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Posts Tagged ‘attention’

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CONJURATION

He sits by the window letting the landscape go.
A little incense will stretch and curl in the moving airs.
There is welcome rain on pale, misted hills:
The meadows and their trees will green.

The shoals will flicker beneath thin surfaces,
And there is skill in waiting and skill in catching up the glimmer.
Sometimes it is enough to hold one wriggling thing.
Sometimes a light touch will tease a line,
A bright twist into this world, a hopeful humming reel.

There is the holding and the letting go.
A whisper wish to Gwyn ap Nydd
Who hunts these lost ghosts and churns them upwards.

To mark a path only, or to push down into it,
Or to be pulled willynilly in mad rush and see,
See where it leads, traipsing forgetful, curious.
Or but to float above serene and light as hawk bones,
To not become distracted by maybes,
To contain all, to exclude nothing, to lose track of no slither,
To allow a subtle sedimentation – to be that patient,
To become equanimity, geological.

It will be the touch of madness that marks it out,
The touch of madness they shall not forget.
The discomfort of impossible resurrection:
Light that is not there, a bubbling up of echoed sounds,
A mystery of conjured voices, a song of ghosts.

This, the slow and certain engraving of our vanishing lives
Upon your smoothed and cooling brows; etched, hatched and nested within
Your twigged and tumbledown minds.
A thimble of the past to dull each ache of uncertain stitch.
That impossible race to reach each sunsetting horizon.

Between the moment and the madness
Is where the bright shoals swim.

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Clouds flower in moonlight.
A wind rises, full of owls.

Cold that will wither the buds,
The sun will make right.

Far away, mountains have fallen.
What was, has crumbled.

We dream and dream and fall through time.
Each view infused, each moment passing.

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4
(Nones)

Swallows dancing
At the eaves:
An architecture
Of song.

Round worlds:
Nests take
The form of heaven
The form of earth.
Lined soft,
Down heartbeat,
Safe and sound.

6
(Compline)

A perfect moon
In a perfect sky:
Perfect hymn,
Perfect prayer.

All night
In dew-wet fields
Lambs call to their mothers,
Mothers to their lambs.

On shrouded paths:
Solomon’s seal,
Lily of the valley.
Simple grace.


The original Hours of Prayer were seven, but over time some combined together, like Matins and Lauds at sunrise, and some seem to have been dropped, or abbreviated, like the Vigils throughout the night. We are poorer for some freedoms. The rhythms and tides of quiet attention lock us into a humbler being within the world.

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COUNTING MOONS

The moon tonight gliding through the eye of the Bull.
On the horizon light is still holding,
And thrushes, too full of Spring to sleep,
Echo song across the valley.

Why should I record this?
One day among many.
Nothing remarkable
In this new season’s freshness
( except our own common forgetfulness
Lost in weighted, judged moments).

I could give you a year of moons,
Some seen, some clouded, some serene or dreadful,
Meticulously recorded, patinated silver,
Its light cold, warm, diffuse, reticulated.
Its shape swinging this way then that,
Its rising between house and tree, hill and hedge.
Its mirror face reflecting clearly every tide of passion and despair,
Its mirror face pulling eye and heart to hold all souls aloof,
Quietly cooling, pulse and breath shifting, shivering slightly,
As if a gong brushed by a breeze, sounding sounding low.

A pool, silent.
A way in and a way out.
A door, a window, swinging open, slamming shut.
Lightening, darkening, reasonably equinanimous.
Unconcerned, ineffable, a mouth trying out new sounds,
Consonant and vowel shaping words that all mean silence,
That all mean liquid, that all mean holding, pouring, filling, emptying.

Just now, I can think of nothing more full of satisfaction,
Nothing more worthwhile,
Absolute evidence of time well spent,
Dutifully attentive, a garland for creation’s gifts,
Harmless, meaningless, a simple offering,
A counting of breaths, proof of life.

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