Illuminist Lodge

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“The image does not derive from empirical sources. It preceeds and dominates such sources, and is thus the criterion by which they are verified and their meaning is put to the test.” Henry Corbin in The Imago Templi In Confrontation with Secular Norms

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“I come from the sacrosant house.” Suhrawardi in Mystical Allegories

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“He carries an arrow as a token of his mission – a special arrow, made of gold. He carries it in a great circle around the land. But he doesn’t just carry it: it carries him as he flies on it through the air, a «Skywalker». He talks to the arrow. It steers itself, sustains him in his ecstasy; clears a path for him through impassable landscapes, overcomes every obstacle in his way. With
its help he heals people and heals the land, balances the weather, banishes plagues.” Peter Kingsley, discussing Abaris The Hyperborean, in Shamans Among The Greeks

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“The last kinds of angels are the angels created from the actions of the creatures and their breaths.” Ibn Arabi in The Futuhat

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When you pray in the wilderness

There should be no people around

Just two woodpeckers

and two ravens.

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When you put your bare stomach

on the Earth

and the dead line up

like endless night moths twitching in the air.

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When you pray in the wilderness

Calling out to be relieved of the weight

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I know you know the feeling

because you are here

and that’s what happens here, sometimes.

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You find yourself

right between

all who have died

and all who are coming

Your body becomes half night

and half day,

and that is natural

as natural as the weight and wail,

the calling, the whistling

the longing of both sides,

to move out and into a new land.

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Thats when I saw it

In the words of Henry Corbin’s

Translation of Muhammad Karim Khan Kirmani’s

Book of the Red Hyacinth

Clear directions for calling

for call and response.

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The luminaries can change the ratio

of darkness and light,

can quicken, enliven

but they need a call, a pulse, a song, a whistle

from a wild place

filled with fruiting solitude

and a body that has moved into

stillness,

after a reigning mania.

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Night moths,

Black mares,

white knights,

white lamps,

the riders and their steeds,

speeding around the globes,

inside of you.

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My eyes,

curious, desperate

blazing through

the hills of Corbin,

I found the corral,

the place where

light erupts into the wild places

wild hives, wild flesh

and changes grief into power.

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Her image preceeds and orders

Crosses and squares,

outshines limitation.

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When Christ was wandering,

they pressed into his body,

reached out for his cloak,

their dark wings trying to cover him,

vying to be the Earth that loved to know him,

longing to be the First.

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Yet this image,

this Goddess,

that preceeds, and dominates

each one,

Takes their longing

and uses its speed

to move them to a new world.

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Lamp that draws

the moth,

Sulphur that flashes in the flask,

door appearing to be a solid body.

You hear the moving of wheels,

the clicking of gears,

the sound of locks opening,

keys turning, hinges opening,

wings fluttering, dawn singing.

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This is how they arrive from another world

into surrendered bodies

turned into a circle,

in the desert, covered over by darkness,

massed.

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The speed of the knights

as they circle and cross the globe

The fire of the sun

The water of the moon

as they circle the Earth

Crossing, calling, whistling, wailing.

All phenomenon are crossings. (R.A. Schwaller)

And your suffering is the Sulphur.

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I know you know the feeling

Because you are here

And this is what happens here, sometimes.

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Night moths cover over the source of light

And appear to be a person, create a body

Or the illusion of a body

But He is a door, and the lock is clicking

circling, spinning.

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This is how The Mystery arrives

and how what appear to be bodies

are involved.

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Black moths cover the light

Black raven feathers protect the song of light

Black steeds carry the white riders across the globe

Initiatic darkness, shimmering blackness.

Roaring abyss of dawn.

The Magdalene’s milk and blood.

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Multitudes of night moths

Moved by bird calls

Echoing through the canopy of trees

in this wild place, wild hive,

wild lair,

wild flesh.

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This is the secret of healing

You take all the accumulated suffering

the restless bucking steeds

And move them out of the corral

You direct the night mares

Straight into the submerged Sun

where they becomes a raiment, a plume, a beacon, a bridge.

For One who is waiting to appear

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Each call moves along the earth

and slowly sinks or rises.

Peter Kingsley tells us

the prophets learned to call out

from the birds.

That every call they make is from another place

they sing Day into appearance

thread the world of potency and act

They are the sound of Persephony and Zeus

showing a slight piece of their face

hovering in front of the purple riches of Hades,

the cave opening of Maia,

and her bright son of light.

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I took a calling from the lines of Corbin and Kirmani

from The Book of the Red Hyacinth

and began to sing.

Like Adam, like Pytheas, like Abaris

Like Woodpecker, like Raven

Like Quicksilver, Like an Arrow

With my flesh flush against the Earth

And they arrived

A response.

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Two Riders came into the house

Each put an arm around my shoulder

Each put a palm on the center of my breast

and multitudes of dead bodies

inside of me began to move

like night moths coming to a lamp

like bird calls announcing dawn

like white riders speeding through the worlds.

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Huge amounts of corpses

huge amounts of longing

In quick smooth paths leaving me.

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Near the end of the operation

the Goddess who shines from behind

Preceeds and orders each body

Came into the sacrosanct house,

and let her radiant being nest.

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This Presence, Hadrat

has a song and pulsation

just like you.

You are a response.

You are a call.

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