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February is month of silence, of purification, of beginnings. White days, black nights. A hunger to be started, a hunger to remain at peace……

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I

Silver and still.

A geography of birdsong

Shaping the silent air.

Continents of cloud

Laminate the day.

II

PILLOW

The full moon,
Like a gentle rain:
Honey to the soul.

Sweeter still
The sweet music
Playing in that vast silence.

On the tip of the tongue:
How cool the roundness of it.
On the pillow where I rest my eyes,
How fragrant that single flower of jasmine.

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III

THE AVENUES OF EVENING

A thousand stars
For each man’s eye.
A thousand stars
From each night’s vigil.

There is fire
At the centre of everything.
Fire beneath
The cool breeze of evening.
Fire in the white cherry’s breath,
Fire in the poet’s head –
The crazed poet lover
Strumming his heart.

In the heart of each man
A thousand stars.
In the heart of the night
A thousand antiphonies.
Mars’s red eye cools:
He drinks
The white cherry avenues
Of Aphrodite.

The world,
The round world
Spins through fragrant air.

Fire in the worm
Fire in the well
Fire in the garden
Fire in the eyes of the cast out.

Looking out-
As if for the first time,
(every time, the first time)….

Fire in the cold woman’s dream
Fire in the forest.
Fire and flood spreads spinning
In the woman’s womb,
In the swan’s rustle
By the water’s edge.

The nipple of Life shoots milk in fire
Through blank blindness.
A thousand stars spread in each drop
Flung free in distance.

Fire that burns
And fire that answers,
Freezing the spaces in between.

Fire that falls on the thumb
Is sucked without thought
Transforming fire to word,
Word to illumination.

Fire running through each beast,
It courses the veins of each child.

Each glance: a thousand stars,
Each familiar in the memories of a million souls.

A thousand stars for each man’s eye
In the cherry’s breath,
In the avenues of evening.

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IV

TWO WOMEN

Now they lie, one and two
United in oblivion,
Comforting their powers.
Moth white, moon pale,
Sleep’s hills and valleys
Slightly rising, falling.

They know it and
Do not know it:
Measuring the world,
Wrapping it in movement.

Breath fills the room
And whispers through the house.
The seed falls through its golden cloud.

And now the cat prowls
Where no cat is.
Cat of desire
Purring at the bedhead.
Cat of darkness
Wrapping around its warmth.
The Familiar of the Female
Measuring the world,
Wrapping it in movement.

V

ONCE ONLY

In the grey dawn the honey kiss is hers
That made you shiver.

You do not know her name
You do not know her face,
Coming to your dreaming.

Her scent is summer
Her skirts sounding seas.
But she never waits for you.
But she never waits for you.

She will wait for you but once.
Only once will she wait for you.

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SPIRIT OF ELM

Spirit of elm
Sky- ladder
Cloud-crowned
Abode of wings
Chamber of radiance

The eight winds arise from you
The seven oceans flow through you

Pibroch of intelligence
Silent teacher
Resonant tower

One tree is a forest

Traversing the three worlds
Delineator of starlight
Eloquent shaper
Invisible watcher
Guardian of memory
Lord of words
Wonderful councellor
Showerer of light

Uxlemitanos
High elm
Deep noted
Fountain of stillness
Road to clarity
Discomforter of confusion
Diameter of creation

Upholder
Enfolder
Elucidator
Beyond silence.

Each tree species manifests the unity of Creation in its unique energy dance, maintaining and sustaining the continual weaving of the world. They wait and offer endless paths to the contemplation and realisation of wholeness.

The Elm is particularly tuned to channelling silent clarity and wisdom. Brilliant, resonant silence overwhelms confusion and separation. Elm is an invaluable teacher and a protector of personal integrity at the deepest level.

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Tao of Trees.

This world rests on trees: its dream is green.
Wherever we may be, in deserts or on oceans,
We are bathed in the consequence of forests.
We breathe because of trees, we eat through their blessing.
Their shadows fall and cool in every clime.
Their presence is a moderation of hurricanes,
A warming of winter, a shelter and a place of contemplation.

To be able to condense and hold that smooth unity
Is the purpose of Tree Spirit Healing.
It is an empty hand and a quiet voice.

It is hardly anything and yet,
It can make all the difference
Between suffering and joy,
Collapse and integration.

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“Dark as the wolf’s month.”

January was known in the past as “Wolf’s Month”, the time when wolves desperate for food would most likely approach human habitations and attack people.

Here are some January words, somewhat dark, but it is the right time to contemplate the dark: on silent, long nights with the slow cold dawn so distant and forlorn…..

The wolf pictures are derived from Celtic Iron Age coin art.

I

Wolf month.
Feasting faded.
Now, waves of biting wind,
Sharp rain.

Through aching twilight,
Tattered roads.

The bright horizon, a promise
That cannot be kept.

Dreams become shredded, screaming,
Hung from cold tree towers.

Ghosts only,
Stare back from the water’s surface,
Gaunt, well- eyed.

Wolf Month:
Hollow,
Grey
And hungry.

II

Cold and fallow,
Muttering, dry dust.

The need to
Feel a delicate thread
That drives down
Into dream.

Needle-sharp,
Sew swiftly
The images that rise
And flitter.

We are nothing but
A flicker of light and shade-
Dust that sings
Dust that sifts through silence…

Drought
Needs root
To break.

Shock,
Hollow hopelessness,
Jagged entropy of rusty planets,
The tiring, desperate wheeze
Of a starter motor
Failing to…..

Wait.
We cannot always be glorious
We cannot always be beautiful
We cannot always be breathing words out
Into the world.
Wait.
Breathe in.
Feel gravity settle and whispers calm.
Down
through the endless compressed strata.
Dreaming of dragons…..

III

I came across an old Latin palindrome, a verbal construction that reads the same whether read forwards or backwards. Most palindromes are verging on nonsensical, but this one has resonance…

Palindrome.

‘In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni.’

“We enter the circle after dark and are consumed by fire…. ”

That which we see is a reflection:
Invisible axis throwing back
A memory.

Mica dust
Brushing lips and eyelids

A fall into grace,
A desire for answers

A fibrillation of wings
A gesture of antenna

A coagulation of doubt,
A delineation of vagueness

Distant carillons resound-
Cerebellar starlight flickers

Walking forwards
Eyes in the back of the head

Walking backwards
To get a better view

Counterbalance dreams with …what?
with callibration
With certitude
With fumbling dogma

Go backwards-
Find a beginning.

Go forwards-
Find an ending.

Chiaroscuro.
The demon drunk
Gnashed a brush between his teeth,
The tang of turpentine and linseed.
Delighting, near mad, he moulds
Inpenetrable shadows to our godly form.
Heretical, welding us to darkness.
Creatures of form, no longer of light
But extruding from blackness our passions,
Our writhings towards a vague holiness…
Carravaggio, unkindly revealing
Moth nature,
Called to burn in the flame,
Corruscating, veined…

Like Blake’s daemons
We fall through aeons of void
Melting into gravitational chains,
Bound by chattering certainties
Bound by certain fears..

Into the spotlight,
We must enter the spotlight
Significant and justified…
Worthwhile, loved, approved of…

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Another star poem:

NIGHT PATTERNS

Looking tonight
It was a child’s game,
A peasant’s carpet.

Patterns of light
Stuck on the slow swing
Of the sky’s bowl.
Refusing to flee farther
Than over the rooftops,
Beyond the field.

Try as I might
They adhere to old
Cosmologies:
Telling stories,
Whispering names,
Herding seasons.

Yet
One spark from a star
Lodged fast in my soul.
A splinter of light,
Lost tombed in my eye.
Quick burin of night
Engraving my brain.

As I lie now
Echoes sift
The skull’s dome.

Suspended
From a million threads
I turn slowly, slowly,
About a still Pole
Whose name is mine.

————-

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Followed by another night poem:

NIGHT RAIN, SUMMER RAIN

Ripening moon
Warming breath

Through race of wind
Sharp scent of stars

Rain-grass taste
Blue supper

Black towers
On whistling wheels
Wing, scud
Trundle
Timewards.

With their first lick
Our Lady’s sides shiver

Embraced in shouts
She melts and fades

As night rains
So silk fish leap,
Flash and ripple
On the water’s face

But She swings
Like silver
Wings
Like silver bell
Around the dark dome

Rings
Sings
Shakes light
Sinks shrouded

———

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Followed by two poems of waking:

HUNG AS A HAWK

Hung
As a hawk
On the cross-beams
Of tick-tock

Spliced
By light
With the blackbird’s
River

A slim wedge
Pricks this
Bubble bright
All-swirl

The riddle orb
Cascades.

The shadow flock
Leave whispers:
Pool worlds
Flash and floating
High and dry

Leavings
Purchased with oceans-
This blanket demesne
Whose senses
Night’s scythe
Dismembered

Strewn grains
They sprout
Strong cauldron

Tinker tailor
Whets and sews
Resurrection

Nerve and sunbeam
Weld the spark
To Jolly Roger’s
Skull and bones

Ahoy!
The Last Trump!
The Seven Citied Isle!

The five floodgates
Open.

R.I.P
Drowned
In daylight.

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THE SHELL’S SONG

So long lost,
Save what is saved
For the brave wave’s winnowing.

Cast on the drift,
Drowned in the deep oh,
Drawn down in sleep,
Slip the fathoms,
The far fathoms fine.

Tumble slow in motion,
Heels over head,
And leave to care
The coves and caves,
The sloping sand
Losing time in tides:
Each beach that speaks
The long waves reach.

Breathe green for aye
The deeps
No eye
Has seen.

Sink in seven seas:
The eighth ocean
Where fishes kiss
These fingertips-
The slow shoals
Of sweet dream.

Where stars fish
The deep green dream of hue,
The skein of scale,
Glimmer shimmer of tail.

The sigh
And sough of sea
Within the shell’s siren ear.

Sigh and sough,
Sigh and sough.

Now
Fish the sea’s eye
And rise on tide’s wings.

The wind-washed world
Calls the length of leagues
To the seaweed tangle
Of your thought.

Bleached shell
Rolls a line to and fro
And rising,
Floating,
Sleep ebbs away.

Eyes closed:
The shingle sounds
Of day.

——–

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NIGHT PATTERNS

I had forgotten completely about this work, which I had worked on during an Artist’s Residency in Lincolnshire. It is one of several that I conceived. Only one ever got performed – too metaphysical for most Arts Council’s tastes, I expect.

Here they are presented on the theatre stage of your own mind, no need for tickets, no need for polite applause.

Not quite film, not quite poetry, not quite “Under Milk Wood” ! A sketchbook of a journey through a landscape……..

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Night Patterns – Fragments of a proposed performance.

These are the names they suffer.
Name and form.
Foam from the distance,
Light eaten by hungry eyes.
Light locked in the memory of cells,
That recall the first time
They grew from the glimmering dark.

[Followed by names and translations of constellations and stars whilst body outlines are transferred onto the floor]

The woman in chains
Sadalsud
The flying eagle
Thyterion
The sign
Heniochus
Nekkar
The hunting dogs
The scorching
Al kalb al mutakaddim
Gredi
Schedir
Caph
Cih
The serpent bitten
Mira Ceti
The pair of compasses
Zaurak
Rana
Beld
Enif
…….

“Whose eyes are these?
These cold eyes.
These flickering eyes.
What names are theirs?
In what designs do they fall?
These cold fires.
These flickering fires.

What are their names
And what are their designs?”

We know them by our own fires.
We name them from our own names.
We shape them to our own designs.

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‘Men and creatures were more alike then than now. Our fathers were black, like the caves they came from; their skins were cold and scaly like those of mud creatures; their eyes were goggled like the owl’s; their ears were like those of cave bats; their feet were webbed like those of walkers in wet and soft places; they had tails, long or short, as they were old or young. Men crouched as they walked, or crawled along on the ground like lizards. They feared to walk straight, but crawled as before time they had in their cave worlds, that they might not stumble or fall in the uncertain light……..”

(Zuni creation myth, New Mexico)

“Earth Doctor saw that when the sun and moon were not in the sky, all was in inky darkness. So he sang a magic song, and took some water into his mouth and blew it into the sky, in a spray, to make little stars. Then he took his magic crystal and broke it into pieces and threw them into the sky, to make the larger stars. Next he took his walking stick and placed ashes on the end of it. Then he drew it across the sky to form the Milky Way. So Earth Doctor made all the stars.”

(Pima peoples, Arizona)

A Persian munuscript of the 14th century: “The Book of Fixed Stars”, shows two versions of each constellation: one as seen from the Earth, and one as they would appear to someone looking down on them……..

“By their powers
They traversed the whole world,
Measuring the ancient divisions,
Unmeasured.
They restricted all existent beings
To their proper forms;
They distributed in many directions
Light amongst the people.”

(Rig Veda, Mandala X. 11. 14)

[Walking barefoot along a pathway or border of chalk powder: leaving black footprints. Then walking on to a black path, leaving white footprints.]

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Echoes in the skull’s dome
Sift and shape.
We dream at the cavern’s mouth
Still.
(In the deeps, the horned one chants).
Looking out
At flickering shadows,
Dumbstruck with thoughts
We cannot utter.

“Stroking the thighs of Night”

The border. The point between. Grey dawn.

It is late October in the hours before dawn
When the night is all corridors and roofless rooms.
When darkness is milky grey and moving with echoes.
When the wind in the dry leaves might be rain.
When the rain might be crackling flame.
When the whining of dogs might be the crying of children.
When the creatures with no shape move
Along the lines between spaces.

There is a figure in the centre sitting.
The arms extending, holding two rods
Down towards the ground.
There is a figure standing
On one leg between two poles.
There is a figure moving slowly
Along a marked-out path.
There is a tightrope walker.

The mariner’s card.
The flower of distance.
The astrolabe of thought.

Whence these movements of mind?
Walking the shore – neither land nor sea.
Waking nor dreaming.

To consider one possesses thoughts
Is erroneous.

The mariner’s card –
The hunt,
The transformation,
The accidental illumination.

“Not Quite and Only Just”

Waking before dawn, 24th October. The image of a seated figure, holding out as extensions of arms, two long white poles. The sound of the night – rain or wind on the dying leaves; the echoes of a dog or a person shouting…..

[Most movement will involve these two poles, which are the same height or taller, than the performer.
The tightrope.
A figure-of-eight, or a circle is walked, with one pole turning around the other. One stationary, one moving.]

From where do these images emerge?
Who thinks our thoughts?
Why have meaning attached to action?

Action free from explanation.

The line of thought. Ariandne’s thread. Bells, echoes, repeats, repeats. Siva and Ganesh. Time and Space. Doorways.
Justify actions with thoughts, reasons for actions. Categorize, plot, file.
A relationship of patterns.
One electron moving through all dimensions creating everything.
Walking a line on the shore between waking and dreaming.
Random thought or didactic progressions.
Terra incognita.
Fear of the dark, fear of empty spaces.
The filling in of names and dates.
The movements and positions are visual – mapmaking pins and string..

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I am trying to put sounds,
Words, to the movement.
Why?
Why not silence?
(Cage’s silence in his music – no silence).

Cause and effect.
To describe each action as it occurs.

“Where the moon is now?
At this moment.”

Cause and effect.

“I want you to watch as I watch.
I want you to watch
Because I cannot watch.
You think therefore I am.
You watch therefore I move.
The observer and the observed.
The thought, the act of thinking, the thinker….”

A pattern drawn out in the dust:
Memorised to allow passage through,
Despite the witch who continually tries
To erase it………

Bowls with mirrors and lights,
Skins broken reflecting on the face.
Narration of Cerridwen and Taliesin.
Transformation of thought,
The line of thought,
Awen.

Pouring torn paper, reflecting silver
Into bowls of light.
Ritual emptying and filling.
Long Man of Wilmington,
Surveyor,
Discriminator of Two Points.
Tracing the pattern, memory,
The way beyond the stagnant hills.
Uncovering,
The revealing of power,
The footprint,
The pattern.

“Not Quite and Only Just”

[A black background, white figures. Drapery. Covered and revealed. Pouring bowls. Spinning, shifting lights. From an empty space to a full space. Wheels. Movement of the spheres. Scientific facts. Mythological fact. Symbolic fact. Fictional fact.]

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Walking barefoot,
The pattern drawn in the dust.
Delineate, explain, comment….

The woman in chains,
The serpent bitten.

The exact position
Of the moon,
Right Now.

—————

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Balance Point ( songs for an equinox)

Fading words on fragile pages.
Autumn winds blew old, very old words into my mind again.
I think some of these pieces, which I wrote over thirty years ago, stand up well. But it is hard for me to tell.
They are like long-forgotten, well-thumbed photographs – difficult to look at objectively through the associated memories and emotions they evoke.

Still it is a nice thing to press them, like fallen leaves, between fresh white pages, letting them float across other’s sight for a moment or two……

——-
I

Corner of the Year.

(its voice is the essence of the crow – its name is its sound, it can be heard even when it cannot be seen….)

The crow’s call
Across the golden morning.

In my mind
Summer ends.

The fire
The leaf’s fall.
The fire
The world’s edge.
The fire.

It was the crow’s cry
Turned the sky
To autumn.

On the bridge
The corner of the year.
On the bridge
The salmon are leaping.
On the bridge
The fire has fallen.

The crow leans
Into distant blue.

I stand at my high place:
The battle of dawn.
Banner-black cloud pinion
Where cold light falters.

The old fire sinks
To the deeps beneath.

But deep
in the call
Of the dove
on my window

Is where summer
Has hidden.

———-

II

Mind. Moon. Circle.

(An offering for zen poet, Ryokan)

First,
Deep blue.
Then
The deepest of blues.

Silver
That lightens
And darkens
To shape and shadow.

From out of the woods
He steps in silence.
Standing still
With no thought.
Breathing the earth
Through his heels.

There is a closeness behind,
As of dreaming trees,
But it is the past
With no memory.

I was going to meet
Old man Ryokan,
Gazing together,
The glimmering cup of sake…..

One robe is the sky.
One bowl is the moon.

And perhaps
A word or two:
A haiku with the first line
“though we must part..”
Never finished out loud.

A white dancer,
A blue stage.

There is music
But no one watches.

Having forgotten themselves
Which is the moon?
Which is the lake?

Pale lips
The moment
Before speech.

No words.

There is silver.
There is deep blue,
And the deepest
Of blues.

There are no words
And no end.

——–

III

Corvus corone corone

( for those who love the freedom-loving crow)

Spooncrack
Across blue ether’s egg,
This black winged voice.

A rag of will
That pits the wind.
Bone and barb
To carry hunger’s beak,
Jangling
On the gibbett air.
Moulded sharp
Upon the squall.

Cinder of night
Strewn upon
Day’s garden.
Fall of ash
From star’s devouring.
Jester
With a cursing tongue.

What god is his
Whose bright eye hallows?
That marks the quick-drift,
Cross-tide of seasons?

What fist
That clenched the flux
Of elements,
Drove the spring
Tight bound
Around this heart?

Praise Him
Whose passion
Light exalts.
Him whose thought
Delights
In shadow.

———

IV

The Silent Centre, or: The Night’s Road

( this was written when I was working in a studio in rural Lincolnshire for a year. I was working a lot with stars, star names and patterns, the evocative stratigraphy of history and folklore…….)

The silent centre where the slow Pole turns
Winds and ravels in the breath of minutes.

From the root of the spine
To the branching sight
It pulls upwards an arc of thought
Spanning clear into the glimmerimg dark.

Long are the miles of Time.
Long the carts wheel that studded road.
Heel and toe the tongue considers
To mark each stepping place.

Mirae, Arcturus, Menkar, Rigel
Deneb, Vega, Scheat, Enif.

We need and must go
To the edge of the wind’s roaring.
We need and must go
To the shore where all seas still.
We need and must meet
The house at the road’s crossing,
And rest not but pass on.

Long is the road,
The road that the stars look upon.
And it is a fragile holding:
The hold of name and number.
If ever we should forget, oh
If ever we should forget the stepping place,
And careless let slip the line of sight,
Careless let fall the weight of thought
And the heart’s salt tide
Not rule the night.

Then whence and where would lose the circuit’s end.
Lost one by one, the wheels should cease,
And lost, the lights would dim and shiver.
The names of Man, the Spirit measure
Would curl and grey
Forbidding dawn forever.

But where eyes turn
The name shall find them,
And footsteps trace
And tracks recover.
Where edge meets edge
The hope discloses
The constant spark
Forbidding night forever.

We need and must go
To the edge of the wind’s roaring.
We need and must go
To the shore where all seas still.
We need and must meet
The house at the road’s crossing
And rest not but pass on.

Mirae, Arcturus, Menkar, Rigel
Deneb, Vega, Scheat, Enif.

———–

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Fires within the world – summer’s ending.

I

Bank the fires
Hum the lullabye
End the world’s work
Weave a breath of dream.
Tree shadows on the wall
Watching the flicker of eyelids.
Who is awake?
Who is dreaming?

————

II

The fast, turning wheel
Of the northern year:
warm honey summer air
Sunk now
Deep within the nested chambers
Of swelling berries.

Still
Golden days.
But more insistent now:
The filigree of stars
That thin the silence.

Shadows lengthen,
Edges turn pale:
Fragile are the hours,
Well-wrought
The gathering in.

The sutras of Time:
A balm,
Most beautiful elegy.

Never weep
The drained cup:
The wheel of the year
Is the beat
Of your heart.

——-

III

No moon
This Lammas Eve,
But all along the path:
Bindweed,
Yarrow
And silver mugwort.

——-

IV

( upon the increased beuracratisation of personal choice, living, breathing, eating, dying, thinking, choosing……)

A drift of angels:
All smiles,
Cudgels behind their backs.
“Do what we say –
message from an Almighty –
or creation will crack.”

Thugs of theocracy,
Regulators of vocabulary,
Rhetoric of righteousness,
Statistics of placation:

A bad smell
Rebranded.

Hoodwinked,
The viral notions
Quietly take charge –

We succumb to apathy,
A belief in benificent power.

“This is all for your own good,
Protection
you cannot afford to ignore,
Advice
You will be ill-advised to question…..”

———–

V

(upon a sudden plague of idiots with circular stupidity…)

And I shall not smile
To keep you merry-
You who go round
In the same ruts endlessly,
Congratulating yourselves
For the new views,
The progress made.

Deeper and deeper
In muddy mire,
With tawdry mawkish ballads –
Hymns to mediocrity,
Platitudes that destroy
The truth of language…..

——–

VI

“Blessed be.”

All summer
I have been dreaming –
Up to no good,
Saving up time.

An ocean of words
Ebbing and flo-ing
Just beyond reach.
A roar of voices,
A hiss of whispers.

Dabbling my fingers
In shallow, warm waters,
Bemused by sunlight,
Waiting for a signal,
A start,
A point to begin.

Upon a lake
That is not a lake
There is a boat
That is not a boat.

Not doing,
But being.

———–

VII

Fragile:

If you try
To grasp reality
It is crushed
Beyond recognition.

Just wait
With hand outstretched
And beauty
Will alight,
For no reason –
Only because
it can.

——–

VIII

The spice of death
Is on the air:
Reddening brambles,
Crisping, fading bracken.

Edges turn brittle.

Earth and grasses turn damp.
Damp seeps
Into the bones of things,
Like darkness
Eating the edges of daylight….

————

IX

And then,

One calm,

Blue

Evening

We realise:

The swallows

Have all gone!

Silence descends

With the blossoming

Of autumn stars.

————-

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Tree Spirit Healing, like consciousness and like life itself, is essentially very simple.

It is the inter-relationships, the commentaries on their structures and nature, that often becomes complicated.

Silence is consciousness.
All thought, all language, is a commentary upon the nature of thst silence.

The paradox of Tree Spirit Healing is thus to acquire a state of stillness thriugh different types of activity.

The theoretical basis of these processes and explanations are pointless unless the healing is apparent and evident. So what do we mean by the term “healing” ? ……..

—————

Reminder

“If there is a tree or some other plant that seems to have no power or virtue, then you do not know that tree or plant well enough.

Trees of power, plants of power,
All creatures,
Are doorways to the unlimited power of the Universe.

All trees are trees of power.
All plants are plants of power.

Find the key-
Open the door.

Shadows, mirrors, reflections, memories:
every aspect is true,
But partial.

(Motherwort spirit)

____________

Wish of the Tree Spirit Healer

From the still hub,
The silent centre
Where fire and water,
Earth, air and ether
Are held in equipoise:

From the radiance of life
We call ‘tree’
I ask for the wisdom of speech
I ask for the wisdom of listening
I ask for the wisdom of understanding.

May the spirits who dwell
Within the forn,
May the spirits who flow
Through the form,
May the spirits who dwell
Behind and beyond the form
Of the radiance of life
We call ‘tree’,

Feed us
Sustain us
And walk with us
Until we have learnt
To feed,
Sustain and walk
By ourselves-

And then
May we play together
Forever
In the vast joy
Of this planet-mother,
Earth.

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Tree of Voices

We all have the tools necessary for working with tree spirits.

The mind and the senses, the body and the emotions
have all evolved to be sensitive to the subtle impressions of other life communicating with us.

We simply have to rummage around in the bottom of our tool kit to find those specific tools that we have become unfamiliar with through cultural habits.

The spine, the eye, the fingertips, are all equally part of the mind.

Each message, chemical or electrical, is from one to the other and this flows out to our senses, our sense impressions, the world – where all messages electrical, chemical, sensual, web the whole of creation in one great exchange of information and interaction.

There is no end,
no beginning
to one’s awareness:

only the desire to dwell
on this or that.

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SORLEY, SORELY MISSED

How do we frame a poet’s voice in our minds as we read? What speed, what cadence, what emphasis, what accent? What voice, indeed do we wear ourselves? For it is certainly not the outer voice that surprises us when we hear a recording of what we, apparently, sound like.

Some poets seem perfect, or have found others with perfect voices for their thoughts. Nothing, for example, can evoke the poetic voice of Dylan Thomas more than the deep rumbling resonance of Richard Burton reading ‘Under Milk Wood’.
Often though, the modern poet reads their own words in a style that obscures the meaning. This seemed to be particularly prevalent in the Sixties and Seventies. The Liverpool poets and the punk poets chose to emphasise the rhythm by unnatural stresses on syllables and a tonal nasality reminiscent of the stereotypical folk singer. Like Bob Dylan impressionists without the tunes! The sound made by the mouth, cadence, alliteration, assonance all take over from the listener’s ability to understand the meaning – to build their own mental pictures of the words.
I first heard the recorded voice of Sorley MacLean on a track by Martyn Bennett named after the poem “Hallaig”. He had been given permission by the widow to use an old recording as the counterpoint to a wistful whistle track on the album ” Bothy Music”.

Although I had heard his name as one, but not the most famed, of the Scottish poets writing still in traditional Gaelic language and idiom, I had not read or heard his work. He wrote in Gaelic and translated himself into English. As a Highland poet his words are wistful, nostalgic, elegiac, mournful, fierce and eloquent. The style echoes the declamatory clan poets, praising, remembering, cursing and framing the human emotion within a landscape of evocative names. How evocative for those who have not seen those glens and lochs is difficult to say, but for me, who lived in Scotland for six years and often spent time in retreat beside Loch Rannoch it brings back all the resonant depth of that land.

Reading certain information or certain authors locks one in to one’s own creative flow, spontaneously releasing echoes and explorations. Once heard, the voice of Sorley MacLean becomes the voice of his words – the only way to unlock the images.
They took me back in my memories and so these of my own words flowed in fits and starts…..

Note: Scheihallion is a notable mountain at the head of Loch Rannoch, beside Loch Tummel. It can be seen from the railhead that skirts the desolation of Rannoch Moor and once seen, its conical form cannot be forgotten. It is said to be the home of the Fairies….

Heart songs,
Memory whispers, glimpses
Of beauty
In Breadlebane and Rannoch.

The language of clouds
Dark waters,
Bright birches.
Rannoch and Breadlebane
Where my heart wanders
Amongst
The rain and sunlit hills.
Mist of memory.
Scent of pines
And heather dust.

——-

From the height of Croiscrag
The deer tracks
wander.
Scent of heather dust
And the dark waters below
The silent,
bright birches.

Beyond sight,
but not mind
The peerless depths
of Loch Etive
Over the hills…..

There shall be no need to remember,
No desire to forget…..

I shall be a birch, an alder
Leaning over the small sands
Gazing upon the waters of Rannoch,
Mirror deep with morning.

Curls of mist…..

And I shall speak only
The language of sedge-grass,
The song of pines breathing,
Of curlew ‘s lament,
Carried low
Like a midwinter sun……

Dawn air,
Wine cool, fragrant
As flesh:
the only food I need.
Gazing for a thousand years –
Silent ripples on deep water…..

From the Bridge of Gaur
Sunset shadows
Looking on Schiehallion….

——

When I am dead,
And dreaming,
From the Bridge of Gaur
I will gaze on the face of
Scheihallion
For a thousand years-
If that
is not too little time.

A thousand sunrises, a thousand sunsets,
A thousand patterns of sun and cloud.

And when I am dead and dreaming:
A thousand years
By the lochside
With the alders, with the birches-
In the hours before dawn
As the water mirrors the hillsides
And all is still and fresh,
With the curlews voice
And the heron’s wings above me.

And when I am dead and dreaming
I shall climb the sides of Scheihallion
With little effort, counting each stone,
Breathless, eyeless, sorrowless,
Seemlessly holding each step,
A memory of perfection.

The birches of Croiscrag will speak,
As will the lichen
and the dew-heavy sedges.

I will converse with the bones
In the dark depths of Loch Rannoch,
The silent, steep shores of Loch Etive.

Eloquent in silence
Perfect in mist.
Reflected mist, reflected heaven,
Under the gaze of Scheihallion,
Wrapped in its cloak,
Its roots winding up time
And holding each moment.

I shall converse with the bones
That are dust, as I myself
Am dust, and my friends
All with me – dust once more.

For my heart will tremble
With the red deer on the hillside.
My voice will speak
Through the long grasses and the harsh sedge.
My memories will be carried
On the woodsmoke rising-
The smell of woodsmoke and
The dust of heather,
The rowan in red autumn
And the hoarfrost stillness.

Each root and particle,
Each drop from the beck,
Each ripple wetting rock,
Each small footprint on the foreshore,
Each dancing midge and mote at sunset,

When I am dead and dreaming
Gazing once more upon Scheihallion.

———-

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