Epic poetry by Adam Donaldson Powell, Part Two.




In an instant,

the orgasmic tingling

of the Great Compassion

transmutes physicality

into crystalline Light,

thus releasing the

new-found frequency

to find completion in

the vortex of

universal vibration.

And meanwhile,

a gentle rain

falls upon the Earth;

cultivating awe and

aspiration in those

left behind.



Just for a moment

I surreptitiously

Slip through the

Portals of your

Watery eyes and

Catch a glimpse of

The celestial encoding

Of the Matrix.

I wander

Into the light of

Eternal memory


The sacred mantra

Deafening my disillusionment

With the illusion of the

Labyrinth’s dead ends

And in my stupor I

Recall the last words

Of a forgotten incarnation,

Wilting as a black rose

Under a peach-coloured

Sky – cloudless and still –

A mere heartbeat

Beyond time;

Echoing its low-grade pulse

As I frantically

Run up and down the

Alleys of La Recoleta

Trying to dodge the raindrops.

And just as you speak

I find myself on my hands and

Knees facing my epitaph:

“Posterus est iam”,

And quite uncontrollably, a single

Teardrop overflows the

Pocket of my left eye as I

Recapture our own

Generic moment in

Shared space and time.

PAVANE: un poème pour la fin des temps.

There is nothing more beautiful

And yet so sorrowful as

A man’s tears over humiliation

And loss, cradled in the bosom

Of a woman.

Uncontrollable sobbing —

A torrential rainfall

Recalling a wilderness

Landscape unashamedly seeking

Refuge from gushing winds

And rapids, thunder and lightning

Against a purple, grey and orange

Sky – in betrayal of a lifetime of

Emotional constipation and

Affections of masculinity.

A once-graceful sylph –

Now stumbling and gasping

For breath – beckons and

Invites him to join her in

A clumsy pavane, until

The quintessential mother

Archetype manages to

Rock the fallen one back

From the crevice of

Momentary indiscretion

At the end of time,

And whimpers accede to

Retrieval of pride and

Passion in the guise of

Poetic procreation.



Spent, sweaty and out-of-breath

We lie back and

Light a single cigarette

To be shared in symbolic

Celebration after an intergalactic

Battle between brazen faith and

Foolish adventure.

My tattered wings clumsily

Tucked in between my back

And the thin Styrofoam mattress;

Your head buried in my chest

And your matted hair still wet from

Our midnight dip in the Styx.

Who would have guessed that

The heaven of our making

Would be like this? .. so

Characterized by the mundane,

With intermittent interruptions

Of surrealistic struggles for

Survival: win or lose .. all

Or nothing .. one day at a time.

As the moon eclipses, the last

Sight I see before I drift off

Is the withered bonsai in the

Opening of our pre-war dwelling.

A reminder of a time when

We still dared to sleep soundly;

Carefully wrapped in unencumbered

Dreams in the style of our ancestors.


I have come to accept

the threat of the first horseman,

on his mighty white steed –

causing in me a seemingly

everlasting sense of suspicion,

caution and readiness, and

I have sadly learned to expect

the relentless ravages of

war and emotional famine

brought on by the

rider on the red horse,

and the pestilence in the

saddlebags of the black steed.

Ironically, I mostly dread

the thieving fourth horseman

who arrives each dawn

on his pale mare and

reclaims from my broken dreams

the yet unlived memories of our love.

Storgata 51-2


The globalisation of

indiscriminate violence

is multiplied to

the power of the sixes,

and the Antichrist

smiles broadly at

the cancerous spreading

of fear and perdition –

rationalized by armies of

self-proclaimed truth.

But the greatest

threat from these

soldiers of hatred

is perhaps echoed in

the pestilent apathy

which is rampant

amongst those

elements of world populace

not directly affected by

the ravages of persecution,

and whose messengers

of love and compassion

no longer dare to

speak out – for

fear of getting caught

in the crossfire.


Barking dogs

have long since

gone hoarse;

the incessant

b-flat octaves

tolling from


cemeteries and

city halls are the

only musical

accompaniment to

the wailing

and mutterings

of the insane and

the shell-shocked.

Black-robed and

barefoot Nazarenos

trudge aimlessly

up and down

the flooding boulevards,

streets and alleyways

in this year-long

Semana Santa;

a macabre procession

matched in passion

only by the

mega tsunamis and

super volcanic

eruptions cataclysmically

creating myriads of

Devil’s Throats

as the reddish-brown

water whirlpools

about the rubble of

once looming


Resolutely ..

I rock myself

to inner drunkenness,

quietly humming

Ravel’s Pavane pour

une Infante Défunte.



Once fresh air is

Now pungent

With the odor of

Desiccated seashells

Picked nearly clean

By eloquent predators

And the opportunists

Who are never

Far behind them.

Perched swallows

Look on with fear

And disbelief at

Seagulls gliding, then

Careening too far

Inland, their hysterical

Laughter a parody of

A sonata appassionata

Against a now-barren

Landscape devoid of

Romanticism and

Common decency.

If one listens closely

One can hear a requiem

For a milder Age that ended

All-too-abruptly – it is

A solemn dirge describing

The endless journey of

Displaced souls desperately

Trying not to see or hear

While carefully guarding

Their most prized possession:

Hope that there is more

Meaning to be grasped

For he who holds out

Beyond the bitter end.


Mesmerized by the

Anointing smile of

Christ the Redeemer

I see a muse


With an angel

To the chanting

Of a monk’s choir;

A solemn moment’s

Reprieve from a

Raging sea of cynicism.

And I cling tightly to my

Dream-state while

Tears of joy and recognition

Rock me lovingly back to

True consciousness;

Reminiscent of

Life between lives –

A moment of bliss




Gloria in excélsis Deo!

Alleluia .. Alleluia ..

Although our backs are broken,

And our wings are tattered;

Our hearts and souls

Will forever sing your praises.

There is only one God,

But the ways to You are many.

Alleluia .. Alleluia ..

Alleluia .. Alleluia ..


Photography by Adam Donaldson Powell

“In the valley of the Kingdom” is part of my book entitled “Rapture: endings of space and time”.

IN THE VALLEY OF THE KINGDOM: a poetic fantasy.



In the great Valley of the Kingdom,
over-shadowed by Dorje Lakpa, Gauri Shankar,
Gyachungkang and Sagarmatha, the
rantings of a poet savant in the Old City
signal the commencement of Nawa Ratri.
Her sole audience consists of the monkeys and
the beggar children, for all citizens and pilgrims
are otherwise disposed; but all sense the onset
of imminent menstruation with innate fervour.
Scurrying about under the waxing moon,
last-minute shoppers scour marketplaces
and stalls in preparation for the coming rituals
of purification by blood and offerings in
supplication to the Goddess Durga, in all
her manifestations of life force and fertility.
And wafting from open windows is the
scent of Vijaya Dashami, flowers and
cooking vegetables, increasingly overcoming the
diesel fumes from the trafficked streets below.
Through an ajar door I glimpse a prayer in progress,
in salutation to the God in us all and I smile,
murmuring “Namaste” to the tilak-adorned
inhabitants chanting in submission to the Almighty.
My heart pains for the unfortunate beyond the
Kingdom who suffer loneliness, hunger,
war and terror without ultimate joy and release;
strangers to our ways although still brothers and
sisters in the Great Scheme.
They live in Iraq, Gaza and Darfur, and even in the
sprawling urban centres of the Americas and Asia.
In my mind’s eye I give an offering of Light
for these beloved neighbours and pray that also
their darkness and burdens find relief in the bosom
of Divine favour, while a gentle rain shower
soothes the heat from my own transgressions.
I awaken with a start .. in a pool of sweat and tears.
Gazing toward the window I can see the rising sun
juxtaposed against the crumbling rose-coloured
temple in the foreground; almost mocking the
distant luxury hotels, still caught in the shadows.
A cock is crowing – to the accompaniment of
the poet savant; both announcing the advent of
the Ghatasthapana.



“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
Mesmerized by the chanting and the intoxicating incense,
I fall into a trance and enter the Dashain Ghar.
As I approach the sacred kalash my heart quickens,
much like the rushing of life energy through the
veins of the surrounding mountains.
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
The sprinkling of holy water upon the kalash and the surrounding
sands recalls the primordial Spring of my first awakening;
giving birth to divine offspring in the form of jamara.
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
My pulse slowly returns to normalcy, and I smile knowing
that the Goddess Durga is pleased but not yet sated.
She hungers for the very essence of creation .. for the
blood of yesteryear’s abundance .. and that hunger seems
as insatiable as our requests are endless ..
No sacrifice is too great for the Divine Durga, and
the consequence of failure is unthinkable.
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
Meanwhile, in another time zone in another part of the world
a child cries, a funeral takes place and a meal begins.
Across town, a marching band fades into silence and succumbs to
boisterous laughter from the last straggling nightclub guests
as they spill out into the streets.
The poet savant has finally fallen silent, but I still hear
her breathless incantations as loudly as the beating of
madal drums against the stillness of the early morning drowsiness;
goat-skin stretched tautly over wood, creating tension –
inviting rigid palms to strike and fingertips to caress.
In my spiritual drunkenness I envision one thousand and
one manifestations of the Goddess, arms flailing about in
an exotic dance – enticing and sensual, maternal
and protective; wildly fertile yet chaste.
A kaleidoscope of lotus flowers and orchids, unfolding, pulsing;
elephant gods dancing with water buffaloes in a building
frenzy of singing bowls, brass bells and cymbals.
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. I invite the Lord into my heart ..”
A television in the house next door brings news of
bombs falling in faraway lands, of famine and tsunamis,
volcanic eruptions, elections, stock markets and
football matches; and suddenly the Goddess snuffs out
the electricity and the whole world as I know it falls
captive to the silence signalling the start of the puja.
And as the first candle is lit I can feel the eyelids
of the savant closing heavily …. and I murmur:
“I invite the Lord into my heart .. May the puja begin………..”



The words of the poet savant are forever imprinted
upon my palms, forehead and heart – as clearly as the
unmistakable image of the great bodhisattva Kuan Yin.
The secret of the veil behind the veil is encoded
in the diamond; for while there are many ways to
enlightenment the highest wisdom is attained through
the Great Compassion, and self-realization is the only
homecoming recognized by the disciples of Vajrayana.
And thus, we step beyond the world outside of worlds
where karma is but a balancing act together with
punya-making, chance, luck and physical laws;
and approach the inner reaches of devotion with
complete individual and collective unity – for
all else belongs to the world of maya.
The vajracarya in me receives the Lord as my
guest and personal extension, and together we
dance through barriers known as illusion.
Our devoted compassion together with the refraction
of the light of the candles activates our heart, throat
and crown chakras – thus creating the perfect
Adamantine vehicle for illumination known as the
Great Source and Center, and all mantras coalesce
into one as flames and thunderbolts consume our
delusion and transform our essence:
And finally we give birth to the God within ..
without reservation; and in generous libation.



And on the seventh day, all subjects of the Valley and
beyond are ecstatic as the awaited procession arrives
from the royal house in Gorkha – bearing the jamara and
other provisions for the Tika.
So grand is their finery on the Day of the Fulpati;
and all hearts beat as one as the parade makes its way
to the Hanuman Dhoka Royal Palace.
In the midst of the celebrants and onlookers I see the
poet savant, smiling and keeping watch over the
splendid palanquin carrying the royal kalash, stalks of
banana, sugar cane and jamara.
His Majesty the King oversees the magnificent ceremonies
at Tundikhel, and the sounds of guns fill the Valley in
commemoration of the great thunderbolts which so resolutely
echoed over the mountains in the time of our forefathers.
As the last gunshots resound and the jubilant crowd breaks out
into a deafening cheer, the royal fulpati disappears inside
the Dashain ghar, and the feasting begins to the
accompaniment of a rock band.
And while the joyous crowds dance and make merry the
poet savant has already retired to her designated spot in the park
and prostrates to the Goddess offering incantations and
flowers – certain that the gods will be generous.



My inner meditative state is all but silent;
for every bit of my Self reverberates the
heartbeat of two six-pointed diamond stars
merging into the perfect Tantric Merkebah.
The emotional wetness of my transformation
process pulls me out to sea again and again ..
I both swell and am consumed by the riveting pulse:
tum ta-ta-ta-ta tuhhhhm…. tum ta-ta-ta-ta tuhhhhm….
tum ta-ta-ta-ta tuhhhhm…. tum ta-ta-ta-ta tuhhhhm….
thus transporting my body consciousness beyond hunger
to the world in between worlds, leaving me captive
to vision and hallucination; entreating me to choose
between Truth and illusion.


And across town, the poet savant acquiesces
to the rhythms of the Maha Asthami,
prostrating mechanically .. again and again and again ..
until she finally awakens in ecstasy to the sought after
reality of her dreams.
And as she robotically forsakes the Dashain ghar and
throws open a window, she discovers that all life has
indeed come to a standstill with the exception of
a few tourists snapping photographs.
But the poet savant remains lost in her own deep transformation.
The setting sun forewarns the approach of Kal Ratri,
and the darkness of the darkest night weighs
heavy and pungent with the odour of meat.

2WF (2)


Knee-deep in blood,
the poet savant wades
through the temple of Taleju –
marching in step
to the military band
and gun salutes
in honour of
the Goddess Durga
and Vishwa Karma,
God of Creativity.
The air is black
with the smell of
slaughtered buffaloes.
Protection is assured;
and all are blessed –
by the army
of the Divine.



The secret of the blessing lay in the
passing of divine compassion and
goodwill from generation to generation.
The embodiment of my love
is in the tika and the jamara.
And together we will wait for Laxmi.
This is my promise .. this is my prayer.
This is my gift to you.



Dizzily, I stumble out onto the pavement of
Freak Street, my mind still awhirl with the
images, tastes and sounds of the past fortnight.
In the maze of bustling pedestrians bumping into me,
and taxis, rickshaws and bicycles whizzing by,
I vaguely recognize the poet savant –
now in disguise as a common beggar.
All seems to have returned to normal in the Valley,
now that the blessings of Durga have been received;
so much so that I begin to wonder how much was real
and what was, in fact, fantasy – when suddenly I find myself
face-to-face with a child of some seven or eight years –
barefoot, in tattered clothes and with outstretched palms:
“Coins, cigarette, milk or chocolate???” he pleads.
As I place a few coins into his hands he smiles and says:
“Bless you kind Sir. May Good transcend Evil, and
Light lessen the Darkness you carry within you.”
And I smile to myself, certain that I am carrying
the treasures of Dasain deep inside me for at least
the next twelve moons while mumbling
“Om Mani Padme Hum .. Om Mani Padme Hum ….”



Till dig … du vet vem du är!


vi er …
to rastløse sjeler; to ildfluer.
sammen skal vi kunne
sveve over himmelen — som ørner.
sammen er vi poesi, rockemusikk og
abstrakt kunst — på vårt aller vakreste,
og mest provoserende.
sammen er vi rettferdighetens sverd
med rose duft.

When the moon is in Fresno.



when the moon is in Fresno

and the sun sets a purplish

haze over early-autumn skies,

the cold winds of Hell

breathe heavily against

the hopes of local heroes

and the women who made them.

farmers stare off into the fields

without realizing, and housewives

pull their young close to their

bosoms – suddenly and

without explanation.

intuitively they sense the onset

of a long and severe influence;

a time of hardship and hindrance

when the faith and courage of

more than a few good men

and women are put to test.

the carousel is out-of-control,

and in the whirlwind confusion

crops will fail, loved ones will

pass away, jobs will be lost

and the simplest of dreams will

be stifled by saturn’s blues:

a mocking nursery rhyme telling

of horror and despair, and sung

over and over again with endless

variations on the same cruel theme.