“The Ocean in a Bottle” is a small collection of poems that was my part of the poetry anthology “Five on the Western Edge,” from Momo’s Press (Stephen Vincent), published in ’77. Included in the anthology were myself (as Steve Brooks) Stephen Vincent, Hilton Obenzinger, Beau Beausoleil, and Larry Felson. It was Stephen’s idea that we, a diverse group of male poets, writing in the Seventies, would get together for a year before publication, talk, hash out, and mull over our various ways of living as writers in relationship with others and the world. It was a noble idea, but there wasn’t much open talk among us, as there might have been if Dr. Phil were present, but he wasn’t. Stephen wanted to call the book, “Five Disturbed Men,” but that was roundly rejected. Later, in my poetry satire, “The Blood and Turnips Poetry Festival”, I parodied that idea as “Five Disturbed Men on the Brink of Disaster.” I’ve reconnected with the others on facebook, but we are all as terse as ever in our non-confessional maleness. Poetry may be, as Stéphane Mallarmé, I think, once said, a way of saying what one has difficulty feeling, but open discourse is another matter, altogether.
July 28, 2010
May 27, 2010
A Conversation Among Raindrops
March 16, 2010
Fall Awake
December 31, 2009
Square Roots
These 48 original watercolor paintings, 5” x 7” each, are, collectively, a small tribute to the art of Marc Rothko. I picked up a book of Rothko reproductions in Borders Books in Bettendorf, Iowa, one afternoon in ’04, and, sitting in the Borders Café, as I was preparing to write what became the book called “Mother”, Rothko’s art brought me to tears, surprising me, at the time. I was in the Quad Cities, now called the Quint Cities, more specifically, Moline, Illinois, where I was born and raised, after my formative years in McCook, Nebraska. I was living with my mother in the last year of her life, taking care of her and writing about it. After my time with her, I left her in the care of my brother, John, who had been with her for two years before I was. On my return to Seattle, I began a series of paintings based on the square. This series is the result of that time.
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December 23, 2009
I Am
I Am
Sun is shining in its place as Sun, and here, now, Sun is shining in this place I am. Sun fills me with its heat and light, and I am made the same as Sun. Never thinking I am the Sun, I am Sun.
“The Wind blows,” we say, but Wind is Wind. Standing in Wind, like a fish swimming in the ocean, I swallow Wind, it swallows me, and I am Wind.
Earth, this land, this soil, this ground beneath our feet is lifted from itself by wind. Earth becomes scattered across the surface of itself, as I am scattered from my origin, across the surface of my life. I am Earth, I live apart from myself, I settle down to myself again.
Rain falls, as rainfall does, down upon the land and sea it rises above. My eyes rain from themselves, in brokenhearted memory of what’s been held close as my own self. I am the rain of a tear that falls to sorrow from sorrowing. I am this Rain that evaporates in the air, to fall again, when sorrow calls again. I am the rain of my raining. I am Rain.
I breathe in and out the Air that breathes me. I am the Air that fills and empties me. I am its vessel, its container, the shape of its strength. Air opens and drains my lungs. I taste its nectar. I am the shape of shapeless Air. Without Air, I am the shape of its destruction. I am the Air of my demise. I am empty Air, from which I breathe myself alive. I am no difference between in and out.
I am Water, as I seek the shape of my container. I seek my shape in myself, as flow seeks itself across the flat bed of a stream. As I level myself with any like me in my range. I am Water, in being round in round things, narrow in narrow things, spiral in spirals, wide in deltas.
I am true to myself in many forms. I am Water. I am Air. I am Rain. I am Wind. I am Sun.
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May 19, 2009
All Fall Down
All Fall Down speaks of the state of awareness, the consciousness, and the thinking of a man in the time of letting go of desire, who discovers the romance of reality lurking beneath desire. This Romance of Reality also needs to be let go, in order to be clear of the attachment to living a certain way of life, so he can live in life itself.
“In 1992, I attended a concert in the meditation hall of the Osho International Meditation Center in Pune, India. The hall was a white marble floor as big as a football field, surrounded by netting, with a tented roof, surrounded by a jungle garden, surrounded by a complex, called by some Club Meditation.
Hundreds, both sannyasin and local, attended the concert, given by some of India’s most honored and revered musicians. It turned out the performers weren’t able to attend, and their children, nearly as well-known as their parents, carried on in their place. In India, music is a family affair.
The stage was elevated, carpeted with beautiful rugs, and the show was introduced in Hindi and English, among other languages perhaps, since the ashram was visited by people from all over the world. After lavish introductions, the musicians assembled at their instruments; tabla, sitar, etc., and began to play. I sat with my friend, Suryo, and listened to the beautiful sounds.
I didn’t know what I was listening to, so I listened the way I might at any Western concert. I listened to hear songs, pieces of music, but what I heard had no demarcation, it simply went on, without apparent parts. After an hour, I thought I was listening to a long composition, and I anticipated an end, but none came. After two and a half hours, I had a different sense. I was led by the open-endedness of the music to the sense that I was inside the music. I was in a neighborhood of music, a park, a garden, an open space of sound. I felt free to wander around, to see what I could see, to smell and touch the music, to listen or not. The effect was not in any part of the whole, and it was not in the whole, it was in the environment.
All Fall Down is intended in a way to be something similar to that. All Fall Down was written as a long poem from many poems that became, here, many poems from one long poem, but the demarcations are almost arbitrary. There’s no need for them, or for the poetry, for that matter, except for the uses of form. Poetry is more easily digested in courses, even dishes or cups, but hopefully here, there’s an environment of awareness more cogent than any part or even more than the whole.
All Fall Down could be called teaching the unteachable to those who would learn the unlearnable, but there’s no intention to teach anything, and no intention to understand anything, either, except the un-understandable. There is an intention to be as clear as possible in language about that which has no language, using language to point in the direction of no direction, to distract from the lack of clarity in the use of the language the poem employs.
We have instruments to make music, but sometimes the effect can’t be assumed from the shape. Music can be made to accent the stillness in which it occurs. The luxury of music can become the environment in which it occurs, more than the definition of anything that occurs within it. I invite you to ride along with this language and look at the scenery as it goes. Dance to the music, all fall down.” Steve Abhaya
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March 20, 2009
Prepare to Dance
Prepare to Dance is a small book of poems, written in 1993, a year after I got back from India, during which time I had seen myself surrender to myself, to Being Itself, and to the love of another. All of these surrenders mirror the same emptiness of intention. Recently, I thought to give a copy of Prepare to Dance to a woman friend, and, realizing that the poems are often addressed to a woman, I tried addressing them to a man, instead. The result is helpful, I think, in removing that gender hurdle for women who might want to read the poems as close to the heart as possible. I include the two versions here.
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March 12, 2009
Savage Amusement
Savage Amusement The Autobiography of a Semi-Unknown Semi-Genius - A Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist in San Francisco in 1975.
The Ocean in a Bottle
When I told you I was embarrassed
To know you so well as to become you,
I was confessing a terrible emptiness.
When I look down and see my cloudy
Transparency, I become afraid.
My yearning to be full doesn’t diminish you,
But makes you unbearably desirable.
I don’t see through you, like I said I did,
I can’t become you, I can’t fill myself with you.
If I alone ghost the space between us,
I will succeed only in vacating myself.
Sometimes, I’m lost outside my bones,
And I look so hard for them, I think I see
Other people’s bones beneath their flesh.
When I feel their bones and their flesh,
Temporarily, I quit looking for my own.
I find myself in being alone.
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February 25, 2009
Being Itself
Being Itself is a compilation of a particular kind of interior language, written after I got back from India, after enjoying the presence and the awareness of H.W.L. Poonja, who was a teacher I didn’t seek but found. In his presence, I saw another human being speak what I knew to be true. In his presence, I witnessed doubt, that I didn’t know I carried, disappear. I’m not a disciple of his, and he’d be happy to know that, because he sought no disciples. His teaching, called Advaita, is the practice of no practices. These writings are as close to the kind of language that would exist if there were no religion, as far I am able to make them. Papaji said to me, ‘Nobody has ever been able to describe this, but don’t stop trying. You are a writer. Write from the source.’ He meant that I write as one who was not separate from the source, as the source speaking. I saw him speak, not as one speaking about being to others, but as being speaking to being. In his presence, I saw love pouring out toward itself. I’ve never seen that as clearly, in any other human being, before or since, but I believe it is the natural state of our existence and not confined to the people we hold up as teachers, gurus, and masters. If it’s true for anyone, it’s true for everyone. I have meant this writing as awareness itself speaking to one who is ready to live in his or her own awareness, because that’s how it came to me. That experience has lead me to address myself and the reader as you. This is the writing of one person who is open to his awareness, the same as anyone might be, so you is you, and me, and everyone else.
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February 15, 2009
Borderwalker

Borderwalker is a novella, from 1990, about a poet who becomes lost to himself and discovers a deeper reality.
“He lay in an unhealed heap, drawing his only nourishment from the sun, like a decrepit house plant that hasn’t had light or water for a long time, root-bound and dried out, then moved, palest green, to the sun, and the sun beats down like a tidal wave on a parched and thirsty man, drowned by what he needs, unable to receive it.”
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