She cometh

Do you have any idea how frustrating it is

Yes

how frustrating it is when

Yes

when someone like you

Yes

interrupts me constantly

...

before I've finished what I was trying to say

...

You're not a good listener Merry

...

Even now -- you're scoffing silently

...

You're keeping quiet just long enough to

To?

there you go again... 

I apologise

Instead of pretending to be sorry -- try playing the game of silence

Oh -- it's a game, is it?

Yes -- it's an engagement

Ah

There, you see -- you have infinity at the fingertips of your mind -- just as long as you're willing to listen with them.

To listen?

Yes

With fingertips of my mind?

Precisely. Give it a try.

Uh... 

Wave them around like this... breathe with them... feel them... now hear what is being felt

But how?

Impossibly.

Uh?

Impossibly. The only things worth doing in life are impossible.

They are?

Naturally. Everything else is commonplace/ routine/ barely worth the effort

Even writing a poem or cleaning your teeth?

Especially writing a poem. [bloody] waste of time.

Oh. That's a pity.

Pity? Why?

I rather thought writing a poem was a noble way to grapple with infinity.

Which it is -- if you're talking about writing one poem, and not several -- because all too soon these things become washing lines to hang the laundry of our life upon.

Oh.

As opposed to poetically inspired word-foolery.

Oh.

Much better to write the other kind of poem.

Which one is that?

The one with no words

No words? What kind of a poem is that?

That depends. It could be good or bad -- depending on how you do it.

But...

Yes?

How can you call it a poem if it has no words?

It's the only poem that is truly, utterly 

Yes?

All other poems -- the ones with words -- they never quite succeed.

? I'm not sure I follow.

They never quite hit the mark.

You're saying "poems with words in them never quite hit the mark? Tell that to Milton, Keats, Shakespeare

to name but three. Look Eldritch -- read them a dozen times, then a dozen more, then another dozen -- and very soon you're going to get sick of those words. They don't bear frequent repetition.

And? That's hardly a reason not to read or write 'em, is it? 

I rather thought it was.

That would be like not eating food just because eating too much can make you sick and put you off.

You might be right, but I'm not concerned about being right. I'm simply interested in sharing an insight.

An insight?

Yes, precisely, concerning poetry.

Well?

I was pausing -- before you rudely interjected. 

Oh -- sorry.

Let me back up.

Ok. My lips are sealed.

... concerning poetry...                                           excellent -- you held that... beautifully.

But...

Yes?

What's the insight?

You're assuming you only know things when they're spelled out.

That seems logical to me

Whereas, in fact, you have direct access to poetry -- audible and inaudible, visible and invisible.

I do?

Yes, naturally.We all do, just as soon as we start listening -- hearing the sounds of silence. 

Oh come on -- I thought you had something original to say. You're just Simon Garfunkling me. 

Not even Simon and Garfunkle hit the mark though, admittedly, they come pretty close.

But you can’t seriously be intent on promulgating a policy of silent poetry?

No, I’m not.

Phew! You had me worried.

“Silent poetry” would be something denied, something missing.

Then what?

I’m suggesting that all you’re so-called “poetry” is a kind of rough guide to poetry – an indicator of the sort of direction we should be heading in.

Er...

If we’re aiming for the real McCoy: true poetry, then it’s not going to be a thing, primarily.

No?

Nope.

Then what?

A transition into poetry, a state of being in rhythm, in tune with life itself, receptive to the music, the moods, the magic, the umm

An altered state?

Again, you are barking up a tree rather than sounding the silence of knowing.

Probably because I’m not an aery-faery mystic living in a dream world.

Not an altered state because poetry is the original. Everything else is derivative. Poetry, and alone poetry has the power to give you real satisfaction, real meaning, real beauty, real...

Oh that. Why didn’t I guess – real mind-the-gap.

So instead of taking offence or worrying about whether or not I’ve succeeded in conveying the magic, the beauty of Is...

Is?

What is – nothing more, nothing less.

I thought as much.

Now i simply allow her to work her magic.

Her? Who are you talking about?

Who else? Poetry, of course.

But... you said it was a state.

As it is, yet engaging it/ interfacing that state colours it imperceptibly – as it responds to us.

It does?

Yes, naturally. How could it be otherwise?

I don’t know. I never really gave it any thought.

It’s the quantum mechanics thing. You cannot help but affect in some way anything you come into contact with, be that a field or seemingly neutral state.

Ok... But why female?

Why’s God male?

He wasn’t always male, was he. There used to be female Gods.

But the one God the Creator has to be male, doesn’t it?

He.

It becomes He as and when we...

You’re not going to say that we make God male?

I don’t need to say it. We’re not really concerned with God right now, are we? We are dealing with Her. God can wait.

So she’s God in reverse?

You might say... She is what happens if and when you engage poetry, without rushing to cash it in.

Huh?

Well usually the poet hastens to cash in the experience, to convert it into magical words, and thus win renown.

Oh.

In doing so he

Or she

No, the poet is he in the same way a priest serving God is female.

What? You’re kidding – they’re nearly always male.

I’m not talking about the body.

Oh.

It’s the electrical circuit, if you like.

Oh.

He, the poet, whether he’s male or female, holds the He position, engaging Her – poetry itself. If he’s successful – he entices her to hold court with him – enabling him to actually, physically become Poet.

As in “a poet”.

No.

No?

No – to become Poet has nothing to do with being “a poet”. Poet may never write a line of verse, and be none the worse for it.

Uh?

Poet holds state with Her – poetry itself.

But…

Yes?

For what purpose?

Let’s just say it’s a calling – and if you have this particular calling – nothing could be more powerful, nothing could be more… words fail me.

So, what you’re saying is that this “Poet” doesn’t have to bother to write anything?

This Poet is working with Her, at the front line of sense and meaning – at the vcry coalface of reality – where neither things nor words are yet defined or determined.

Ok – I hear you, but I still don’t see what’s the point of it all.

Because this reality you’re living in cannot survive without us. It decays rapidly – exponentially the minute people cease to direct attention to the open end of things.

Er…

There are two sides to the equation. The closed system where God the Father reigns supreme – and the other

Full stop.

No, the other is open ended – it cannot be end stopped. It cannot even be named. It’s simply the other side – but it’s also present within each and every one of us.

Ok. And you’re saying that it’s vital to the survival of this reality we’re in. That’s a fairly bold assertion, if you don’t mind me saying.

Not at all. It matters little whether you follow the maths of the equation or not. What you will find, however, is that when attention has been skewed too much to one side – when people have given their all to reap the benefits of fame or fortune in this 3D reality – and have forgotten or lost other – absurd though this may sound.

Well what do you propose?

Poets are beginning to realise that they have a calling – they are not simply performers. They are doing more – whether they realise it or not.

Like what?

They are in the process of redefining, recoding reality.

Uh?

Not by what they write, say, dance, paint or sing

Uh?

But by how they engage Her, the aspect of infinity that can be charmed into femininity.

Uh?

Charmed – for Poet can only engage her magically – beyond the ken of mortal man – at the very limits of what can possibly be, by pouring his soul into the experience, by unpicking the strings of his existence, unwriting himself in order to use those precious bits of energy and raw code as

Uh?

There She is.

Uh?

Dorothy – he doesn’t get it, not surprisingly. Maybe he’s not ready.

Of course he’s ready – he wouldn’t be here with you now if he weren’t.

Oh.

Give him a nudge. I want to take him for a spin.

OK.

Dorothy? Who’s that?

Would you like to see? She’s waiting for you.

She?

She.

As in Her?

As in Her.

But why? I’m not a poet.

No, apparently that doesn’t matter. You are what you are

Oh.

So, I promised to give you the opportunity to meet Her. It’s time.

How do you mean?

It’s now or never.

Oh.

Let me tell you a secret.

A secret? What is it?

Acceptance – come – the gates of hell have parted – you are free to proceed.

No! I…

In peace, in wonder, in joy

Oh     oh                    oh                                         so you’re Dorothy

i am She