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First few notes and ideas from a trip to Iceland last December. Another piece disappeared soon after writing – joys of instant technology – perhaps the giants of the aurora prefer to remain hidden, together with the dragons of the ice….

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I

A slight
Misinterpretation…
It was not
“Nevermore”
The raven cried
But
“endless”
Or “forever”…..
That timeless view
only one who sees
The whole horizon
Can utter.

II

The weight of white, cutting wind
Relentless,
Borne over the miles of ice,
Raising ghosts that smoke and snake
Across the black remnant of ice-free ground….

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III

At first,
Day on day of snowfields
Aches eye and brain.
Tired of colourless, outstretched miles,
We long for a taste of colour,
A clash of the familiar….
But with the continuing cold
Comes acquiescence:
No longer is this a world you know,
No longer parameters judiciously to be weighed.

IV

The weight of gravity,
Settling white,
remorseless accumulations
Of slow curves.

“We do not care
For your insistent heartbeat.
A fist
Thrown against forever,
A line of footprints smoothed and vanishing…..”

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V

“Nevermore”
Was not the raven’s cry-
That
Was a mistranslation.

Understandable, though,
The tones of black
Require a certain bleak vision
Mixed with cold humour:

A perspective of wan horizons,
Endless fields of snow
Punctuated by moments
Of death….

The word
On every raven’s call
Is
“Forever”.

Maybe
It was a gloomy
New England Protestantism,
(Baldur dead forever),
Maybe
A seer’s view….

Try as you like,
Small human,
Whatever weavings and turnings,
Clever, fast, considered,
All shall return to forever,
The dust in my voice,
The iris of this instant.
My name is Horizon.

“Nevermore”
Is the cry of one
Who can never look over the world’s edge,
Never see the sun under the earth,
Night fuse,
Egg of light……

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FreeFall

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FALLING, FALLING

(Opening)

Just a crack,
Just a sliver of light
And the words pour through….

A flock of birds
Noisy, impossible to number,
Impossible to fix the eye
On just one……

A sudden rush,
A pattern, a form
Turning in the clear sky,
Then gone
To the fine horizon…..

——-
(Dream)

It would take (about)
Twenty minutes
To fall to earth
From the furthest, quietest, coldest
Edge of atmosphere,
Where air wisps into void.

Those who know
Say, once acceleration becomes steady
It feels like motionless floating
Watching the round world
In peace,
Glorious and free
Until the horizon begins to close,
To contract,
To speed, simultanteously,
Inwards and outwards
And gravity once more
Becomes velocity….

But if we were not to collide,
If, somehow, on our frozen descent
Matter, mind, breath
Attenuated,
If translucence of the air,
(Somehow),
Replaced the bounded blood,
The nestled organs,
The pumping familiarity,
The jealous identity of flesh…

And we passed through,
Still falling,
Still joyously falling,
The first jolt
Of rock and dirt…

Down in warming,
Dark silence,
New worlds –
Not death-dulled dust,
But a new, rich, atmosphere,
Savoured.
Layers of dance,
Dreams of fire taking form,
Vast equators,
Equations, interactions,
Slidings, scales tipped,
Scales iridescent,
Lands, oceans, airs,
A transparency.

Falling,
Still falling,
As if floating,
As if free,
Then,
(and this is the wonder),
Then it would be,
Give or take,
Two more days,
Two more full days
Of falling
Down towards the heart pull,
(Core and cord),
Of the planet
Before the centre were reached
Before the golden,
Singing, spinning hub,
Before the ringing small sun,
The raison d’etre,
The opening question,
( little human),
Galahad before the Graal, perhaps,
Or simply
A coming home,
An end of falling,
A stillness,
Enfolded,
Matter to matter,
The round simplicity
Of the sound ‘home’.

——

(End Matter)

——-

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“For the times they are repeatin'”

I was recently asked:”How do you see things changing?”. I had had a few cool beers and a few warm sakes at that time and replied “Not a lot!”. But it set off a camel train of slow, plodding thought that traversed a wide desert of speculation. One can be optimistic. One can be pessimistic. One can be ‘realistic’ or one can be ‘idealistic’. It is all, equally, speculation, but some instances are worth considering, some tracks worth following…..

What significant changes have there been?
Firstly, length of life in many parts of the world has hugely increased, as has the reduction of physical pain. There are more people alive at this moment than the total of all those who have ever lived before – a logistical nightmare if the ladder of reincarnation is considered ( does anyone remain in the Land of the Dead? Or is there just a sign forlornly posted saying: “Gone to Birth, Back Later”?). Has humanity changed? Have we evolved? It may look as if we have, but if we look beyond the veil of ubiquitous technology, if we can look into the places in the world less touched by that flow of busy electrons, life goes on much the same as before – no better, no worse. In the technological world our lives are greatly supported, normalised, equalised by technology. It seems advanced, evolved. In those areas we can see the largest apparent change: the amount of information available to the individual. This does not equate with knowledge or education, though it may superficially resemble a greater degree of education.
All this technology and information has, so far, not seemed to initiate any evolutionary benefit to humanity. Indeed, take away technological crutches and the civilised inhabitants of the planet are even less able to cope with survival than the electronically dispossessed of the past or the present……

What is worrying about humanity ( the civilised, technological society, at least), is the direction of its collective dreams. These dreams do not seem to represent the aspirations and optimistic hopes for the future. Projections into the future are expressed in creative storytelling ( not in scientific projections of new discoveries). Contemporary storytelling dreams and themes are full of projections of termination, breakdown, dissolution. The archetypes of destruction are repeated endlessly. There seems to be little interest, little real dramatic ‘meat’ in a peaceful, enlightened, joyous future. “Heaven, (as the song says), heaven is a place, a place where nothing, nothing ever happens”. If a positive future is vaguely hoped for, but impossible to imagine, how can it be worked towards? We know very well the inventive scenarios by which the world may end, though in fact its real demise is just as likely to be the result of something altogether more undramatic and inconspicuous…….

With all our increased length of years is there any evidence that we are making the best use of this extra time? It really doesn’t look that way. Despite the proclaimed benefits of future technology, of mechanisation, of the end of drudgery for the general population, the dreams of the ‘fifties and ‘sixties have been shown in the cold light of day simply to be effective ways for big business to dispense with a costly human workforce. As far as increased leisure time: for some that may be a reality, but for many, the hardships of labour have been replaced by an absence of meaningful activity and sense of purpose, made worse by an education system that continually fails to allow human potential to flourish. We find instead personal creativity and exploration has been replaced with a mass, trance inducing, hypnotic visual drug that suffuses every home with a flickering simulacrum of knowledge about the ‘real world’……

When a nation cannot grow its own food, when its children cannot identify common vegetables, when practical ‘manual’ skills are treated with less value than the intellectual sophistry of the ‘professional’, when each year education is reduced to a scrabbling for test results in order to secure funding for schools, when popular media pander to the lowest common denominator of prejudice and narrow-mindedness ( whilst carefully presenting a ‘balanced viewpoint’), little wonder the glamour of vampires and alien invasion seems a good option…….

There is a feeling amongst those who are inspired by metaphysical and spiritual concepts that this is a ‘time of transition’. That we are finding, or needing, or approaching a “new spirituality”, and that somehow simply a progression of calendrical time will initiate a dynamic and transformational change in humanity.
Firstly, I should like to suggest that wishful thinking is not equivalent to spirituality. Hoping for the best is not a good way to accomplish lasting change, ( though it has life-supporting benefits that despair certainly does not possess). There seems to be little ‘new’ in the ‘new spirituality’. It is generally a reworking and revisioning of ‘old’ spiritual concepts, often in an ‘easy-to-do’ format. It is important to distinguish a ‘spiritual world-view’ from ‘spiritual practice’. It is much easier to find proponents of the former than the latter. A spiritual world-view is a cosmological map, a story that defines, explains and shapes how we fit into existence. It shapes how information is processed, how education is structured, how morals are formed. Spiritual worldviews are approximate pictures of the prevailing metaphysical beliefs in a society. Those interested in such things today are still a relatively small section of an increasingly scientised, secular society who often regard them as intellectual Luddites running away from ‘objective reality’.
Of those interested in spiritual matters, spiritual expectations, spiritual world-views, how many are regular spiritual practitioners? How many, that is, actually take time to modify their lives and practice to change how their mind, body, perceptions work? There seems to be a common misconception that someone interested in “spirituality” is therefore a “spiritual person”, though we do not make the same error in logic by believing that a person who is a football fan is therefore a skilled or professional footballer!…..

So one thing I would like to suggest is that we do not need a ‘new spirituality’ as we have yet to exhaust, or even fully investigate, the potential of all the ‘old’ spiritualities.
We will not benefit from a spiritual consumerism that rushes after each new exciting craze and every exuberant promise of effortless enlightenment. Effective spiritual practices do not rely upon only a set of beliefs or a certain view of reality. Effective spiritual practice is always going to be locked into a modification of the functions of the mind. They use methods that expand and elucidate, and by the experiences they create, they change our perceptions of reality. Never confuse ‘mind’ with ‘conscious awareness’ or ‘thinking mind’. Effective techniques are those that reveal the limitations of ‘rational thought’, exposing it as simply a storytelling, dream process. What ‘mind’ is, is difficult to define using the limited viewpoint available to our everyday way of thought. But to use an analogy: we are habituated to camping out in the porch of a great stately mansion, unwilling or unable to explore beyond our narrow confines to the vast halls, storeys, cellars, attics, that are our birthright and waiting for us to inhabit them……( or to discover their inhabitants)….

There is an expectation, an unconscious urge, for a sudden shift of consciousness, a leap, a transformation. Such expectations have always existed. The end of the world is always happening somewhere, in some belief system. It is either seen as the end of one age and the beginning of another, as as the end of the world itself. Psychologically, this seems to be a profound case of cop-out. It is the desire for everything to be suddenly all right, for everything to be ‘made better’, for the destruction and eradication of everything ‘bad’, the vindication of the ‘good’ ( with the understanding that the believer will be one of the survivors, not of the destroyed). We do not have to do anything, the good will survive whatever is happening. It is all rather neurotic, immature and pretty unrealistic. “If I am good, nothing bad can happen to me, I will be rewarded for my patience, my fortitude, my beliefs, my goodness.” This hope flies in the face of everyday experience. We see all the time that the unworthy attain great honours, the luck of the draw unerringly charging towards the lazy and the negligent. So this view of salvation is an attempt to self-validate by the ego, and has more to do with narrow vision than with spiritual vision…….( but you just see! This will all change when the time comes. What has been will fade away in the glory of……)

Any ‘quantum shift’ is likely to occur because of numbers of nervous systems or numbers of information links, possibly numbers of coherent minds ( though this seems unlikely – in most places the number of effective practitioners of meditative techniques is lamentably small, and, even at one per cent of population, would be unlikely to create the coherence storm necessary to ‘phase shift’ the whole planet). Inertia rules the world of man. Habit patterns dictate the retention of false equilibria, of redundant mechanisms…….

Perhaps the single most invidious and difficult concept that fuels much of our unconscious paranoia and frantic acquisitiveness is “evolution”.
The popular, ingrained abstraction from Darwin’s theory was already present within 19th century Victorian social models. Basically stated it is: ‘progress or die out’. Continually improve, continually grow, continually expand horizons or wither away, become anachronisms, go the way of the dinosaurs. Obsession with linear time and the idea of progress is our biggest neurosis, for with it comes the fear of failure, fear of falling short, fear of death, fear of oblivion, fear of being cast out of heaven, fear of not achieving our potential. Ironically it was not Darwin’s main concept that the strongest or fittest survived the evolutionary battle, but the most adaptable. Ironic too, that perhaps the organism or entity that most resembles or manifests our headlong cry for more, bigger, better, is none other than the elephant in the room – the florescent, seemingly unavoidable curse of cancer. Cancer is, perhaps, simply an obedient expression of our current yearning for non-death: cells that have forgotten how to die, how to behave in a dignified manner, instead holding on and accumulating for themselves, despite the catastrophic effect on the whole entity….

My direction and impetus of thought stuttered and lost energy when I saw a very coherent (though quite flashy), film on the conspiracy theory of control and world power. I had stopped looking at this sort of material a while ago – it so colours and flavours things with its insistence on malevolent deceit that it becomes hard to see beyond its own doom scenarios. But really the minority elite, who think they know best and have the means to cajole, kill or control all by their largesse and arrogant self-righteousness, have always been with us. They too, are a manifestation of cancer, of the endless desire to take charge, to move on, to survive at all costs, to evolve, to enter the gates of heaven, to become illuminated, to be saved, to escape, to be worthy, to scrabble to the top, to succeed.

Having lost our sense of deep history, we have lost the humour within the situation.
Time is cyclical, not linear. “Progress”is a great circle that only looks like a line forward because it is so vast. The few voices of the wise that have not vanished whispering or shrugging helplessly into the ether for good, tend to say the same things, and it is not to do with achieving, or trying, or getting somewhere else or somewhere better ( this tends to happen later with the commentators who ‘clarify’ the original words). What they say is: relax, cleanse, purify, see things more clearly.
There is nowhere to go – unless you want to find yourself back where you started. The wheel of Life is just that. The wheel of the Law, the wheel of Karma. If you are on it, it does not matter if you are at the top or the bottom – that will inevitably change. We run after an illusory future and trash what we have. We impose limitations where there are none. We assume a linearity, logic and objectivity where none ( or only an unfathomable one), exists. We do not need to improve life, just experience it as it is. We cannot avoid suffering by ingenuity, only by understanding. Science has reduced pain but not changed suffering. It can increase comfort but not create any more joy. Science simply shifts the focus of our suffering to somewhere else. Extermination of suffering, extermination of viruses, extermination of enemies, extermination of beliefs, will get us nowhere but deeper into the illusion of ‘better’. Before we decide to go somewhere else, we really need to fully feel where we are now. When we know that profoundly, the primrose path dissappears, the striving becomes ludicrous….

So, no, I see not much changing. It will be the same old surprises, the same old stories, the same old excuses. Until we value clarity of perception, and beauty and kindness and music, and know that what we have already is enough to share, nothing significant will change. Even extinction would not be new (survivors always over-emphasise their skill over pure, blind luck)….

The path to Illumination is a trick of the light.
Illumination can be found within everything at anytime. It is not necessary to be clever, to be good, to be righteous, to be spiritual, to be labelled as virtuous.

We are simply the dust that sings, and we must dance to be glorious – that is all.

For a moment we may seem to take a form and a coherence, to become important or significant, but that is not our nature, nor our purpose. There can be no transformation of essence, and the dream of form is illusory but real…….

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Word Jam

Words in progress, tasting memories. When it comes to writing down the symphony of chord-thoughts it is easy to get lost, carried away by one small melody. These are probably not finished pieces, but sketches, scribblings, jottings, notes that revolve around one small observation, one image whilst recently travelling through Japan.

Japan has two moods: flat and vertical. The flat plains are in the minority ( only 25 percent of land surface). The rest of the country ascends to the sky as quickly as is possible in dense forested mountains. Outside of the vast cities the countryside is small fields and scattered villages and farms. On the outskirts of these one can see small, tightly packed cemetaries filled with similar- looking monuments of highly polished grey stone, rectangular columns on deeply moulded bases. They are in the midst of the rice fields, embedded in the land, a ploughing back of the past into the future fertility….

I

Swinging north
Along an arc of coast.
A sinking sun sinking into red
Darkening the fields.
Speeding north:
Glints of gold
In the deserted fields –
The last light reflected
From the mirror-polished memorials
Of the dead.
Close-packed, stacked, huddled,
Names deep-carved,
A gathering of grandmothers,
Nibbling o-sembe,
Comparing grandchildren,
Chiding daughters,
Measuring last year’s yield.

II

Belonging
Is the best
We can ever achieve.

Beyond the translucent
Sliding screen
That is the present moment

One koto finds notes –
A pentatonic rise and fall

The hunt for a jewelled memory,
An old nostalgia,
A song from the field.

III

The shrine room
Of memory

Gradually becoming cluttered,
Dusty:

An acquiescence
Of empty pain

Absorbed, overlain,
Unresolved.

IV

As if gathered
For the last spark of daylight:
The memorials of the dead,
Mirror-bright,
Precisely named,
Watching the rice fields
Sodden with snow-melt.

V

Away
From the echoing rooms
Of the living
( faint smell of pine and cedar)

Away
From the roaring roads
( the long tunneled miles)

Locked
To the sea horizon
(the dipping sun)

Set to watch
By the presumptuous living
(Seed, chaff, straw)
Woven into the year,
Ploughed back,
Discretely avoided,
Neatly confined,
The ghosts wake and chatter
Unsurprised,
Watching from the field’s edge,
The cry of foxes, the wheeling of kites,
The deep obeisance to snow
Of the bamboo grove.

No longer distraught:
Day after day
Unnamed, unnumbered.

They, too,
Know that
Belonging
Is the best
We can ever achieve….

VI

Observation and memory –

The only defence against

The desolate wastelands of habit,

The ennervating excuse of precedence,

The rigor-mortis of conviction…….

The words of the Buddha

Are the same words

As the foolish man…..

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February, a memory

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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Star light and awakening

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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

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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