afternoon tea with the goddess
I – Immerse ...
Picture a mountain
above the sea …
somewhere warm
that speaks
in purple syllables
of the unparallelled
luxury
of welcome,
a place that hums
about the cash-
mere of return.
I often visit
this imaginary realm,
seeking the silken
solace of its blazing
sky,
yearning
to bask
in the kindness
that saturates
all who drop by.
My mind awhirl,
I wait on an open-
air platform
for the goddess
who has promised
to meet me.
Seated there,
in the middle of an elaborate and exotic
garden,
to my right, I can see the bluest of deep blue
seas
ablaze with chaotic light,
and in every other
direction
the most marvellous
landscapes
shimmer in the sun.
I vary my
surroundings
every time I come for tea,
with the panorama
changing
from essentially Australian,
to Elysian, to a collage
of South America & somewhere
in a Japanese myth,
or it might become Africa
as imagined by Cynthia Nolan
and Rimbaud;
or Scandinavia
with an irreverent dash
of the sub-Antarctic;
or the outback
in the richest
of Rothko-reds.
And every once in a while
there are surreal encounters of time
and space as the thoughts
of countless strangers
are re-imagined
from words and images
seen on pages
& computer
screens, etched into glass
and layered onto canvases
from yesterday, today
& centuries before.
I allow them to inter-
act & merge
with the sheer
delight in which
I am immersed.
II – Elope with the Sun
Each time I visit,
the plants around me
are different.
Sometimes there are large, leafy trees,
and paeonies, all blush and froth
as they laze on their delicious
grey-blue-green.
At other times there is lavender
and an explosion
of honeysuckle,
or there might be goddess lilies
and love-in-the-mist,
or cornflowers
and a blitz of magnolias,
from the almost ready
to the fully over-blown.
Bluebells and freesias
sit beside sage and thyme.
Silver wattles, leatherwood
and snow gums nestle
behind the reddest,
blood-red tulips.
Fields and fields of sunflowers
stand
tall and strong,
and there are occasionally
orange trees and mangoes,
orchids in all their complex beauty,
or so many roses that the fragrance makes me weak
at the unbridled
extravagance,
apparently just for me.
Poppies bob in the breeze,
reminiscent of the crumpled tissue
after gifts are opened
at a child’s party.
Bright red and black,
their centres are thick
with pollen.
Some are open, but others
are only starting to unfurl
when bees burrow in,
seeking nectar,
rolling until coated in gold
or black
before stumbling,
drunk and disorderly,
on their erratic
paths of flight,
hungering for the next burst of red,
or the rare and rich
surprise
of indigo.
Their buzz
complements the general
hum and fuss of a thousand
insects and so many birds
making odd calls
and complicated cries.
One sounds like a single bell ring
from the bottom of a pond.
III – Waiting to be found
When I imagine the chairs
there are only ever two –
one for the Goddess and one for me.
Sometimes they are the deepest jade
with finely engraved markings
that reveal the bronze beneath.
The cushions have a thick nap
of blue-black-purple
and tassels of real gold.
Tiny petals of scarlet silk
have been carefully sewn
around the edges, and at the centre of each petal
is a single sequin of fragile
jet.
The tablecloth is plush velvet
in shades of green, variegated
so that it might really be moss.
The fringe is soft
as it brushes against my legs.
The body of the cloth
is finely embroidered
and appliquéed with phrases
and images that are so personal
I can hardly believe the care
that has been taken.
I see episodes from my life
transformed into the art of the cloth –
animals and fish and birds are there
and all the things
I love on the earth.
The sky and angels
and all of the heavens are there as well.
Poetry has been finely
woven into the fabric –
transporting me
to dream-scapes from my past,
and my future,
and some so current,
so utterly crammed
with this very moment,
I never want to leave their presence.
IV – Sometimes poetry is the only sustenance
At the centre of the table
are scones, golden
& steaming with heat
as they nestle
in a cotton cloth.
The cream
is thick and fresh
& the colour of honey.
And dark as the deepest
of seas,
shimmering
blueberry jam
has been heaped
into a silver bowl,
and another overflows
with ruby-quince
conserve.
There are two cups,
semi-translucent,
each casting a kaleidoscope
of light and shadow.
Their pomegranate surface
is overlaid with mother of pearl
and the saucers are purple-black
& made from a sea-shell
I have not before seen.
The tea is a tiny planet
of possibility
inside its pot
of glass.
As I watch,
the water
makes a fizz and a hush
while the tightly bound ball
slowly unfurls ...
Before long I am immersed
in a cloud of cinnamon and fine tobacco
and something else – jasmine
tinged with sandalwood,
or is it a type of musk?
From the centre of the tea,
without any fanfare,
emerge two snow-
faeries, shy
and delicate.
Children
of completely
uncluttered
sympathy,
they curtsey
before dancing,
just for me.
V – How gentle is eternity?
My heart beats.
Someone is walking
through the garden,
singing of peace,
dropping slow,
singing of a bee-
loud glade,
where midnight
hums
with the hope
of a purple glow
at noon.
There, grace
is remembered
as the softest
iron-grey surf
which melts with a hush
upon the certain shore.
The Goddess sits beside me
in a gown of feathers
and golden thread,
decorated with carmine-coloured
camels, crafted from twisted fabric.
Seeking an oasis,
the camels wander across the desert,
past endless, shifting dunes
which lie in the wake
of so much
shimmering silk.
Brimming with compassion,
the eyes of the Goddess
are deep pools
as I tell the stories
we both know
in all their complex
detail.
Still, she loves to hear them.
To her they are precious gem stones,
having been wrought
from both
the accident
and design
of being alive.
The stories pave
eternal pathways
which take us on
spectacular journeys
of the mind and soul.
The goddess takes my hand
and as my name tumbles from her lips,
tears
also
fall ...
She is the friend,
neither ardent nor weak.
The friend.
She is the beloved,
neither tormenting
nor tormented.
The beloved.
VI – See the infinite saffron strands of peace
“Come,” says the Goddess
with a wild look.
“It’s time to drink
to your healing,
to usher in
the sumptuous feast
of wisdom
to which you now have
unlimited access.”
With the breath of the ocean
far below and as the insects
and birds continue their tumult,
we inhale the steam,
and sip the tea.
“Never underestimate,” she says,
“What experience can teach,
even experience which has been vile
(or violent)
beyond words,
beyond imagining.
After great suffering,
truly know
the power of your mind, your self, your soul
to reinvent –
to make brilliant –
to embroider life
with newness,
to fill it
with the liquid moss-
agate of hope
that moves
steadily
as an advancing sea,
each wave, full of mercy,
able to revitalise
every fibre
of your being.”
I nod,
overwhelmed,
filled to overflowing
with the sheer relief
of knowing
that being alive
has the potential
to be different,
to be new,
vital,
full of promise.
“And finally,” she says with a smile,
“Know that Wisdom always invites you
to enjoy
the vast
and resplendent
rest
that is always
her companion.”
And as we sit amidst the splendour
there settles upon us
a profound,
almost blushing,
peace,
one that embraces the mind
and fully
surpasses
the common
making
of sense.
(this one is almost finished. I began it in the mid-1990s and then published a version here in 1998. At CHADO - the Way of Tea ... the poem has prospered :)
Diane Caney, January 2012
Picture a mountain
above the sea …
somewhere warm
that speaks
in purple syllables
of the unparallelled
luxury
of welcome,
a place that hums
about the cash-
mere of return.
I often visit
this imaginary realm,
seeking the silken
solace of its blazing
sky,
yearning
to bask
in the kindness
that saturates
all who drop by.
My mind awhirl,
I wait on an open-
air platform
for the goddess
who has promised
to meet me.
Seated there,
in the middle of an elaborate and exotic
garden,
to my right, I can see the bluest of deep blue
seas
ablaze with chaotic light,
and in every other
direction
the most marvellous
landscapes
shimmer in the sun.
I vary my
surroundings
every time I come for tea,
with the panorama
changing
from essentially Australian,
to Elysian, to a collage
of South America & somewhere
in a Japanese myth,
or it might become Africa
as imagined by Cynthia Nolan
and Rimbaud;
or Scandinavia
with an irreverent dash
of the sub-Antarctic;
or the outback
in the richest
of Rothko-reds.
And every once in a while
there are surreal encounters of time
and space as the thoughts
of countless strangers
are re-imagined
from words and images
seen on pages
& computer
screens, etched into glass
and layered onto canvases
from yesterday, today
& centuries before.
I allow them to inter-
act & merge
with the sheer
delight in which
I am immersed.
II – Elope with the Sun
Each time I visit,the plants around me
are different.
Sometimes there are large, leafy trees,
and paeonies, all blush and froth
as they laze on their delicious
grey-blue-green.
At other times there is lavender
and an explosion
of honeysuckle,
or there might be goddess lilies
and love-in-the-mist,
or cornflowers
and a blitz of magnolias,
from the almost ready
to the fully over-blown.
Bluebells and freesias
sit beside sage and thyme.
Silver wattles, leatherwood
and snow gums nestle
behind the reddest,
blood-red tulips.
Fields and fields of sunflowers
stand
tall and strong,
and there are occasionally
orange trees and mangoes,
orchids in all their complex beauty,
or so many roses that the fragrance makes me weak
at the unbridled
extravagance,
apparently just for me.
Poppies bob in the breeze,
reminiscent of the crumpled tissue
after gifts are opened
at a child’s party.
Bright red and black,
their centres are thick
with pollen.
Some are open, but others
are only starting to unfurl
when bees burrow in,
seeking nectar,
rolling until coated in gold
or black
before stumbling,
drunk and disorderly,
on their erratic
paths of flight,
hungering for the next burst of red,
or the rare and rich
surprise
of indigo.
Their buzz
complements the general
hum and fuss of a thousand
insects and so many birds
making odd calls
and complicated cries.
One sounds like a single bell ring
from the bottom of a pond.
III – Waiting to be found
When I imagine the chairs
there are only ever two –
one for the Goddess and one for me.
Sometimes they are the deepest jade
with finely engraved markings
that reveal the bronze beneath.
The cushions have a thick nap
of blue-black-purple
and tassels of real gold.
Tiny petals of scarlet silk
have been carefully sewn
around the edges, and at the centre of each petal
is a single sequin of fragile
jet.
The tablecloth is plush velvet
in shades of green, variegated
so that it might really be moss.
The fringe is soft
as it brushes against my legs.
The body of the cloth
is finely embroidered
and appliquéed with phrases
and images that are so personal
I can hardly believe the care
that has been taken.
I see episodes from my life
transformed into the art of the cloth –
animals and fish and birds are there
and all the things
I love on the earth.
The sky and angels
and all of the heavens are there as well.
Poetry has been finely
woven into the fabric –
transporting me
to dream-scapes from my past,
and my future,
and some so current,
so utterly crammed
with this very moment,
I never want to leave their presence.
IV – Sometimes poetry is the only sustenance
At the centre of the table
are scones, golden
& steaming with heat
as they nestle
in a cotton cloth.
The cream
is thick and fresh
& the colour of honey.
And dark as the deepest
of seas,
shimmering
blueberry jam
has been heaped
into a silver bowl,
and another overflows
with ruby-quince
conserve.
There are two cups,
semi-translucent,
each casting a kaleidoscope
of light and shadow.
Their pomegranate surface
is overlaid with mother of pearl
and the saucers are purple-black
& made from a sea-shell
I have not before seen.
The tea is a tiny planet
of possibility
inside its pot
of glass.
As I watch,
the water
makes a fizz and a hush
while the tightly bound ball
slowly unfurls ...
Before long I am immersed
in a cloud of cinnamon and fine tobacco
and something else – jasmine
tinged with sandalwood,
or is it a type of musk?
From the centre of the tea,
without any fanfare,
emerge two snow-
faeries, shy
and delicate.
Children
of completely
uncluttered
sympathy,
they curtsey
before dancing,
just for me.
V – How gentle is eternity?
My heart beats.
Someone is walking
through the garden,
singing of peace,
dropping slow,
singing of a bee-
loud glade,
where midnight
hums
with the hope
of a purple glow
at noon.
There, grace
is remembered
as the softest
iron-grey surf
which melts with a hush
upon the certain shore.
The Goddess sits beside me
in a gown of feathers
and golden thread,
decorated with carmine-coloured
camels, crafted from twisted fabric.
Seeking an oasis,
the camels wander across the desert,
past endless, shifting dunes
which lie in the wake
of so much
shimmering silk.
Brimming with compassion,
the eyes of the Goddess
are deep pools
as I tell the stories
we both know
in all their complex
detail.
Still, she loves to hear them.
To her they are precious gem stones,
having been wrought
from both
the accident
and design
of being alive.
The stories pave
eternal pathways
which take us on
spectacular journeys
of the mind and soul.
The goddess takes my hand
and as my name tumbles from her lips,
tears
also
fall ...
She is the friend,
neither ardent nor weak.
The friend.
She is the beloved,
neither tormenting
nor tormented.
The beloved.
VI – See the infinite saffron strands of peace
“Come,” says the Goddess
with a wild look.
“It’s time to drink
to your healing,
to usher in
the sumptuous feast
of wisdom
to which you now have
unlimited access.”
With the breath of the ocean
far below and as the insects
and birds continue their tumult,
we inhale the steam,
and sip the tea.
“Never underestimate,” she says,
“What experience can teach,
even experience which has been vile
(or violent)
beyond words,
beyond imagining.
After great suffering,
truly know
the power of your mind, your self, your soul
to reinvent –
to make brilliant –
to embroider life
with newness,
to fill it
with the liquid moss-
agate of hope
that moves
steadily
as an advancing sea,
each wave, full of mercy,
able to revitalise
every fibre
of your being.”
I nod,
overwhelmed,
filled to overflowing
with the sheer relief
of knowing
that being alive
has the potential
to be different,
to be new,
vital,
full of promise.
“And finally,” she says with a smile,
“Know that Wisdom always invites you
to enjoy
the vast
and resplendent
rest
that is always
her companion.”
And as we sit amidst the splendour
there settles upon us
a profound,
almost blushing,
peace,
one that embraces the mind
and fully
surpasses
the common
making
of sense.
(this one is almost finished. I began it in the mid-1990s and then published a version here in 1998. At CHADO - the Way of Tea ... the poem has prospered :)
Diane Caney, January 2012
|