- 178 pages
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
About This Book
Our earliest poets were shamans. Today as in the earliest times, true shamans are poets of consciousness who know the power of song and story to teach and to heal. They understand that the right words open pathways between the worlds and draw closer the gods and goddesses who wish to live through us. Robert Moss brings this ancient bardic tradition to life in this collection of poems and stories that stream directly from dreams and shamanic adventures in the world-behind-the-world. You'll be carried into a reality where everything is alive and conscious, where tigers and bears can lend you their forms and raven and hawk can give you their sight, where the ancestors are talking, talking, and the gates to the Otherworld open from wherever you are. You'll awaken, through these pages, to how shamans use poetic speech to call the soul back home, into the bodies of those who have lost vital energy through pain or trauma or heartbreak. You'll travel to the Island of No Pain where lost boys and girls are kept safe. And you'll learn to make the return journey, and sing the lost soul back into the body where it belongs.
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You say you are hunting your power,but your power is hunting you.I'll go up to the mountain, you sayI'll fast and live on seaweedI'll hang myself on a meathookunder the hot sun. I'll give up sexand wine and my sense of humor.What are you thinking of?For you to go hunting your poweris as smart as the mouse hunting the cat.
Go out in the garden any night,step one inch outside the tame landand you are near what you seek.Open the window of your soulany night and your guide may come in.The issue is whether you'll run awaywhen you see what it is. To make sureyou succeed, tether yourself like a goatat the edge of the tiger wood that breathesright beside your bed. He'll come.āAugust 16, 2009
Gentle soul, the Spirit caught you up as a raptorbeating wings, and tore your fleshand drew you through the night worldsand hurled you into deeps where no sun shinesand the moon is a blind pulse, a drum unheard,so you would learn to shine in your own lightso you would steer by your inner sunso you could unwrite the Book of Fateso that, remembering, you move as a dancer among your kind,in the world but not of it, not different and not the same,sharing what you have lived at your heart's core:love, and courage, the flash of the sea-horse racing waves,the gleam of rain on a chinaberry tree.āMarch 10, 1992
You see a flash of blue in the air at midnight,that blue, the blue of kingfisher's wings,and you take flight from the seen to the unseen.Poor strategy: the unseen is my home.You hide from me where I live.āAugust 9, 1998
When you thought the fire was out,flame leaps from the heart of the woodso strong you're surprised it is safely containedin what you supposed was a cold hearth.
There is nothing to warn you when it flares up.Know this: tended or untended, the fire lives.It will consume you. As fire lives in wood,I live in you.āAugust 9, 1998
āDeepheart, mountain guardianwho harries the hunterand knows what belongs to usand what does not,give us your speed,your ability to read the land,to see what is behind us and around us.āMay we grow with the seasonsinto your branching wisdom,putting up antlers as taproots into the skyto draw down the power of heaven,reaching into the wounded placesto heal and make whole,walking as living candelabra,crowned with light,crowning each other with light.āNovember 6, 1999
The buried citybursts from the earthas Van Gogh sunflowers.The stem sustains the fruit.This is a way of magic:to write names of powerin the dust of the curio shopand let them walk, ring doorbellsand instruct that old soulsinspire young ones, across time.
This is a way of begetting:to turn in the cycle of creation,to breathe clouds into the air,colors into the fields,and paint the sun into the sky.āJune 23, 2001
There's a garden among the starswhere flowers are gates to other worlds.Try the pink rosebud that opens shyly,plunge through its smooth and fragrant foldsinto the Victorian garden where tea is laidand sweet girls play and show a blushing priesta bunny hole that leads to Wonderlandand a ginger cat issues opaque directions.
Take the dare of the āDrink Meā bottleand you'll become inconceivably smalleven faster than Alice, so fast you won't seea grass blade rear into a royal palmand ants t...
Table of contents
- Title Page
- I. Selected Poems 1992ā2012
- II. Tales from the Imaginal Realm
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author