I write this

I write this
While just sitting, just listening
To Adyashanti’s discourse
On just sitting

He asks
What does it mean
To do nothing at all; of course
I don’t do nothing, I write

And what do I write of
What do I question for myself
It is: can I find shelter in nothing at all
Can the nothing at all embrace me

I had felt, or rather I had seen
That almost nothing, that almost nowhere
I was driving on recovered land
I was on marshes and fens

It was a quiet time
Nothing was being asked of me
Shelter was my pencil and paper
My shelter was what I might think of

It was a gentle, generous place
Though my mind took me off elsewhere
I would, through time, use my memory
To distil what might or might not be

I cast myself into the openness
Into Adyashanti’s waking-dream
Where no outside activity
Would care to, or try to interfere

I was being, the rain was pouring
I was taken by the ease
Of which it was suggested
That I make a telephone call to the old shelter

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I am on an Easter break

I am on an Easter break
From my Home-Made PhD
The sky is blue
The breeze is cool
There is still much work to be done

The pampas grass stands tall and voluminous
The blossom tree more spindly
There is a tall hedge behind me
Where there are rattles caused by humans
Which echo the birdsong

This is the half-clear mind
Which sees, which records
Which almost settles itself
Yet which always seems to know
There is still much work to be done

That is, to find shelter
In the shelter of I
That is, to find shelter
In the shelter of my own mind
In the shelter of mine own body

Yes, I can observe
I can enter the awareness
I can tell you that the breeze
Tries to become a wind
Yes, it tries to become something other

And so it is
So it has been for so so many years
Time spent in thought of something other
With heart and soul outstretched, knowing that
There is still much work to be done

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Bath Abbey

Bath Abbey
On that rainy day many years ago
That space also then a shelter
A hideaway from the design education courses
Where we played games, and made mischief
Where we were adults being teenagers

Computing was the new space
Itself to become one hell of a shelter
After those helter-skelter times
With socials and a midnight discotheque
Before the significant police presence

Brought the evening to a close
Dance then was our shelter
Dance, inebriation, and music
Was, for the moment, the food of love
The shelter of lust

This might not have been exactly
As I remember, but it was neat
We did find shelter, we were alive
Inside, and outside
And way beyond our regular shelters

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With the sound of the bell

With the sound of the bell
It is as if
I am in the monastery at Plum Village
Although, as yet
It is not a place where I have ever been
But it is somewhere
Where I feel I would be welcomed

The vibrations
And the slowly decaying hum
Act as a shelter
They are that covered archway
Into the refuge, into the shelter of meditation

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The door-well

The door-well
To the north transept of Bath Abbey
Or looking out
From the rooftops of Durham Cathedral
With a view of Her Majesty’s Prison

A police raid at Sunday night’s discotheque
Was it Van Mildert’s portrait
Which looked down on me
Or was it someone more revered
On the wall in the dining hall

A photograph, of a painting, in a catalogue
I sat on that bench, wearing earphones
A series of plaques
Make the piece named Monument
This was my escape to art as shelter

Another photographer, this one makes a film
To explore yoga, meditation, healing
I tell a friend, also a photographer
About this mindful body of works
To share in the shelter of these images

Another message; about rejection
Or is it about perseverance
Then the grateful words on non-avoidance
If I do not take a risk
Will I find the wonderment of shelter

May Day
Lying on the headland grass
I do have a photograph
When I wore a green and silver shirt
As an emblem for a lover seeking shelter

Who, earlier in the day
If truth be told
Had already
Found his accommodation
Though that photograph is not at hand

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