Bora born
The monk and the bushman _
Gardens devined by botanical light
within the old rim of the gateways might.
Tanks well restored from black gold held within
where the red arrow's blue arrow begins.
The perfect setting, harmonics in flight
the giant doors shut closed for each silent night.
Walls circle ceilings with concreted floors
their resonance supurb grafting encores.
Centred within this raw circular dome
an outpost of peace mandala reborn
networking Kunden in this far off land
a weeks creation on concrete with sand.
Monks lost in orange their coloured sands blessed
free circular breaths from far off Tibet.
Beautiful spirits to honour this land
with circular sound built on coloured sand.
Did they know of this place before they came
where first law was given to humankind.
Do they know of the star borns' spoken word
received by the gathering, so close, still heard.
Perhaps they did, as their movie was screened
in a Cairns theatre, the world premiere.
Only two peoples breathe circles they say
monks chant like the didge in the Murri way.
The final day in the quiet of the morn
assembled to chant in circular form
pulse to the rhythm in echoes refined
coloured sounds backlit, as blue light combined.
Watchers gather with donations of time
as fields of harmonics through orange gowns
reverb through the place with vibrating tones
inner peace deeply felt, sensating bones.
He came in from the bush, from tribal land
on dirt roads broken by creek beds of sand.
Kunden, the Dalai Lamas story told
blessed by the chanters where knowledge is stored.
He arrives late, so he slides by inside
to stand near the back, reserved on the side.
Tonal sounds found as lost didges in flight
captured his senses, inside ice blue light.
The echo diffuses, prayers now complete
slowly they break to float on their bare feet.
Men in orange, gently weave through the crowd
bar one who stands quite still, his vision saved.
From the back he moves in a dead straight line
to the man from the bush standing behind
the crowd of people now milling around
the sacred mandala at peace on the ground.
The crowd seems to part to let him walk through
the bushman stands still, he just seems to know
something special is about to take place
as his eyes meet the chanters, fleshed in grace.
Eyes held steady, the bushmans' breath shallow
no words should express what was to follow.
His brother draws near arms loose by his side
language shared freely through smiles inside eyes.
Ice light delights, the priest stands before him
these moments he knows will never grow dim.
Tibetan light beams, the blessing given
with two hands to cradle the bushman's chin.
Intimate moments shelter within us
most know there's no need to create a fuss.
Rhythms in cycles, circle our breathing
life given over, always worth living.
- O -
© feb 2006 _ Ian James Daniel
Author's notes are here.
within the old rim of the gateways might.
Tanks well restored from black gold held within
where the red arrow's blue arrow begins.
The perfect setting, harmonics in flight
the giant doors shut closed for each silent night.
Walls circle ceilings with concreted floors
their resonance supurb grafting encores.
Centred within this raw circular dome
an outpost of peace mandala reborn
networking Kunden in this far off land
a weeks creation on concrete with sand.
Monks lost in orange their coloured sands blessed
free circular breaths from far off Tibet.
Beautiful spirits to honour this land
with circular sound built on coloured sand.
Did they know of this place before they came
where first law was given to humankind.
Do they know of the star borns' spoken word
received by the gathering, so close, still heard.
Perhaps they did, as their movie was screened
in a Cairns theatre, the world premiere.
Only two peoples breathe circles they say
monks chant like the didge in the Murri way.
The final day in the quiet of the morn
assembled to chant in circular form
pulse to the rhythm in echoes refined
coloured sounds backlit, as blue light combined.
Watchers gather with donations of time
as fields of harmonics through orange gowns
reverb through the place with vibrating tones
inner peace deeply felt, sensating bones.
He came in from the bush, from tribal land
on dirt roads broken by creek beds of sand.
Kunden, the Dalai Lamas story told
blessed by the chanters where knowledge is stored.
He arrives late, so he slides by inside
to stand near the back, reserved on the side.
Tonal sounds found as lost didges in flight
captured his senses, inside ice blue light.
The echo diffuses, prayers now complete
slowly they break to float on their bare feet.
Men in orange, gently weave through the crowd
bar one who stands quite still, his vision saved.
From the back he moves in a dead straight line
to the man from the bush standing behind
the crowd of people now milling around
the sacred mandala at peace on the ground.
The crowd seems to part to let him walk through
the bushman stands still, he just seems to know
something special is about to take place
as his eyes meet the chanters, fleshed in grace.
Eyes held steady, the bushmans' breath shallow
no words should express what was to follow.
His brother draws near arms loose by his side
language shared freely through smiles inside eyes.
Ice light delights, the priest stands before him
these moments he knows will never grow dim.
Tibetan light beams, the blessing given
with two hands to cradle the bushman's chin.
Intimate moments shelter within us
most know there's no need to create a fuss.
Rhythms in cycles, circle our breathing
life given over, always worth living.
- O -
© feb 2006 _ Ian James Daniel
Author's notes are here.
Comment On This Poem ---
The monk and the bushman _
The monk and the bushman _
