Jung – poems 2 die for

TAO

solid lines yang
moving lies yin

I was pretty fat
(both)
outside
and in

but now
am suspiciously thin
in both
substance
and being

when not having managed
to squeeze my
way
into a
poem

for as in a poem
so the I Ching

as in the I Ching
so a poem

these the wind chimes
that must have tinkled
in the great
Leo mind of
Mr Carl Gustav Jung

real lion mind
that loved
to devour everything

reduce us
to some vast
expression of the cosmic

you are huge
but uncomplicated
archetypal by
nature
archetypal
by creation

the music of this oracle
reeling him in

caught like a fish
though
Leviathan he is

FANCY

we have (all of us)
our very own fancy
for apocalypse

projecting on the world
our own thirst and fear
of ending (Oh what a strange
species we
are indeed!)

yes, what thrill is the final
scene
if you perform it alone
stage empty, auditorium deserted,

is there not supposed to
be resonance, sweet slash
bittersweet connection

and then there are
those most philosophical
of warriors, most warlike
of philosophers

there music too, will shake
you like no other
between such highs and lows

to which, if that we not enough,
we must add the crime
of psychoanalysis

one in particular
Leo-sign showman

reading from a single patient
the brutal future history of
nation
and a species
it did decide it had done with

no schadenfreude here
just special kind of
go

when the revelation that
we are not gods
we aspire to be
gets us plunging into
final destruction

tumbling
of power
from its throne

and power with its exit clause,
its played-through endgames

knows
(knows all too well
all too well)

always space for
last laugh

throw of those
diabolically secret dice

at the death at the death

yes, that gotterdammerung word
nutshells that best

SUPER BOWL POEM

woke up
in time to hold off
on the SuperBowl result

worst fears confirmed when
I summoned up courage
to check

yep Brock loves God
but Brock loves
Patrick Mahomes

(does not seem
to care much about
Head Coach Kyle Shanahan)

and at this
        juncture, out of the blue,
an unruly host of
archetypes made their move
wanted to stick
         around a bit, get
the lie
   of the land in the process
of passing through me

a mad mosaic it was
for a while

many shapes and
sizes, manners and
demeanours

jostling up against each other
(Brownian motion)
excanging, debating,
doing their
dialectic dance, analysis
synthesis
no homogenizing

and there I was in a carnivalesque dream

chatting to the players in
St Francis’ kingdom
of those elevated
high above
the realms
of material wealth

peering into the abyss that
a philosopher cum psychologist
had laid
before me

a tablet broken with the
entire script jagged

and there on the road
a burnt out humvee

and there in the docks
a rusting destroyer

archetypes at home within
settling
for a game of solitaire

and me
thinking, wondering,
who does have a
prophetic bone in this
my body

is winning everything?
and if it is not

will there ever
indeed

be an end to war?

SHAPESHIFT Jung saw it archetype before his eyes come alive from light to darkness we can all shapeshift learn so much from shadow so much from the light carry that darkness as deep memory inflicted upon it ss always shapeshifting its essence into imagined gods creatures of pure archetype absolutely mistaken, basking in the horror of our own darkness so convinced they own the light are very embodiment of the light true terror of which no one can describe