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Welcome to The Wisdom Verses Podcast with t.k.! Who is t.k.? A living myth interrupting ordinariness. Those are perhaps the best words to describe t.k.—the mystic, poet, father, spiritual master,...
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Welcome to The Wisdom Verses Podcast with t.k.!
Who is t.k.? A living myth interrupting ordinariness. Those are perhaps the best words to describe t.k.—the mystic, poet, father, spiritual master, and farmer. Repository of ancient secrets, worker of arcane magics, sage who has gone beyond the touch of birth and death. Those would also be accurate words. In his poems (and in these recordings), t.k. talks to us about the enlightened one’s love affair with appearance. He invites, cajoles, seduces us into a participatory encounter with wisdom bliss.
show less
Who is t.k.? A living myth interrupting ordinariness. Those are perhaps the best words to describe t.k.—the mystic, poet, father, spiritual master, and farmer. Repository of ancient secrets, worker of arcane magics, sage who has gone beyond the touch of birth and death. Those would also be accurate words. In his poems (and in these recordings), t.k. talks to us about the enlightened one’s love affair with appearance. He invites, cajoles, seduces us into a participatory encounter with wisdom bliss.
The Wisdom Verses Podcast
The Wisdom Verses Podcast
Explicit
8 JAN 2024 · 13.
Beings are born and die. In spring the plum blossoms and
the seeing of plum blossoms.
Enfolding unfolding, blossoming and fruiting.
The dark revealing, the bright concealing in
each new relation. Each new
leaf and flower the totality.
Possibility impossibility flow in and of each other
and in the secretmost recesses of the Heart
unpossibility
non-darkness
unlearning
mysterious
envelope
of wholeness.
In the leaves and branches there is a hidden laughter;
its roots in the formless, its blossoms appear
within form.
Oh, disorderly face of appearance! Oh improbable visage
of sofas, volcano, landscape, wasteland, three-toed sloth
and roses, so many roses.
Hey, appearance!
Do you hold us captive?
Do you set us free?
Or, are you simply going about your business of appearing
disappearing…
unexpected entanglements,
quantum tracings of flower and bud’s atemporal
relationship before during and of all emergence-
the formless, strange meeting place, ant’s
foot and peony sexing.
In spring the plum blossoms and the seeing of plum
blossoms.
3 JAN 2024 · 49.
A man is lost in the woods. For hours he runs, then stumbles.
He looks for turning in ellipses and spirals. Thirst overtakes
him. He comes to a glen with two pools of water. One is
poison. One is nectar. What happens next is a toss-up.
A woman is born in a desert. She wakes up full grown. Sand
stretches for as far as the eye can see and further … as far as
the mind can imagine! There is no end to it. She will have to
make her home from desert, from heat, from the knowings of
sand particles. You woke up today and appearance stretches as
far as mind can wander in every direction.
There is no explanation of why you are here. You wake up full
grown into experience. Appearing stretches everywhere and
everywhen. You will have to make a home from the waxing
and waning of the moon, the patterns of traffic, forest pools.
There are choices. Look for signs.
Joseph was thrown down in a well. Mandarava in a pit of
thorns and tar. Jonah into the belly of a whale.
Padmasambhava—the Cool Grove Charnel Ground. Are these
anywhere else? You too must make your home in the midst of
irritations. You too must find delicious laughter tumbling out
from the mouth of everywhere.
The Friend of The Way does not teach you. That one is a
mirror. The world reflected in empty brightness reveals signs,
pathways. In that mirror: one forest pool shows a banshee, an
owl, a dark river and, in the other, a sun, moon, staircase of
flowers. A mirror offers no advice, only vision.
Explicit
20 NOV 2023 · In this AWESOME and PERFECT teaching, t.k. delivers a masterful exposition on emptiness-nothingness-openness as the essence of reality, through explaining his poem:
62.
There is a homeland of wisdom where my beloved dwells. It is
an openness irreducible, untouched by sorrows. It is a place
where every thing is lost, and the beloved appears as the
everything radiance of without cause.
There, there can be no thought, no concept; lover and beloved
do not signal the separation of the number two, nor do they
imagine Oneness. They refuse that game.
No truth or untruth, no good or bad, no stages of the path, no
mantra, samaya, deity, or tantra, nothing to do and nothing left
undone.
There, there is no Christian or Buddhist, no Trump or Clinton,
no five element play and no substanceless light.
There, there is no self and no other, no terrorist or friend, no
immigrant or native. There, there is no duality nor non-duality,
no prayer, no meditation, no work and no relaxation, no
beings, no Buddhas, no birth, no death.
There, in the Utterly Nothing Palace, my beloved and I cavort
in love untouched by care or worry. Oh, yogi and friend, I
hope you too will join us in our Nobody
Nowhere Palace, the Apophatic Palace
Explicit
16 OCT 2023 · 22. 23. 24. Three poems of Mori:
1. Japan, Harvest Moon, fall 1470:
sunlight meets chandelier;
now things get erotic.
everything delights in opening. .
the pleasure of colors spill out
everywhere.
the mood of lucency, moonlight. son of an emperor
daughter of a peasant. uncreate mind’s insistence
on alternatives (Wave? Particle?).
her body, careless across bed. his lips to her warm wet.
worship meets. mind silences. the Davisson–Germer
experiment is made in love.
now things get erotic
everything delights in
entering.
(A person enters a room. The room has
more than one door. The person must enter
through one of them never all of them at
once. An electron enters a room. The
electron can, and always does, enter
through all doors simultaneously.)
the pleasures of wisdom spill out
everywhere.
2. Denmark, Cold Moon, winter 1067:
After Loki I was the first to borrow Freyja’s cloak of falcon
feathers. I flew to you. Flew across centuries and oceans.
I could not bear the separation and so, not finding you
quickly enough, I consulted the Thrice Burnt Thrice Born,
the she-witch Gullvieg.
She spoke:
“I am sorry but there is nothing I can say that
would not perchance dismantle, denude, destroy the
careful contrivance you call ‘your life.’”
And so, I lay down on pine bow bed, wildflower, arch of
bones, Viking feast in the halls of Fólkvangr.
I practiced the s
e
x
magic of the old Norse: dwarves painted on
the sides of barn timbers, the deep pull of
ancient wells, the sorcery of touch wood,
skin bag
ermine gloves.
Due to my being a man, she would not at first see me. But
she was Freyja’s sister and so I told her it was of you. I
knew she would understand the backward way of love; I told
her you are my household. I told her that without you I
have no poetry. She laughed like lunacy. “Love’s
unknowings outweigh human contrivances,” she whispered.
She burnt plants: henbane, mushroom, pine sap.
She unmade man-ness, took away gendering.
She went to her loom, loosened a knot in the woof,
the ways in which you were hidden were undone.
She tied a knot, the enemy was bound.
She made me a finder of futures and pasts.
That unsane sister tied the words ‘yours’ ‘mine’ to colored
thread and wove them into the community of messengers
the bird-headed females
called envoys of sages.
Then and there I unbecame and became again. Now, unlike
that odd species called “men,” I am not endangered (or
engendered) by womanly freedoms...
When I die I will go with the half who journey to Freyja, to
you. Let the men who only know battle go to Odin.
3. Atlanta, Flower Moon, spring 2001:
new moon’s darkness is a cloak
a mantle over your
shoulder.
(I can’t quite remember anymore
did I call you or am I the called?
little matter.)
now i journey down. my lips
draw out threads of pleasure –
a little art that weaver taught me.
now my kisses open, disclose.
now your hand invites, draws in.
now this time, and that, are only.
the milky way of your legs spread
their beauty across the pilgrimage
of my hands.
your sighs balance my accounts and
the three times become one.
9 OCT 2023 · 10. A child runs through a field of wildflowers; their eyes fill with
beauty. Another walks an open-air market, St. Rémy de
Provence, the smell of olives and ripe melons fills her body
with a joy. A joy untouched by word.
When sense field and sense object meet in innocence, their
union becomes the swelling forth of Love. How do you know
if they have met in innocence—there is silence. Silence
pervades perception and brings with it mysterious benediction.
Silence flowers. An invitation is heard, received, met, entered.
All that—before the word “desire.”
We grow up. We become preoccupied. Pre-occupation, always
already occupied by that complicated business and bartering of
attraction, aversion, indifference. Mind’s figurings are
chaotic—sense field and sense object meet in fretful concern.
Odds are figured, interest calculated.
There is a strange forgetting within our desiring. But, also, an
odd remembrance, a longing. In the Himalayan mountains
there is a mythical great white swan who, when a bowl of milk
and water mixed is placed before her, can drink the milk and
leave the water. Our forgetting and remembrance are water
and milk mixed.
Forgetting and Remembrance are not ideas but alive entities.
Desire and Innocence too. These are living forces. And, it’s not
so much that you are living them as they are living you. But
you have a secret power—you decide who gets fed.
Longing’s prayer is the invitation of Innocence. Desire’s
demand closes doors.
Desire claims that if you feed it, it will give you the keys to the
kingdom of pleasure and glory. Innocence is shy and makes no
claims—it perceives in tender silence. Mind’s chaos accustoms
itself to the noise of ceaseless conflicting desires, but it can also
be trained. Wants to be. Mind’s blah blah blah is a dog looking
for a leash.
Everything Desire claims is delivered by Innocence. The Great
Work is a training in Innocence.
2 OCT 2023 · In this first episode, t.k. graces us with a talk on the meaning and references included in the sublime poem “31” from his book of poetry entitled Xuan Xue: The Dark Unlearning.
31.
There is a body of sudden openness. It has
no feet, no hand, no face, no form.
And it has no alienation of labor and the
product of labor. Awareness’ work is
appearance. Management, that old fraud,
the word “I,” has been sacked.
In its mysterious absence it is wholeness, and,
when we come to rest therein—to find our own
unutterable non-being—then everything we
speak becomes love.
Tomorrow it is labor negotiations. Good faith
bargaining between the obscurity of no-thing-ness
and some-thing-ness. But tonight the subject is Love.
Tomorrow will be all headaches and hangovers. But
tonight it’s all drunken staggering.
The divine neither is nor is not, just like you
—its AppearingEmptiness is far more subtle,
more full of jest and humor, than that
n c
a a
r n
r y
o o
w n — the verb To Be.
t.k.’s books on Amazon.com - https://www.amazon.com/stores/t.-k./author/B098KL5T6Z
Outro music: “Sam’s Kiss” by Just a Tourist - https://open.spotify.com/track/3fJ4zUxOsGnihcmUshURGf
Welcome to The Wisdom Verses Podcast with t.k.! Who is t.k.? A living myth interrupting ordinariness. Those are perhaps the best words to describe t.k.—the mystic, poet, father, spiritual master,...
show more
Welcome to The Wisdom Verses Podcast with t.k.!
Who is t.k.? A living myth interrupting ordinariness. Those are perhaps the best words to describe t.k.—the mystic, poet, father, spiritual master, and farmer. Repository of ancient secrets, worker of arcane magics, sage who has gone beyond the touch of birth and death. Those would also be accurate words. In his poems (and in these recordings), t.k. talks to us about the enlightened one’s love affair with appearance. He invites, cajoles, seduces us into a participatory encounter with wisdom bliss.
show less
Who is t.k.? A living myth interrupting ordinariness. Those are perhaps the best words to describe t.k.—the mystic, poet, father, spiritual master, and farmer. Repository of ancient secrets, worker of arcane magics, sage who has gone beyond the touch of birth and death. Those would also be accurate words. In his poems (and in these recordings), t.k. talks to us about the enlightened one’s love affair with appearance. He invites, cajoles, seduces us into a participatory encounter with wisdom bliss.
Information
| Author | TanaGana Publishing |
| Organization | TanaGana Publishing |
| Categories | Buddhism , Spirituality , Philosophy |
| Website | - |
| brothergreg@proton.me |
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