Gregory Broadbent
Bio
I am 53, live in Melbourne, Australia, with my wife and two teenagers. I work as a counselor and tarot reader in North Melbourne and have been writing poetry and prose for over 35 years.
Stories (12/0)
Of No Importance
Meaningless to continue, but press on Clean for that lack of meaning Yet to find muscle and bone The boy stands naked as pain A son with sun’s power of brightness With no object to glow upon No shadows can enter Humble for his meaninglessness Bound up and guarded, he wills, press on Until his body, fully formed in the light of death Becomes Adam Kadmon, the archetype Neither singular nor absolute Expressed as a thundering thing chasing water Sending seeds and spores to the vast vacant edges Stars dispersing within a blank tide Each, a pin-point particle of the true Adam The whole consort, together, being breath Modulated in the constant stream of instantaneousness Thus, man As long, along the cleaving day, as he Press on, for this is pristine will Formed in the union of delight Sincere and honest in forfeiture Of truth clear of that lack of meaning So the woman and the man Press on, for when their child is born So blossoms leaves and flowers un-numbered Full of the substance of day Poesy, erudition, eloquence, poetry Being of the world, unworldly, Meaningless, so press on Developing gradually Until morning returns Facing creation clean As eyes blinking from out of womb Looking upon the naked necessities Without the falsehoods built by mind Mainly out of fear That perforates the present To full meaning, when creation Pressing on, also ceases Revealing the blinding sun Of consciousness That fleshed out form of spirit The manifest universe, that Develops gradually Follows itself to the great ever-deepening ocean By the constant motion of the stream Of consciousness Which presses on Untouched by notions of importance The sentry child guards his right The perfect form of his becoming Vulnerable for the dominant instinct Revealing that, so trapped in meaning, His becoming, a light trapped by eternity For he is all shadow Grand in adornment of his essence Expresses but attaches not to meaning The perfect form of his becoming Standing upright over his shed skins Yet roughly pristine now potential wed To the great ever-deepening ocean The shores, where form condenses to stand Perfect in usefulness Working on-mass as the true mass Seeks his subject, his Evensong Who’s chorus is the building on the shore Who is woman And she provides the unction Expressed in the yielding tide Thunder touching earth excites Grandeur to the grand The sentry child guards with all his might So Adam and his Evensong In the morning their love they come upon And the beasts and birds cry and sing For full expression of flesh-live love For beauty, and the beauty of beauty Being love Touched new by its import Until evening returns And the child of yesterday’s will Lets down his guard to let life in The world no longer as darkness sees itself Hunger, safety, fear, sleep’s dropsy protection Built after experience through analysis That understands not the difference Adam and his Evensong see When naked And the full ecstatic power of stillness Burning beneath form So clearly visible shadow evaporates To raise form to formless void Neither receding nor growing Untouched by notions of importance Unhurt but changed by experience Letting life live for love of beauty Forming perfectly in its becoming Its ultimate meaning Resplendent within misted windows The pure forced unction of spontaneity Is showered down and formed by golden rain Strengthening for the instant Solidifying ice-drifts of shadow Set free by the cracking of chaos Object upon object welcoming no space Hollow as potential, full in the instant So trees produce leaves that die Living in the pure forced unction of spontaneity Performing that relation formed from each object With the a priori notion outside grandeur So that the leaf rises in exhortation A guard for the intimacy of inspiration Useless in perfection when Seeking to perfect Perfected in lasting development That houses the warm evanescent soul In the perfect environment Of spontaneity Producing beings myriad in nature The spring sets seeds in rapture Remaining humble in the land That Adam and his Eve would never fight Will touch their second skins all night And hold still, the beats of heart-felt time Encountering Each other, their selves, displayed Which has no ugliness Being truth Housed securely, the ecstatic soul With the harvest plucked fiercely away Becomes the child of today Abundant, playful, spontaneous; Yet to form his world in the light But as full of the oak as the seed Developed from the initial condition Between experience and understanding As the child Starts to play Rising from decay, a hoary stigma Penetrating muscle and flesh Initiating the fulfillment of orgasm Full of the substance of love Meaningless or meaningful Being the pure forced unction of spontaneity Indifferent to its subject And aware, for newness of awareness Through its ending Of its meaninglessness Experience yet to come, untouched, Is the will to face creation clean So comes creation’s moment Increasing in humility A world emerges promising nothing Full of the substance of day Experience to expression without grandeur Yielding all the myriad marvels of earth Yielding decay and the closing of eyes Osmoses into soil and feeds creation In the light of witness, Adam’s will A man; a dam, ready for his self The great forest inside him responding Each tree a troubadour for boggy waste Saving loss by transforming Mistake, or over-abundance or poverty Through continuance of the instant toward possibility By the fire of the effervescent spirit Which is love Continuously Humbly, joyfully, contentedly, Opening hearts clear of caricature To truth, not truth planned But to the Atman, or Christ, nature Giving birth to sons and daughters and the light The great forest in them responding The boggy waste, diamond’s touch Once the bed is made Being not corporeal Being The perfect foil for the spirit Returns to the soil enriched Innocent and free of abstract notions Of glory; so grand and seen Of glory, so humble and unseeing Not safe but saved by innocence Of fear and love Living presently, unaware of past Reacting instinctively Lovingly Receives the pollen on its passion’s tip A light released into an entity Not corporeal, but affecting the corporeal Through the synchronous harmony of The manifesting universe Humbly, delightfully, contentedly, Faces creation cleaned Of abstract notions of grandeur Being perfected Which is just as it is.
By Gregory Broadbent5 years ago in Poets
