The Western Gate

Solstice Blessings wayfarers, meanderers, pagans;

A Sonnet Diptych (a reflection of the same image, but after another manner) to Persephone…

i.
Persephone, sprung bright from root and bone,
Green-blooded bride of dawn, the frost undone,
You lift the earth’s dark mouth to honeyed sun
And teach the buried heart to beat its own.

All winter knelt where your cold footsteps shone—
The fields lay tongueless, ash-lipped, overrun
By sleep’s black psalm—till from the understone
Your laughter split the seed and burned it young.

Now light uncoils its gold around your hair;
The sky learns blue when you return.
I love you as the furrow loves the flame,
As breath loves breath when thawed from nameless air:
Stay—though I know the dark will claim its turn,
The sun lives longer to raise your name.

ii.
Persephone, antlered in the loam,
Red-handed queen of sprout and sacrament,
You rise when pollen on your lips, hell-scent
Now warm upon the thighs of leaf and stone.

All winter bowed before your absent throne;
The fields lay flayed and fasting, sacrament
Of frost and bone-song, till your footstep rent
The womb of earth and split the shell alone.

Now drums of light beat through the greening land;
The sun is slain and crowned within your gaze.
I love you as the plough loves blood and rain,
As mouths love gods who scorch them where they stand.
Go, when you must, to rot and starless ways—
We live because you die but soon will rise again.

DW ‘25 ☉♑

The Fool and The Wise, and the Hierophants of Knowledge.

The fool lives life and each chapter is a comma,
ever growing and ever evolving,
so too the wise who watches the tide,
ebb and wane
the moon and the sun
The man of knowledge,
And they of religion, live life where finality is a full stop.
It is finite in their eyes, defined
All things cast in stone.
The written word,
the book
the cast of law
I am the sword into that stone
That does not shatter its foundation
but rests within it
There is no answer,
and so the fool laughs at the myriad ways life is a spiral
and the wise too,
only by the old soul flickering in his eyes
simply watches
“What is the purpose, what is the reason?”
I cried aloud too many times
and eternal duration and each prize removed were the answer
That is the answer.
That to live, is to experience, to dance.
This darkest moon, I am that wretch,
cruel as sublime truth creates laughter,
but soon spring again creative flows,
and content in summer,
while autumn where I reflect on all that has grown
and harvest.
In winter, the cruel taste of austerity
and also epiphany
to be reborn alike the sun
To remove the sword
to behead or Knight
from the stone of sealed and set knowledge,
but the sword has come from wisdom
and ever, it glances
with the tides of what before it faces.
It is to judge
and judgement is only delivered by the wise
there is no answer
all life and possibility
is always as a question
that is the reason.
The wise lives as a comma.
Ever dancing.
The Fool lives as a comma.
The story never ends.

Commentary
Let the fool and the wise be known. The fool lives, and his life is a comma upon the scroll of the world, a sign of continuation, a spiral turning back upon itself only to ascend. The wise watches the tide, which is the breath of the Unmanifest; he sees the moon wane and the sun blaze, the in-breath and the out-breath of Brahma.
But the man of knowledge, and he of religion, they live where finality is a full stop. For them, the fruit is plucked and tasted, the path ends at a gate, the Truth is a carved statue. All things are cast in stone: the written word, the book, the cast of law. Their world is a sealed vessel.
I am the sword thrust into that stone. I do not shatter the vessel, for the vessel is holy. I rest within it. I am the Chakram, the wheel within the wheel, the subtle current in the fixed channel.
There is no answer that can be spoken. Therefore the fool laughs at the myriad ways, the lila, the divine play that spirals without cease. And the wise also knows this, though his laughter is the silent flicker of prajna in the soul’s ancient lamp. He simply watches.
“What is the purpose? What is the reason?” I cried aloud through countless births. And the answer was eternal duration, kala itself. Each prize removed, each expectation dissolved. That was the answer. To live is to experience the dance, the tandava upon the ashes of the self.
In the darkest moon, I am that wretch, asura and deva mingled. Cruel as sublime truth, which rends the veil and reveals the comedy. But soon, the spring of creation flows again. I am content in the summer of manifestation. In autumn, I reflect upon the growth and gather the harvest of samskaras. In winter, the cruel taste of austerity, the withdrawal, and also the epiphany: to be reborn alike the sun, the ever-returning light.
To remove the sword from the stone is to perform the action, to behead ignorance or to knight understanding. But the stone is the sealed law, the Dharma set in scripture. And the sword has come from wisdom, Vidya herself. It does not break the law; it fulfills it by moving within it. Ever it glances, ever it reflects, with the tides of Maya it faces. It is to judge. And judgement, true judgement, is delivered only by the wise who see the law within the flux.
There is no final answer. All life and all possibility are ever as a question. That is the reason. The wise lives as a comma. The fool lives as a comma. The story, the Katha, never ends. Neti, neti—not this, not that. It simply is.

Header Image: Winter Solstice, fife ~ Stephen Howard Harrison 2019