Stephen Nelson


Guru Yoga

A
tiny,
radiant lama
has appeared
above my head -
a red hat,
pointy headed
lama -

(Om)

He's silent,
copper coloured,
a passive idol -
wrinkly
as a fig
& just as sweet -

(Ah)

He sits
quietly,
calmly,
glowing
like the wind
before it
blows -
a luminous lama
blazing
essence of
the manifest
world -

(Hum)

The shining,
sunlit gurus
flow
through him,
into me,
filling my entire
body with
luminosity,
illuminating my mind
like a silver snowball
moon -

(Vajra)

A moonlit
lake of lamas -
a procession of
radiant gurus
burning up
the poisons,
the illusions,
the separations
obfuscating
emptiness -

(Guru)

I'm fat
with emanations
& I dont know why -
I don't drink
butter tea -
& the gurus
are the
orange plums
of autumn -

(Padme)

I love you,
Dudjom Rinpoche,
& your retinue
of palatial celebrants;
& you, Khyentse Rinpoche,
with your
illuminated grin.
I love you,
Karmapa,
bolder than
the snows -

(Siddhi)

I'm ripe
for enlightenment -
Pluck me,
Mother Tara, red sun risen -
Let the juice
of blissful
mindstream
flood
the illusory
world -
Soon it'll
be cold,
& it's hard to get
a winter coat to
fit -

(Hum)

---

Assorted Napkin and Journal Poems

---

Tara's House

Somebody needs me
in America
and the moon
is higher in the sky
than ever before.
It's past midnight
and I'm eating
potato salad
from a plastic tub,
scooping it out
with my pinky
because I can't
be arsed getting
a fork.
I wish I could stand
in an empty space
without losing my balance,
or float like an eye
in a jar of green jelly,
but my legs are shakey
and my vision is always
ahead of itself.
Today I ordered
more Tibetan texts
and was briefly
blissed out
in a field of Buddhas,
with Tara all white
and luminous
inside me.
Even scarecrows
need primordial ground,
and she has the poise
of a honey glass planet.

My bed is warm
and my cat is cuter
than the queen
of an occult continent
(maybe Lemuria),
where light is food
and food is fried in
vats of rainbow butter.
Fuck being a saviour
on Planet Earth though. I
only need to merge
with whoever needs me,
gently, in the radiant ground,
where Tara perfumes daffodils.
I'll merge with America
and Africa next...
I'll merge with Canada,
Mongolia, and Tuva...
and when I'm done,
I'll make breakfast,
and feed the cat;
I'll chant a little mantra,
and clean the silver dish
of my luminescent nature,
because Tara trained me well,
and good housekeeping
is a transubstantial imperative.
Next week my yidam
might not be so amenable.




Stephen Nelson is the author of several books of poetry, including Arcturian Punctuation (Xexoxial Editions) and Lunar Poems for New Religions (KFS Press). He has exhibited vispo and asemic writing internationally, and published in numerous journals, including 3am, Posit, Big Bridge, BlazeVOX Journal and The Adirondack Review. He is currently working on a YA sci-fi/fantasy novel. Find him online at www.afterlights-vispo.tumblr.com and www.afterlights.blogspot.com.
 
 
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