The Offering

It is funny
sometimes I wonder why
I write the things I write.

Is it a pretension to stand and speak
of the lofty heights that I either know not,
or that I glimpse only briefly -
and only to fall indeed quite a long way?

Sometimes I think
it is arrogance and delusion,
and that I am simply copying
and combining sweet words.
Yet on reflection it is not so.

Firstly I write
out of a strange compulsion;
there is a sense of urgency
to find any pen and paper
upon which to sprawl a strange
and overwhelming sense of knowing
that dawns on me in an instant.

Secondly I write only of and
from my authentic experiences.
For example at the end
of a year long retreat
the divine opened to me
in a Master's samadhi.

The third reason I write is
because I am hopelessly independent.
I can't stand getting counsel
from wise fools so I write my own.

The final reason I write is as an offering.

The ultimate they say is eternal.
My experience of the flowers of existence
leave me overwhelmed with the sense of this,
yet for me they pass and the mysterious
and magical journey continues.