Thinkers and Dreamers

Foto by JasonWeaver 2017

“He goes about his life
with his head up in the clouds,”
they scoff and with a brusk
wave of their hands
brush him aside.

But where they are blind,
the dreamers and the poets,
the artists and the philosophizers
have the vision to glean from the sky
the secrets of life.

And in the end, when they see
that their zeal to amass ever more
has destroyed rather than made
the fulfillment and the peace
that they seek–

–the thinkers and the dreamers
shall point them to
the deep blue above and say
“Behold all the riches
that one could ever need.”

By Jason Weaver, 2017

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Neomarica: The Color of Love

 

Original painting by Jason Weaver, 2017

In the garden she sat upon a stone,
taking a rest from her daily devoir
to ponder her purpose in the world about her.
She closed her eyes, as she so often did at times like this,
her face turned toward the morning sun,
and ruminated on all that she was not
and all that she would never be.

She remained for a spell in still repose,
when at once a sense a joy took form far within.
It filled into her breast and then out to her limbs,
whereupon it seeped beyond the very limits of her skin.
It was a feeling of deep and intense love,
a love of life and self that she had never known before,
a feeling that shone with the color of love pure.

As this epiphany poured through her
integrating her wholly, inside and out,
she was transformed, from all that she was not
into all that she would ever be –Neomarica,
a radiant garden beauty who had found her true intent,
to illuminate for all the world to see
that a love of life and self is an essential way to be.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

Neomarica Caerulea is a flower species in the Iris family native to the South Americas; The name is derived from ‘neo’ being Greek for ‘new’ and Marica being a Roman nymph’ or ‘fairy’. The tale portrayed in the poem is of my own creation based on a personal experience which occurred during the process of painting this particular flower, which as it happens, grew in my garden.

Original painting by Jason Weaver, Neomarica (2017), acrylic on canvas 100cm x 70cm

 

Śramaṇa Rising

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

 

(To hear the Blacksmith Tree Frog please press play)


— The day prior to a New Moon compels total abandonment and complete surrender,
a release from all fears; by becoming an empty vessel, we can be reborn in purity —

The Shaman, dressed in his intricate fine-thread garb, has lit the
sacred flames ensconced within the ornamental shrine, festooned
in floral garlands and feathery plumes, around which they all gather,
chanting mantras and prayers, echoing his verse; later he reads
to them from the ancient texts, his sacramental words.

It is a ceremony of separation — one of death and birth,
of creation and destruction, of mothers and sons, of water and stone.

— And out of the primeval murk he was born, the strands
that once connected them shorn, as man arises from earth —

In attendance is the Seeker, who sways hypnotic to the reverberate
thumps and rings, enchanted at the ritualistic flourishes of his Master’s
lashes of sacred waters, at the intoxicating scents of mystic incense.
He knows that this ceremony is as much for himself as it is for them all,
for tonight, he has shed his doubt, arriving prepared to emerge.

Abruptly, he feels a split, the is a severance, and one by one, like strings
being snipped, the Shaman’s words begin to lose all meaning and sense.

— Bearing down in a grassy field near a passing creek, a mother
delivers
her newborn son, cutting the umbilical cord with her teeth —

Opening his eyes he finds that they have all gone. He is alone in a forest clearing,
a passage, surrounded by bog, the sounds he is hearing now like so many drums
are the tympanic mating calls of male blacksmith tree frogs resonating across
the water. Where once was a fire-lit altar, he sees a patch of grassy stalks
jutting from the murk, the scents are of night-blooms, of algae, of damp.

It is done, the cycle is complete. Cleansed and unbound from his corporal and
temporal ties, he must forge a new path of unification. But for now, he must rest.

 

By Jason Weaver, 2017

Although I took artistic liberty to re-create this account, an actual ceremony was performed by my good friend and mentor Afonso Domingues on the evening of February 25th, 2017, on New Moon’s Eve. Some details in the poem are truth, while others are embellished or simply created. In this story I call him the Shamen to instill an atemporal feel to reflect that which we all surely felt. The photo was taken earlier in the evening before the ceremony. Later, I returned to this spot just as it began to get dark, and the chorus of tree frogs (Hypsibaos Faber) left me without words. It was within this context that I wanted to share with you what happened to me that evening, and how I prepared myself for the next phase of my journey. The Title Śramaṇa Rising refers to a seeker in various Indian religious movements, and among other things, fits in with the concepts of birth and death cycles, and ultimately, finding liberation from those cycles through ascetisism.
Credits:
Audio of Blacksmith Tree Frog (Hypisboas Faber) by Rodrigo Dela Rosa, accessed from amphibiaweb.org
Lunar cycle legend retrieved from http://www.lunarplanner.com/characteristics/1-New.html
Information on Śramana I retrieved from 2 sources:
http://www.wisdomlib.org/definition/%C5%9Brama%E1%B9%87a
https://www.boundless.com/world-history/textbooks/boundless-world-history-i-ancient-civilizations-enlightenment-textbook/early-civilizations-in-the-indian-subcontinent-4/religion-in-the-indian-subcontinent-25/the-sramana-movement-108-13209/

In a Valley

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

In a valley pass, I am
LIMITLESS
like an eagle I glide
above the land,
like a fish I breathe
beneath the sea,
beyond the ego-bound
barriers of body and mind,
I am the Earth,
her chartreuse covered
contours against
cerulean skies,
I am her ruddy dust in
sun-warmed winds,
and from within,
I am light.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

In a Fog

Original painting by Jason Weaver, 2016

Original painting by Jason Weaver, 2016

A fog of cool, white
winter-wet clouds curled across
the landscape in long, low wisps
and settled in at a wooded edge.

Here within I was
(pleasantly surprised) to find
a sudden, simple clarity of mind,
cocooned in a butter-balm of calm
a world-away from the
intrusive
incessant
cacophany of clutter,
far from the voice
of white-noise news and views.

Unbound of ego and need,
unchained to doubt and fear,
I frolicked free amid the trees,
climbing, swinging,
dancing ’round arm-in-arm,
playing hide-and-go-seek and
sparring like sword-wielding warriors
with rampant abandon,
falling to the ground
hand-in-hand
in heaps of laughter and shouts!
Never shall I forget!

——–

A fog of cool, white
winter-wet clouds curled across
the landscape in long, low wisps
and settled in to free me.

by Jason Weaver, 2016

Original painting, Trees and Fog (2016) by Jason Weaver, (acrylic on canvas, 70×100 cm).  Dedicated to my dear friend Magaly Haasper. You showed me how to believe in myself, never shall I forget!

In Black and White

LoveMoreStudio11-22-2015

There is no solid ground
beneath my feet;
the plates shift
beneath me
and so I step to the next
nary a moment to rest.

Exhausted I am –or
am I?

Perhaps this feeling
is merely a relic of the old skin,
skin that I must slough off;
old consciousness, ego
pulling at me, weighing on me
like lead.

All of the old ways
of seeing this world
are so dichotymous,
so ‘this’ or ‘that’ so bold in
‘black’ or ‘white’ so that
I cannot help but see
how polarized, how
disparate our thinking
has been, how we’ve
chosen our sides and
made our opinions of
who and what was
wrong or right.

But all of these old ways
of being in this world —
they are no longer
beneficial, no longer
useful, no longer
relevant to us at all, and so
they must be
no longer.

I know nothing;
but the earth, it shifts
beneath my feet
and it is plain to see
that so too must I.

by Jason Weaver, 2015