Author of the Month

Atlantis and Egypt (cont.)
Two Poem Cycles by Linda Pearce

The Atlantis Poems (cont.)
By Linda Pearce


Here all geometry is sacred.
From point to point the numbers guide their lives.
With cardinal majesty, ordinal might,
they consecrate their space, invoke an
astronomical intention of delight.
Each one who walks those streets
is blessed, belongs, knows parents well
and yet is more, the foster child
of those who watch the earth.
The purest intimation of the flesh
is here, all boundaries of formative causation
neatly crossed. The life is good,
is goodness as expressed; they taste
the transcendental politics of wine;
he lifts his glass, she drinks it deep.
As gleaming transportation pods
make clear peripherals of sound
they make their way, through green and blue,
through purple silhouettes of fading hills
through water to the iris of the sea,
then stand upon the shore and wait their turn.
The sun dips down and turns the waves to chrome.
Awash with figures stylized in stone,
the obelisk is rising from the foam.

Music partakes of all temporal phenomena:
the same vibration that quivers on the string
keeps molecules in play, plays light in perfect tune,
makes ocean waves lift up and down
like tidal waves of melody and rest.
We play our music with our feet:
our bodies weave bright notes upon the beat.
Music Herself comes and sits in our midst,
smiles at our instruments, hums a little
in the space between the notes,
sways back and forth.
She watches the mad passion of the composer
as he rivets notes to paper with his mind.
Hemidemisemiquavers trickle from his pen.
He hears the thunderous applause of the earthquake,
writes it into place, and turns the page.
Music casts a strong shadow on our lives.
We are backlit by the spiral intensity of the crescendo.
We are all amused by the escapist tendencies
of syncopated time, and hypnotized
by the sweet deftness of the finger-swept guitar,
those arpeggios that ripple up the spine.
And then there is the polyphonic testimony
of our own voices. We testify in song,
bearing witness to the music of the spheres.
We sing the hymn to Atlantis that celebrates the world:
it leaves out no man’s song, nor any woman’s voice.
Long before music discovered its limitations,
we would find ourselves tuning in the soft chromatic night
and looking up at notes too high to reach.

I, Illuminata, was born under the sign of Leo.
On the night of my birth there shone
that animated phosphorescence of the quantalight
that sheets across the north in blue and green:
we have no name for it, for to name it
would be to imply that we understand it,
and we do not.
I am named for all the kinds of light there are,
although like moonlight on the stillest pond
the magic is never in the event
but always in the reflection.
For whatever reason I have become The Builder.
I was born with sycamore and cedar in the bloodstream.
I dreamed of porticoes and rich dark walls,
of avenues of purest stone, and streams
that wept their way down to the formal gardens.
I learned the rules of weights and stresses,
angle and proportion, studied the Golden Section
and proportion and relief.
My instructors wrote the laws
and projected them in my mind:
I often mimic the architecture of the Visitors,
but I admit no impediment to my dream,
my vision of building so that gravity is nought
(gravity just conforms to heavy thoughts).
I love the challenge of doing the never-done,
building the never-built. For instance:
all bridges are best built in the mind,
and in the land where gravity is dead
the bridge is just a decorative arch.
The terrain relapses into itself
and buildings float upon its surface
as clouds upon the air.
We never build from metal, but
only from substances with life:
wood, stone, marble and clay.
I fired my enthusiasm in that youthful kiln
that fixes the most delicate glaze of love
upon the surface of the idea,
the manifestation of the wheel-thrown thought.
I think our city is beautiful
beyond all former dreams of grace:
the sweet integration of plant and water
with hill and hall, the soundplay
that resonates the walls with purest tone,
the crystal windowed eyes
for those within to watch the skies.
They tell me I have internalized my profession,
and it is so. I, Illuminata,
am the living blueprint of the tower of light
that even now is forming in my mind.

They always say that events are foretold in the stars,
as if the stars could speak. If they spoke
what language could they use except the language of light -
all heavenly bodies speak the same tongue:
moon-glow and tails of comets are all just dialects of light,
a dialectic that moves us to their point of view.
They put the accent on the first syllable ever spoken,
and the rhythm of their speech foretells with pure exactitude
the cycle of their return. So we decode their tongue.
Starbursts pack their meaning in the lines;
all darkness is the space between the sounds.
They group themselves, those stars,
while planets wander in and out their paths.
In twelve we cut the heavens, parse the dome above our world.
We map events to sectors in the sky.
We study the probability matrix of the constellations.
We listen to the glockenspiel music of the spheres,
hear the ratatat-tat of stardrops on the roof,
see the cascading subterfuge of what only appear to be falling stars.
The stars and planets, comets and constellations
are the cyclic timepiece of our universe, and more:
the crystalline harbingers of all events on earth.
The models of their slow revolving wake
prefigure all our own slow turns,
and in their beauty show us our own grace.
We are a match for stars.

The magus holds his classes in the round
charmed by water and fire.
Surrounded by his pupils,
those eager would-be masters of the real,
he watches while they listen, rapt,
sitting near the softly glowing fire,
the ancient wisdom curled at their feet.
With the tip of his lasered wand
he occasions dimensional shifts.
He reads the crystal skull,
and by some alchemy of his own
he takes his pupils through an extrapolation
of the senses into the dimension of the skull.
He calls himself the mystical masseur,
pummeling their minds and their beliefs.
Magic is the prime expression, indivisible by fact,
and yet it smacks of two, duality, polarity -
real, not real; seen, not seen.
When magic first appeared
it astonished the Creator with its charm.
Magic disrupts the boundaries around our minds,
turns raisins into grapes, flowers into seeds,
and seeds back into the will of God,
for magic takes the miracle to heart.
The magi bring the candle to the dark.
Their gifts have brought Atlantis to the light,
foretelling the sombre sweetness of the gifts
they give the Christ.
The magi lived ten thousand years before their time,
perfecting skills they never knew they’d need.
Technicians of the sacred,
they rode the jetstream of the future.
What does this mean to us? Are we to understand
the contrail of the miracle with our eyes?
In my garden in the secret night I spend the waiting hours
pruning the mythical moonflower, and listening to voices in my mind.
To rule Atlantis I must take the magus’ knowledge for my own.
He waves his cape; you hear the silk-washed slide
of magic moving sideways in the dark.

Free play drives the universe; in this bright place
work and play are coincident. Thus, in the evening,
when they undertake the dissection of the day,
the sweetened hours are turned and turned about,
relived and cherished, and finally put to rest.
At dawn, each soul returns, reshapes itself to start the day,
then moves surely forward, along the train tracks of the heart.
To start the day with prayer,
to pass the statuary sheltered by the trees,
to see the shrine in the work place, play place,
is enough. Here the word for sacrifice is quite unknown.
The masterful dictation that they hear is this: have joy.
Expediency dictates harmony, and manifests itself in many ways;
heterogeneous displays of affection crowd the day.
Even the darkest corners fill with light,
and jasmine scents the alleyway.
With brevity, clarity, purity
all is made, processed, invented, created,
organized, coordinated and supplied.
Such suppleness of purpose gives them joy,
and at the end of day, as rapture approaches the time-door,
expectation suffices for them all.
They know that growth appears when mind meets will;
so Atlantis in her youth is growing still.

The cradle rocks the child into the world;
all children enter so. Here they are held,
smiled, set upon their feet,
ready to release their newborn energy
into the dimension of their birth.
They feel the crayon freedom of the childish fist,
the zip of speed that makes their faces round,
all the ephemeral joys of the truly young,
their upturned faces risen to the sun.
Here the special friend that no-one else can see
IS seen, and welcomed in, and given tea.
The rule-maker never passed this way,
and in their elders the critical eyes of the young
find no hypocrisy to rail against.
Racing through tall grass in dead of night
they find upon the ground the firefly traces
of the falling stars that lit their way.
In sun their skyward toys are lifted by their minds,
orange, yellow, red, their kites conniving with the wind,
and afterward their waterplay makes dolphins of them all.
All animals are kindred to their souls:
a hummingbird has stopped them in their tracks.
They watch, transfixed, while absently patting the fierce soft fur
of a passing leopard. Their senses come alive:
the tongues that tasted rain, and then a plum,
have passed the taste test of this ambrosial world.
With the strict logic of childhood they know
there is no other world than this, until
deduction brings them their maturity.
In this school there are no marks;
their auras are the measure of their growth.
As bright as kites they spin the colored air
with their delight.

We preach the medicine of light;
by choice the body heals, and,
comforted by mind, makes holy space
for all abiding here.
Here you will never find
the chill obedience of the terrified soul,
wrapped in the surgeon’s diagnosis
like a shroud. The surgery is locked,
no knives are used. The focus of the mind
is sharp enough to trim the wound.
Let hatred cause no harm, let fear depart -
all powers are known. The smallest child
cures headaches with a smile.
My training, far from here,
took place where I could see the earth below.
Through graceful adaptation of the cosmic rule
I there was taught to heal, to see the aura,
to love and deduce in equal part,
to use those medicines the earth provides.
I sought out those bright jewels of healing lore,
the test-tube treasures of the living lab, and now
the sea provides the herbs, and land the shells.
From time to time I recall my lessons:
how to extract from grass pure chlorophyll,
then to reconstruct from it the plant energy light -
a reverse engineering of the solar wave -
and then to learn when the injection of this light
into the cornea would assist in diseases of the brain,
or in rejuvenation after surgery.
I, Manutius, have opened many doors
that lead past death, and in my work
have garnered the techniques that make us whole:
the spot removal of the laser touch;
the electrode amplification of the will;
the acupunture stimulus of the web,
the ley-lines of the spine,
the subtle force that threads that web;
how toning is the essence of the cure - to
rearticulate the natural rhythms,
to drum and hum and sing life into place -
and to respond with grace;
how crystals reunite the sundered cells;
and, best of all, most comforting to soul,
the marinated pleasure of the spa.
We can regress in time to heal the hurt before it starts.
Life leaves no holes inside our time.
There are therapies, and then there is
the perceptual mind pause, space to heal.
All of these are followed by the best:
for whether sick of body, or depressed,
or simply needing solace for the heart,
the water flows. Past waterfalls of foam,
and fountains in the square,
and lovely marbled minerals of baths
the patient makes her way,
scattering sundrops in the wake of her dream,
soothed to slumber by the murmur of the stream.
Yet I, Manutius, physician of Atlantis, tell you this:
If you but press your fingertips to your temples
you have there, between your hands,
that place of worship that heals all:
the ever-sacred temple of the mind.

You know that light cannot be seen
except where it touches matter.
How odd that things so critical to life
are yet invisible to view:
the insubstantiality of the air,
the love that drives the plants up from the soil,
the time that lets me be here, in this place.
Truth cannot be found in landscape,
yet landscape clearly reflects the mind
of the one that creates it.
And so, this garden: the foliage
speaks volumes to the eyes -
a glance is worth a thousand words:
cucumbers tucked safely under leaves,
mangoes smelling of heat and sex,
the shy brilliance of a primrose.
Past the treed elegance of the turnstile
the orchard bears its fruit,
to match our ripened times.
Looking up I see clouds in the sun-tree,
I follow the bright reflection of the snail’s path.
These gardens owe their life to sons of man
who hoed and tidied, fed and weeded,
to daughters of the gods who knelt for hours
and tenderly brought seedings from their home.
The plants ex-pire, breathe out, breathe heaven
into lanes that once were dirt.
In a small corner, the herb garden,
feathered by the wind,
speaks softly of the human body.
We plant for life, and health,
for beauty and for breath,
and when the body dies we plant for death.
Neither are the plants immortal;
it’s not for lack of care that some plants die.
Their time has come, and they are cropped
for the season of another time and place.
This is the place of my greatest hearts-ease.
And when the light grows long
I leave beside the stream, with love,
my floral tribute to the ones
who plant us all, those beings from the stars
who brought the seeds. I lie in the long grass
and watch the sweetly scented sky begin to glow.

Prothemia sees the sun arise each day.
She never sleeps past dawn.
Her bare feet step across the lawn
before the light breaks free from the hills,
pulling back the drawstring of the sky.
She exults in this, feels joy so fierce
she often leaves a tear upon her cheek
to crystallize the light upon her face.
To touch the sky she circles with her arms,
conjuring pleasure for the coming day.
She’s young. Her children lie potential in her womb,
not yet ready to grace her life with motherhood.
All the exposed rapture of the defenceless heart
is here, radiant on her flawless face.
And in this place she’s safe; her whole life long
shall be three hundred years of perfect peace,
yet filled with the taut experiments of life,
new tastes created every day, the thrill of speed,
the out of body ecstasy of God.
Even if all other joys were gone,
the beauty of this day would be enough.
Prothemia breathes beauty with the dawn.

In the best of times our science matched our lives.
We wrote the Atomic Manifesto:
here our power starts, and stops;
here science is always servant, never master;
here we licked the antimatter blues.
We had no time for the medieval engine of desire,
nor for any mythical reliance on electricity.
Our science is much more subtle, adapted to pattern:
we studied the waves frozen on the fractal shore,
found ways to defrost that geometrical sea.
Following our own positronic pathways
we undertook the neon exploration of the dark.
We forsook all plebeian interpretations of power.
In a vacuum powerfully resonant of creation
we merged our subatomic minds, to form
the astrodynamic thought generator that built our times.
Through glass there could be seen,
in a never-ending pulse-defying dance,
the neuron neutron partnering we forced
in our long attempt to reinvent the real.
In the architecture of this science
the cranial superstructure predominates,
towers above the tugboat of the soul,
substitutes transportation in a thought bubble
for the slow progress of the spirit ship.
We build, light, grow, move,
power and communicate all things,
and all through means invisible.
Here pylons do not march across the sky,
nor engines terrorize the air with noise.
Quite silently we fuel our times;
there is only to be heard the low hum
of atoms moving in the mind.

In collusion with the never-born
they built the amphitheatre of the mind;
so row on row the watchers heard the words
and saw the play as written out by man.
Enchanted by the alphabet they wrote the script
that made Atlantis great, the play of power,
while, watching from the plinth,
the crystal skull stood sentinel alone.
In this profound meeting place
the adjudicated mystery found instinctual communion
with the hearts of those who watched:
some came to worship, drawn to test their lives
against the rest, and some to rest are drawn
by praying minds.
Here they felt, unforced,
the spontaneous mind refraction which they sought,
turning their three-dimensional lives to four
in the cosmic tesseract of joy.
And then at dawn, above the ancient columns on the hill,
there lifted up like pinnacles of fire in blinding light
those wayfarers of the past returned again,
to mark with mind the peoples of the plain.

In the house of God, the Proprietor leaves the door ajar.
I have come into that house, and this is my voice:
the voice of one who listens.
I see the souls parked end to end,
drawn up before the door of God.
I slip between the cells of my own life
and take the capillary way to the heart of truth.
Faith gives us the patience to wait for knowledge,
and knowledge gives us faith because we see.
I am not your priestess; each must find his own
slow way to truth, and yet the symbol for infinity
is looping in an endless link between our souls:
you may be mine.
I look for lotus hearts, wide open to the world,
and there are many such.
Remembering, we hurry from the womb
to tell our new-met parents where we’ve been.
We consecrate our wisdom to our bones,
so all our actions speak of our beliefs.
In this concentrated petrie dish of flesh
the soul seed grows,
the heart becomes the lotus that we seek.
We live our lives in this blessed place beside the sea.
We value wind and water, light and fire,
because they come from Thee.
Ritual is impetus for thought and inner search
but the only worship that there is, is this:
we offer thanks, and listen for Your blessing.
Those who placed us here might have us worship them;
their obelisk is carved with signs of fire.
In this marble marketplace of myth it would do well for us to think:
the comic house parade of priests and kings would drag us down,
and make all their concerns for us our own.
We must avoid the temporal misapprehension of the truth
that afflicts those here on the cross of matter.
Symbology speaks to the roots of the soul
but religions abhor symbols not their own.
If we become a church we will devolve in time
to the frozen gratitude of the thankless heart.
If we become our Selves,
Atlantis will be sacrament enough.

I, Perpetua, am come to tell you of the time of love.
Twin souls search for meaning in the loins;
with all the blistering purity of the sun-child
we seek that spectacular mind conjunction,
the ventricular fusion of our hearts.
Our priestess told us fire begins below;
she says our church is made of flesh and bone.
And in that time of joining when we prime the pump,
pump the deep-felt throb from the cavern of delight,
that well of ecstasy that moves its surface slowly in the dark,
we speak the sonic body language of our love.
I speak of starwave foreplay;
the accelerated rhythmic echo of the equinox
that rocks us back and forth, the distillation
of harmonic resonances into human form,
ejaculating children full of joy.
In this joining I reach the atomic freedom of the sun,
feel the excruciating black-hole wonder
of my trip through inner space.
I praise the Love that gave us sex
to feel such love.

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