ST. GEORGE’S DAY ( April 23) (dream stream)
Emblazoned,
A green field.
Light rampant,
Golden-haired,
Erect.
Last night’s stars, last night’s meteors, showers of light as we plummet dark towards the spin of centre, the galactic hum.
Last night’s shooting stars
see them scattered sparkling
on the green grass of morning.
St. George’s Day bright with a sword edge in the wind. Little lambs sleeping warm in the sun. Guardian’s day, the land’s day. We who are, who are we, a part and portion, a flock hovering, gliding down to feed. Our field, bordered and named, bred of us, born and bearing us, dirt and soil grasped, the smell of it, the smell of bone and memory, the deepest smell. The redolent sound reverberates from in to out. Sound beyond, sound within. Nothing that does not vibrate and sing hymns to itself and its innocent exuberant expansion.
Awoken with sounds taking form,
star whispers filling echoing corners.
Placing sounds and syllables.
Taking time and running it
still to watch.
Lanced, vanquished, absorbed, armour to armour, name to name, sound to sound, the neigh of horse, jingle of rein, rasp of scaled iron claw on rock, hiss of expelled flame. The conflict of vowel and consonent. Pinned, wings upraised, the word is formed, dragon-mind gives up and yields to sword-tongue, shield palette. They are not two nor many, those actions, these seconds, these words. They are the stretched thin ever-now, the elongated serpentine, elementally configured, evolution of instance.
He rears up, he severs skin, subdues, subjugates, becomes monster. Not two but one. Bound together as icon, sound and form. Primal hunter hunted, eater eaten, seer seen. Send out from each eye a spear of mind, ineluctably, inevitably hooked, united, absorbed, absolved of difference, a flow of electrons. Eye to eye, saint and demon, exchange sky and earth, fire and tears. One, redundant without the other. Standing waves, crest and trough, a rippled ecstatic hum, white noise of endlessness, gong of falling away.
I shall sink into sound now,
sink into sound, name the names,
place the branched syllables,
string myself naked for nine days,
sacrifice, sacred act,
forget and recall the way the tongue
touches tooth exploding instruction,
an exhalation of daylight,
sparks, stars, a spittle of,
a shaft of,
a spear of.
Purring back and becoming the wriggle of the living heart, forged and cast, caparisoned in echoes. Sound shelled within sound. An eggshell heaven tumbling with birdsong. It savours the roundness of the day. Exhales cloud, tumbling, scudding. A roar that might be sea, might be forest, might be time itself, enfolding shield, vanquished and glorious, golden and slain in the morning.
The giant from whom the world is formed. The jester has slain the king. He takes a golden bow, winks, farts and dissappears. High minded flatulence of patriotism, set to against demons and heretics, the giants of the wilderness. The old names abide, whispered.
A little right
and a wealth of wrong.
To image is to fix.
To fix is to miss the point.
The heart of itself is severed and expires.
A parable of all things, as well as a description, as well as a poem, as well as a mimicked riddle. High on his horse, self-appointed and righteous, the knight rides out to do good. He will go native before nightfall. Seduced by the rainbow sinews of maidens. Then we shall see pierced flanks in the spring, hilltops yearning for a splice of passionate light. We shall see a might entering in and an entering out, a trouncing, a gasping pant of travail. It shall scatter the roosts, it shall raise the heads of deer in the trees. A mighty union there shall be. No battle but a dance, a molecular dance, strings knotted, syllables severed from dictated meaning, wrapped only into its own involution.
Saint and dragon lover,
each echoing sighs,
the fire of tangled nerve
shooting out to the horizon’s edge.
A green shield lies the field.
A sparrowhawk hesitates,
turns and dives.
Silence inside silence.
Sound itself,
a swallow in new skies,
expanding.
****
(the images are from a series of sketches I have been making to turn into silver pendants. Dragon energies are a fascinatingly robust archetype of earth/solar/cosmic sentience and as such are a fertlie ground for internal explorations in matters of consciousness and deep ecology)
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Conversing with invisible friends (1)
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged asides, blogs, bubble-and-squeak, collection, comments, fragments, hiaku-ish, muses, Poetry, responses, scenes on April 19, 2013| 13 Comments »
CONVERSING WITH INVISIBLE FRIENDS
It is not infrequently that I find reading someone’s blog I become word-filled, or at least taste the winds of wordage. A spontaneous thing, a few lines cast down in appreciation or conversation. I have begun collecting those that pleased or surprised me under the above title. Some are complete in themselves, some just torn pages, sketches, notions. But amusing, I hope. A bouquet for my muses ( you lot of screen-lit waifs and strangers, mind-readers, mind-sharers, an osmosis of muses).
1
DREAMING
Caught in this hammock,
Dew-wet spider web:
February day
Dreaming of spring.
Night now.
The world calling low
Down my chimney:
“come out, the clouds
Are fast and glowing pale.”
2
JUGGLER
And what’s a man without his shoes?
A cold toed dancing monkey,
off balance
and drunk on gravity!
3
TINNITUS
It must all end thusly,
stopping suddenly,
like thoughts do, like life does,
as boredom or something more inviting
takes the stage.
A nice touch,
like hearing a wash of bar-room gossip,
or a sudden rush of fragmented,
incomprehensible telepathy….
4
TOO SMART
Stepping over cracks,
papered, glued.
Names for emptiness,
even clever emptiness that a mind can leap.
One by one
we shall all disappear,
finding everyone else,
who have also disappeared,
wondering how that,
how that could possibly happen,
how that could possibly happen again,
again
and again.
5
MUSED
The poet fights to get out,
is slapped down with a gritty hand,
that then too,
turns into a mudra of revealing.
A nonchalent hide and seek,
footsteps echoing in silence.
The maniac down the corridor titters loudly….
6
LILT
Speed and convolution,
locomotive breath.
Delicate pace
with careful tongue.
Disallowed,
my comments,
strange,
syllabic apprehension,
jealous machines…
7
ASIDES
Underestimated, the value of brackets!
They packet up thought and expression,
more similarly to thought and voice,
than more highly regarded punctuations.
I am all for brackets
( I shall make a placard,
and stand on cold corners
(with a small dog and rattling can).
(and I neither object to brackets within brackets
(though a sniffy grammarian might grumble)).
They are raised eyebrows and slight smiles.
They are knowing ness and by the way ness.
They are signposts in the significance
and waywardness of a train of thought
(we are now off the rails and improvising,
(mouth moving, brain aghast)).
And by the way,
the jewel of your words has a certain ring,
engaging,
wed to the world
(punning though,
is the sign of devils
playing with idle hands).
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