Poignant mystical poem by Tom Hirons…here’s a taste…
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
I saw this at dawn this morning, loved it, and thought, wow, he’s writing about Rudra-Shiva too! Just as I did with Whip of the Wild God: A Novel of Tantra in Ancient India — only he hints at Pan, wild wonderful paradoxical Pan…and to me these ancient archetypal divinities are all the same thing….of the same essence….and that essence is the mysterious underpinning of our own soul/s….anyway, enough gushing….would love to know how YOU react to Tom’s gorgeous outpouring….