Poems, like all words, have a way of saying things beyond what is said about them in a dictionary.
My particular interest, from my hypnotherapy training, is how poetry written in the indirectly focused fill in your own dots Ericksonian style, can be a tool for consciousness exploration.
In that movement, the I is learning, clever, to track its own motion, that
seems to it though, to stay in one place, but knowing that movement moves, so a useful illusion. That then, is the magic of seeming to stand still, while not, but for sanity’s sake.
Then the tracking of the I by the I tracks that the tracking is well, tracking only, and that the object tracked is also just tracking,
tracking of tracking of tracking, lost, in movement that keeps itself catching itself. And that’s it.
The start of the ending of I is the learning , which is an unlearning by the I,
is the point, and there are no points in motion, and that becomes the
point of the learning, that the something
that seems to move, is a type of nothing.
The ending of the start of I-ness, is the learning, yes clever, that the movement
is not the I.
So the I, still being, is an I that knows it does not really know.
And by unknowing, the I becomes more of an I than it could before.
Strange, don’t you think, an I that knows it isn’t?
I don’t really know, though, do you?
Holding the space (twisted into Purpose, just go with it) (by Hennie Geldenhuys)
Note to a client
We know not how, in which way, it came to be, or not, that you
and I, and who knows who or what else, sit, here, now, in this single space.
Perhaps a purple voice, soft, on the shifting sharpened multi-edge of reason, drew us, in;
seductively surreptitious sirens from Twilight, deepening dark, or fore glow, or bright wake,
maybe, maybe not, yes, but also no, that’s just about right, right here, and now.
Beingness emerges from packed spaces, in between, as in as out above us as below.
I see you in the dawning on the whispers of the greens of the grass and
in the dusk of the star: Venus, in more ways than one, the goddess star, you know what I mean, don’t you?
in the prints born burnt into my fingers, tips, the outing of the inning kiss of soft breath air on moist lips blessed with just the right words in just the right way.
This your space, your sacred place, it’s the coming to be, and mine to hold, only,
carefully, gingerly but tight.
And thank you.
In the Image of (by Hennie Geldenhuys)
I would wish to be godly without being God,
mastery of without being master of the Universe,
fulcrum without need for leverage.
Creator of seething chaos within which calm
and eternally limited for now only by the choice to be so.
This my Purpose unattached.
Sense to sense, sort of (by Hennie Geldenhuys)
To in a sense, slip through one’s self, to a Self that is a different kind of self
and also other selves, but no one self,
or in another way even not a self at all;
and then into an All that is that and yet not a that because it is so much more.
You know it by being It, and be it by Knowing It.
Let go, guided or unleashed, unfettered, sliding, all the way, ballooned into a
contraction of all of existence into this single expansive point.
The point, it’s not that type of point, you know what it is, don’t you,
you know this Point takes you so far beyond all points that it ignites all smaller points?
Don’t over think it. It is what it is.
Come back. Now. Take that step. Do whatever comes next. Do.
Don’t think you don’t know what Do this is, you do, don’t you?
If none of this makes sense, back to the beginning: you’re slipping into the sense that slips through one’s self…