Good Men At Large

(in the spirit of Leonard Cohen)

You see them in conversation,

With open gestures and open hearts.

They’re generous with their attention.

The talking flows: it’s no fits and starts.

The defences are done,

It’s a heartfelt sound,

This dialogue has no camouflage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

They’re standing in their power,

Steady eyes and feet on the ground.

Their bodies are like a watchtower.

And their hearts  they shine all around.

They’re sovereign kings

But they don’t need to bring

A bunch of followers or no entourage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

They’re speaking their truth in relationship,

Their voices gentle, kind and strong.

In their loving, it’s not a dictatorship.

They like to listen; they don’t speak too long.

They’re honest and open,

It’s what their women were hopin’

Was the truth – there’s no need for espionage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

These men are generous lovers.

They like to touch, be tender, and smile.

They’re sensitive when under the covers.

And they’re straight-up; there’s no need for guile.

But they’re not P.C.

When they see a sexy

Woman, they like to look at her decolletage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

These men are fierce, with clear boundaries.

They’re warriors and not a walk-over.

With a fiery spirit, they defend with ease/

With a spark, a flame, or supernova.

Like a spitfire plane,

They’re true with their aim.

There’s a tally of scores on the fuselage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

These pioneering men are changing the times.

You wouldn’t know it if you watched the T.V.

But if you’re out on the land, you would see the signs,

At the gathering: GOTC

Get Off The Concrete!

Don’t be a donkey!

If you’re thirsty, try it, it’s not a mirage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

Feb 2012

Radical Revision

Thomas undertook a radical revision of his life.

His life he felt to be a fiction unread by most men.

By ‘most men’ he reckoned anyone unacquainted with strife.

With strife at his roots, is there anyone who could not understand,

Not understand more than a superficial gloss or first glance?

“First glances won’t tell a thing about me”, he declared.

He declared to himself a radical revision the only chance,

The only chance to be read where the level of fact was bared.

Was bared and naked of fictions the place where he’d see?

He’d see if the answer was to be found at the roots.

The roots were where no words could capture such truth.

Such truth was not the various versions of him it suits…

“It ‘suits’ of others, yes!” he said, “but not of me.

Of me they know so little. Deep at my core is pain.

Is pain and strife the ‘fact’ of my deep enquiry?

Deep enquiry then is at least a form of vision I gain.”

I gainsay you’ll guess the insight that occurred to Thomas.

To Thomas was given a gift when indeed he saw again.

A gain begotten when the light of awareness is on us.

On us the onus to clear the path of our life of the slain.

The slain are the dead-eyed men we see ourselves as,

Ourselves as lonely and unwitnessed by others at the core.

The core in truth has always possessed the light that it has.

It has been covered by a fear that it’s only ourselves that we saw.

We saw that without others loneliness seems to win.

To win new eyes to see we must give up one more view.

More view in fact that to see only ourselves here is to sin.

To sin is to see the ‘I’ and not become the ‘Eye’ that’s all of you.

16-5-10

Meditation On A Photo Of Red Cloud

Grace falls from heaven.
This healing grief.
My throat catches.
I cannot express the way
This crosses my heart.
The suffering that bleeds
Into the plains.
The rivulets that run into the earth.
They are channels
Like the grooves of my forehead.
From the diamond centre
I am pierced like an arrow to the depths of me.
What has happened to my people?


17 -3 - 96

The Holy Masculine

Bagpiper stands at the top of a hill,
And he’s calling to his clan:
I’ll find my art and perfect this craft,
Til I know the holy masculine.

And a poet prays til he falls silent,
And trusts his words again.
Then writes of things that touch his heart,
Til he knows the holy masculine.

And both alone they travel home,
To communities of other men.
To play their songs and share their words,
And embrace the holy masculine.

Balls

I remember the day,
Down at the site of the sweatlodge,
When squatting naked, I had the realization
That I don't sit down in my balls.

It was after the fire was out.
Around the rim of the firepit, it was wet.
And going deep inside, I felt my cock relaxing,
But I still wasn't down in my balls.

I was moved to spread my thighs wider open,
And really sit down on my haunches.
My knees pushed the muscles of my biceps wide
As I tried to feel down into my balls.

I felt like some long-limbed frog,
My feet feeling the suction of the mud,
As I leaned slightly back and nearly sat down,
And my balls touched the cold of the ground!

Electric eels could do no more!
But soon the cool mud pressed around,
And relaxing further, I discovered I was able,
Heels against the bones of my arse, to sit stable.

And the frog became an ancient toad.
I sat there for nearly an hour,
And pondered life on the edge of the pond,
Sitting down in my balls and my power.

Rage

We hated those men then,
With all we could muster,
Who bore down above us,
With blades bloody-lustred.
Who tore us from land,
And forced us here into danger,
Where the heart beats on fire
At the hands of a stranger.

In our rage we were hardened,
To confront the dark lords,
Those steel eyes of requirement
To submit to their swords.
Though our hearts lay wide open
To the rivers of blood,
In our anger-filled frames,
We were as large as the gods.

And our chests grew like furnaces
Roaring with logs,
And our cries were the ravings
Of wolves and wild dogs.
And our teeth showed their edges,
And our brows ran with sweat,
As we fixed on our foe,
And knew blood must be let.

In a wave of defiance,
We ran forward to fight.
And our fierce pride dared them
To question our might.
Arms and hearts reaching upwards,
We exploded in red,
Yet our anger declared
We’ll not be of the dead.

For our hearts harboured children,
And wives and kinfolk,
In our crazed cries of courage,
It was for them that we spoke.
So we called on the gods
Of rage, weapons and war,
To put fire in our chests,
And burn brave evermore.


21 – 02 – 05

A Very Rare Fear

A very rare fear
Make bear hide half a year,
Hibe burn nate ting in dark of his cave.

Scar rred by this fate
In lair bare but for hair,
Lies the bear head hear ring him bear rate.

Hear him bare his bear soul
Hate of self for the fear most,
Lost to whol worl dark goes in his mind.

Bury in side his bear hide
Feel here hole in his side,
Paws and sole of his feet same dull ache.

Have hurt seep ping at best
Home call him take king a rest,
Fear not I wont hunt you I am one of your kind.

Body

The shell of your toenail.
The delta of your toes.
The plinth of the wedge of your foot.
The Doric columns of your ankles.
The catamaran prows of your shins.
The gunstocks of the muscles of your calves.
The armourplate shields of your kneecaps.
The pipeline bridges of your lap.
The concrete jetties of your thighs.
The curving balustrades of your buttocks.
The scarab wingplates of your haunches.
The balcony edges of your hips.
The plunging neckline of your pubic hair.
The underground train of your penis.
The mountaintop meadow of your stomach.
The glowworm grotto of your ribcage.
The ceremonial blade of your sternum.
The dark-rimmed sunglasses of your chest.
The snow-capped ridges of your shoulders.
The melting icicles of your arms.
The rudders of your elbows.
The leather drinking bladders of your forearms.
The bookends of your wrists.
The dovewings of your fingers.
The hotplates of your palms.
The metronome of your clavicles.
The flowervase of your throat.
The treetrunk of your sturdy neck.
The footpedal of your jaw.
The double sofa of your mouth.
The handmower of your nose.
The roseblooms of your ears.
The thunderdome of your hair.
The prairie winds of your forehead.
The hedgerows of your eyebrows.
The surfacing air bubbles of your eyes.
The candlelight of your smile.


3 – 11 – 07

16 Favourite Moments of the 1998 Summer Gathering

Leading three sweatlodges then being part of one by Danyo.
His spiritual name in English is White Mountain which I saw he is.
He’s a pipe carrier for his people. He’s been a sundancer for twelve years.
They pierce their chests with hooks and dance hung from the world tree.
He says it takes some of the suffering away from the women who give birth.
In the lodge he called the women the life-givers, men the protectors.

Rochelle doing Huna Bodywork Healing on me on her table in the tipi.
The grief and wounding that surfaced stimulated a visionary experience.
Releasing Catholicism, Jesus / martyrdom mythology, I was in the dream.
On a cross so lonely so realistically yet aware of her on the ‘outside’.
Sensing how I was trapped and moving warm energy against my skin.
Taking me by quiet storm til I was so warm and safe within.

Jason coming out in his wheelchair all the way in the mobility taxi.
Being carried by four people in his chair up to the chicken shed longdrop.
The longdrop was the highest point of the Gathering land.
Lots of joking and cheering about carrying the king to his throne.
Later in the big tipi with the drummers and dancers around the fire.
Jason’s request: Cody and I took turns holding him up so he could dance.

Down at the stream at dusk, some people standing ankle deep in the water.
My torch joins theirs as we hold them like cups upright shining from below.
In watery shadows slides an eel lazily tracing a line sideways.
Embarrassed at my ignorance of such matters, I turn caution into bravery.
With an ‘O’ of finger and thumb, I let the eel slide forwards like a condom.
Sometimes I held it forward of halfway, and we both backed up in fright.

Lying in a field of enjoyment under the duvet in my tent, gladly exhausted.
In such a high state of consciousness I ‘dreamed myself’ into visions.
Impossible four-dimensional landscapes like continuous fruiting on trees.
And at the bamboo kitchen, some favourite women are singing so juicy.
Impossible to visualize, rolling raunchy with the ‘Funky Chicken’.
The desire of wanting to witness what I am already intimately influencing.

Andy’s in Auckland to do a 10-day Vipassana meditation retreat.
The centre is in Kaukapakapa not far from where the Gathering is held.
Being at the same time, I’m naturally disappointed he’s not here instead.
But my other two brothers bring him out on the Sunday before his starts.
I’m swimming at the time so I’m not tempted to play tourist guide.
Instead we four of us jump off the bank and feel like kids again.

The sweatlodge still wasn’t built after the first week of the Gathering.
The previous year, the site had been left in disrepair; the coverings rotted.
Musing again at its fate, I saw firewood stacked in the old rock pit.
Everyone had agreed the children could have a campfire here, Doug said.
The sacred site was cleansed by kid’s laughter and toasted marshmellows.
The next day a large lodge was built: in darkest night the people entered.

Older men aren’t blessing younger men much anymore, Bly had said.
Elsewhere I’d heard that younger men weren’t apprenticing themselves.
Max asked a circle of ‘good men’ to join he and his son Willow in the tipi.
We honoured Willow for the journey into manhood he was making.
Sharing what it meant to be a man, we spoke of what we recognised late:
The support of men, and how we wished we’d had Willow’s fate.

Finding the power place for the closing ceremony on Saturday.
On the other side of the stream, a clearing between the three largest trees.
Coming together again as a smaller circle: where were all the men?
Each person standing before the group framed by the two big trees.
Being told of their qualities, the growth some had noticed over this time.
The image was of taking the gathering inside to pour ‘out there’ again.

The wonderfully contentious process around drugs and alcohol.
Buttons getting pushed, flare-ups and walk-outs, my meditations on Yin and Yang.
Gerd’s offer at the morning circle after three days of drama and dramas.
He puts a beer bottle on the altar where everyone’s offerings were arranged.
More laughter when Simon opens it to pass round for the alcohol-lovers.
Half-way around Gerd in his turn pours it out on the ground “for the others”.

Getting a sweatlodge together a little belatedly, Skins and Ben agree to help.
They take on Firekeeping with lots of wood to gather, chop, and split.
Later Skins says he has to clear with me about something a few days ago.
We reach an impass so he says he and Ben are no longer available.
I make the fire, crossing a poster of five bikers that’s been placed there.
In the circle next day Skins says he appreciates how I “got it together”.

I do a half-day in silence, an note taped on my tee-shirt.
Later I’m wandering naked as such a joyful innocent, so safe.
Where ‘Steve’s Cafe’ opens out from the Totara grove there’s a tent.
In a dome cubicle of soft bedding sits Corinna who I haven’t met.
All smiles and elfin eyes she lets me come close like a silent pet softly.
She shows me photo albums of her bus parked in different places.

Finding myself an older man among teenagers doing a sweatlodge.
Often in their company I act the suave runaway from responsibility.
Here I tell them of tradition and honouring, people and process.
In the third round the young men are still braving it with their philosophy.
Warm sound and silence resounds when I invite the women to speak.
“We’re a swimming pool”. And another:”a soft penis in a warm vagina”.

The talking stick suffered a variety of applications in the circle.
Gerd and I raced for it once, no, twice I confess, once in the tipi.
In the marquee I handed it to him before he could finish explaining.
In the tipi I held both the male and female, and offered him the male.
He witnessed my love, but took the female, and we jolly-sailored like boys.
Moustache-twirlers, like the counterplay of complements/compliments.

“If I can’t hug you here, I couldn’t hug you anywhere”, I told Henry.
He was sitting at Gerd’s cafe, and I just knew that I must ju-jitsu him.
Sure enough, he was only at the Gathering for five minutes.
I pushed past to his chair while Agnes gave me a wry smile.
Henry and I haven’t had much to say to each other for a while.
Now he thanks me for minding Zowie but tells me to use tongs for the food.

Corrina’s eyes are every colour, but her nose stud’s turquoise-green.
It picks up the eye-green like fishes in two ponds of colourful lilies.
Going gaga enough to tell her something like this I mention iridology.
“An iridologist’s dream, your eyes”, and the bit about the guy down in Golden Bay.
He took close-ups of his eyes and put them on sticks in the garden.
Like seed-packet posts showing what he was growing and guarding.

The Great King

The exponential equational and computational power of Parsa
& the legendary luxuriating literary largesse of Media
Were moulded by Cyrus the Second, King of Parsa, in 546 B.C.
Into a single kingdom, the Achaeminid empire,
Named after an ancestor, Achaemenes.

He then swept out to bring most of Middle Eastern Asia under his power.
There were large numbers of horsemen, supplies, distances, populations.
There were stories told of heroic feats and miraculous interventions by the gods.
By the breadth of his body and the range of his mind, Cyrus II was known.
An ancient marble head of him still exists, the beard braided in Babylonian style.

In an oration by the king he showed the form by which his shadow fell before him.
The dark shape filled the space as his influence had moved the stones in lands foreign.
And all eyes fell as the spell he cast cast out among the throng of all the chosen.
As his words stirred ancient memories in the many of these pleased to be adoring.
Two worlds combine in reason and rhyme like the passing of the moon into morning.

Gold-smiths and brass-beaters worked in the open bazaars.
The decorative art of tile-glazing reached new heights.
Architecture and mathematics flowered, carpet weaving flourished.
The empire reached its peak under Darius I and his son, Xerxes.
In 334 B. C. Alexander the Great conquered the empire, but stayed,

Seduced by the attractions of this culture
Sired by Cyrus the Second, the Great King.


4 – 02 – 07