I was looking at Bhagavan das and I saw that he was a swamp filled with ancient bodies and the jewels they wore. Dead, wormy bodies exuding
dark God smiles under this rich black ominous water, a mirror to the crooked trees that watch it’s swimming ghosts. These are secrets, these are wise and hidden things that cannot be spoken but heard inside the chaos that is unseen by ordinary eyes. The throne of the immaculately holy, the holy that consumes flesh,
is the one who sees you. I was feeling nothing I can tell you in words you would want to hear. I am inside the swamp, a drop, every drop of filthy water, is me. The God particle is in your eyes, you don’t know where you are. There is not a good or a right, there is a fairy who drown. The white horse is an after death experience. Death comes first, and yet, she waits for you to see her, simply an owl as her prophecy, out of body, watching from a crooked tree. I talk to the moon and nobody else. I am possessed by invisible beings, body snatchers. I was trying to get back to normal. I told Bhagavan Das, there is nothing inside like there used to be. I only heard the ravishing winds howling through me over swampy waters. A heavy mist hung over my secret heart and I waited and waited but I never returned, to myself. A waterfall that was clear, used to crash on rocks I knew well. Clear and breathing. Uniquely pure and rushing, loud and wild. Not any more. I waited so long I forgot I was lost and when the morning never came I began believing the night was me. I never saw another living soul and I started moving like God on the seventh day. God never rested believe me. The only God I know. Fermented. A fear that went so deep it became something else, it became strange. A stranger who lives with me, sleeps with me, inside of me. A fear so final, I cannot make it through the skin no matter how sharp the plunge. And so I stroke his body as if it were the only body I have ever seen, not at the bottom of the swamp but floating, looking down into me, his memories of the days he died before. His waking chance to say goodbye again, a goodbye that goes down into me and not away into another world. My bodies all lie under me, inside the place impossible to leave. I did leave and yet I haunt my very own being. I told you, I feel something. What is mine? I am all of them. Covered in precious jewels, the murk of concealing mud, decaying flesh, holes that tiny fish live in. It’s me, all of it feeling God, the throne of earth’s reign. The poison that falls from the moon through the sky, into the swamp, into me. It doesn’t matter what you say or believe. It doesn’t matter, the swamp is not an after death experience, the white horse is. The swamp is an after life convergence of all the magical things said and done, all the mystical prophet’s deepest meanings. The darkest muse of the mindless knowers. I feel everything. There is no center to this circle, only a spinning downward blanketed by stillness and cool sheltering widow trees. There is all of me and none of me. Roots, the basket beneath the swamp, tangled poignant diggers going deeper into the earth than even I as the dearly departed cannot go without you.
I feel the blood dripping into the chalice, I feel the deep finger pushing, I feel the throat of the sky, the cloud of words between us. I feel the drum inside the water, sonic booming, rippling beyond appearance. I feel that which cannot be explained, poetry as disappearing as the winds that bring rain. There is nobody to know, dead body, bones wrapped in the shine of ancient sounds, the sounds that grow diamonds in caves. There is a cave below the swamp. There is a very old God who is also a child who lives within this cave. There is a goddess he sleeps upon and I know her. There is the water, filled with ancient forbidden light that shrouds them in mystery. A mystery so foreboding that they have been left all alone, undiscovered. A myth you might write about but never truly believe. Seeing is believing. It takes one to know one. It takes two to have the child that is deathless. It takes the child who is deathless to kill you beneath these waters if you ever expect to float in her hair, the long strands, the ropes of endless hangings. A drier death bereft of tears. It would take these things to go down, underneath me and know how I feel after the song leaves the room and the lights go out. There is yet, always the trickle of light from the roots, the expanding circle of dance that the dragonfly makes upon the swamp’s surface. The mound of dissolving leaves on the warm bottom of life’s pain and suffering. The endlessness of my love for anything still moving, which is you upon the the mountains and sky, falling rain. Water giving more of itself into the tragedy of becoming. The tragedy of leaving me here, floating, facing the bottom is that I could never see your eyes above me. I only knew the death of before, the past when everything closed. And so, the sacrament of now is that the swamp is here inside me, you. Everything closed is opening even evil and fear and the dread of her black body. I am white, like the horse. After death you will also find me. After the light you will also see me. After the breaking of love into tears you will also know my heart. Dirty, the filth of all. Pure, immaculate virgin flower. I mount the swamp, mouth open wide to the world of earth bodies and I bring down death as softly as the warm summer rain brings down the scent of God’s jasmine. This is the flower I told you about, ancient and perfect. Where nothing remains but emerald and jade. Where birds skim the surface and feathers fall like night bodies dreaming, where the child waits to be born in eyes made of stars. Where death makes everyone love til the light burns, flames of silence, white ash that fell into me. Where I feel what I am. Where you make me create oceans and skies just for the earth to have something to reach for, us. The depth of dark love is that there is nowhere to hide but beneath me. And I know everything and rings cover every finger with sparkles that tell how why and when the light will undress herself beneath the moon spirit and blow stardust into your eyes and fill you with the end of black tears. The end of black anything, the sticky tar wings of stealth. Trying to free me is like trying to find the point of the arrow. Freeing me is dripping with blood fearlessly found plunged by the sword of the secret flower’s divinity. Free to die and to rise like smoke, waves, moons, sun and the flower, you are my mouth and eyes. My thousand arms like the branches of the mother tree hold up the tiny birds until they are one with the sky. And when you remember you know why and when,
I am a bird too, made of you.
So feelings rise, fall. Sink, die. Give birth, make love, kill, eat. All for the tiny dream child. The holy old man…
The ancient forgotten bottom. Her, always her sending you dreams and song worlds to love her in, as deeply as death looks for rain in the swamp.
Mother wet with whatever you give her. Shining from a place so deep, you’ll keep trying, to become the smoke and rain of all that is…to know her is to to kill her. To become as one,
beneath the dark blanket of two…
you, until she’s gone away.
I am never dying. Sharada Devi