being

O, to be Being,
To wander in transcendental somethingness,
In orchards of substance to rest,
And down a draught of luscious prime matter,
From the ivory goblet of reality.
No! Don’t talk of potency, potency is not,
I have room in my soul only for act,
For that which is, and cannot not be.
O, Being, Being! … Thou Adulteress!
Your very existence mocks me,
And yet, bids me lie down with you
That I may gain immanent knowledge
Of your all-encompassing itness,
And sample the magic of your metaphysical mysteriousness.
I toss and turn on a bed of non-being
Lest some accidental change befall you,
And you become other than yourself.
But I realise this is impossible,
And you really must forgive me;
Poor, imperfect existent that I am,
You are never more than an analogy to me.
But there are others who will persecute you,
Will sell you into base univocity;
Or, with hearts of stone, turn you into an equivocal otherness.
And there are those who will steal up behind you at night,
And reduce you to a phenomenalistic jelly
A neurological impulse in the mind of some Cartesian axeman
O! Being, Being …
Don’t let them rationalise the fullness of your absoluteness,
Or idealise the reality of your realness.
For no one can be better than you,
And I cannot be without you.
How could I ever universally doubt you?
My first, my last … my Being!

Copyright Simon Kidd