The Bent Tree and the Sleeping Tiger
About this ebook
Far from the Road, the road more or less travelled, there is, under the Bent Tree, surrounded by long grass, an Old Man and a sleeping Tiger. That is to say that sometimes the man sleeps and sometimes the tiger sleeps. There are times too that both sleep, but because there is always peace, there are never times that both do not sleep.
Strangely too, there is always one tiger for one man or one woman...never more , never less.
What does this mean?
We know the road is life, more or less travelled. We know the long grass is the vagueness of fates between living and wisdom. We "see" things in the distances of our destiny but how do we get there? Do we want to get there?
The Bent Tree is easy. It is Death and it is Wisdom. For all knowledge comes with Death, the Great Portal...and then, that is the end of all Knowledge. Which is Wisdom also. The Death of all Knowledge. Under the Bent Tree, knowledge sleeps.
We are left to explain a man and a tiger. The tiger sleeps and the man is awake. The man is Logic, Reason, Consciousness.
The man sleeps and the tiger roams. Do not be alarmed, however. Though the tiger is indeed a man or woman's passions, without reason and logic, passion is only passion. It is Natural. It creates. It knows nothing of evil.
Unless the man or woman awakens also. Then we have a soul to deal with.
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About the author
biography
https://wordpress.com/read/
I first began writing a long time ago as a poet. Poems turned to prose. Prose matured and grew a tale and traveled haphazard but in a novel way.
I wrote from the bewilderment of life...I wrote not for gain but out of loss. I used to say I was a ‘god-hunter’.....and that voice would either find me Saint Theresa’s ecstasy, Krishnamurti’s peace or Nietzhe’s madness.
I found no conclusions, no doors but eventually the walls I wrote on became grafittized and tapestaric.....
I had become a poor painter in words....
I have written a number of books on taoist philosophy (Tiger and Bent Tree); social/religious philosophy (Seven Days); adventure fiction (Firestorm) ; political theory (Political Moments); short stories (Cloaks) and a series in children books (Rubear)
I am currently working on another Political book and, also, a fictional novel about a 12 year old boy dying of cancer during a war in Europe in the mid 2030s.
The poet makes a feast out of dirt and then minces his words.
The poet is goat footed at the banquet, grinning widely into everyone's distaste.
The poet sticks shit to a blanket.
The poet fornicates with shadows.
The best poet buzzes darkly incessant in your fabric skull.
The worst poet is an indigestion.
In any coffeeshop, you can smell poets by their inertia.
Good poetry is waterproof. Everyone has at least one poem in their closet. It is solely theirs in the way we forget the maker of a shoe after we have worn it awhile.
When poetry dances, it is clothed; you are naked.
The drums rhyme.
If you are patient, everything rhymes.
Even God.
