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Posts Tagged ‘Autumn’

TWO DISTANT MOMENTS

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I breathe the cool cloud

The jackdaws lean into.

The spice of wet grass.

A radiant moment dissolves into eternity.

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Evening turns to rust.

The blue hills bloom cloud.

Soft, this beautiful melancholy.

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THE TREES

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the trees have

become skeletons now,

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this year’s flesh

stripped off by storms.

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we are becoming the dead

And breathe

that spice perfume

Of cold and

mulch and sleep.

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the wind lifts the skirts

of the morning.

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we see nothing there

except clattering bones.

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all our neat

and sensible power

evaporates.

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Nos Calan Gaeaf

NOS CALAN GAEAF

What power we have is transitory –

the lights flicker off and on.

helpless we watch the waters rise.

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The wind too high for owls.

the ground too wet for sparrows and mice.

only the sheep, patient as the moon,

illuminating their fields-

the ghosts of Nos Calan Gaeaf.

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A day of broken promises.

showers slice through rainbows.

small roads disappear under leaves.

beneath the storm wind roar

there is a new silence.

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The veils between worlds wear thin.

the living and the dead stumble into each other.

A spirit murmuration, a dance before the setting sun.

those whose short lives were bright with pain,

killed by war and childbirth,

look on amazed at the docile listless hordes,

their over-saturated visions flickering,

addicts of mechanical dreams.

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WHOSE EYE

Whose eye now rests unblinking?

These sorrowful scattered things.

Whose perfect recollection

Recites names and causes?

Who knows and can name

The wide, free roads to destruction?

Is it that there is only ever one timeless voice,

Bright-browed and sharply bitter,

A wormwood for awakening?

Slew the game and shift the form,

It can never break from the following cloud.

The storm crow cries,

Carrion falls to feed new flocks.

Day and night is his mouth.

Dawn and sunset, dusk and midnight.

They are dreaming

Who listen to that song

Dreaming it is their dream alone.

There is peace beneath

The storm of words.

One world anchoring

The roaring others.

Gather back your souls, lost and scattered.

From this forest undergrowth.

From the peeling skies.

From the long dust roads.

Gather them in the heart of a song

That will not brook nor break.

One season returning with bright fruit.

One prayer reaching the throne of the Creator.

All this is the debris of glory.

The gold that feeds the gods-

These autumn grasses are brighter,

These few days, more precious.

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RISING, RETURNING

Rising through mist and rust and gold.

The rain coming and going and the oaks holding on.

History repeating itself, as it always does,

And the eternal poets weeping and laughing

In their sunlit words.

We shall reach home soon, as we always do,

Until the very last time when time shall slow and stop,

And the oaks, only, will be holding on then

In rust and gold and sunlit drifts.

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RAAG MEGH

find the

slow rituals

that absorb time and space.

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there is

no hurry,

words vanish, yet

last forever, somehow.

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the green, warm rains

as soothing as music, fill

the breathing valley.

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one step

is all it takes

to start a dance

no-one has seen before.

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we will, for sure,

be swept up in

sadness and joy.

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we will, for sure,

be persuaded that beauty

is just not enough.

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slow air pushes

the thin rope of smoke

to and fro by the window.

veils of rain hide the hills.

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it is green and cool and lovely,

the trees say.

look at our slow dance,

they say.

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and let go

their tired leaves.

Raag megh is a pentatonic raag (raga) played during the rainy season, but because of its cooling, calming influence is also played at any time and circumstance. i used it as the name of this poem as it seemed to fit its atmosphere and mood. Check out raag megh on youtube, especially those by ustad rashid khan, pandit jasraj and kushal dass.

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DAY DISSOLVING

Falling waters,

thread white,

tumbling.

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from that small distance,

the wheeling raven,

soundless.

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So woven together

are the layers of the day:

a plaid of wind ripples the lake surface,

as if it were about to say something.

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we shall dissolve

from light

into light.

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slowly, slowly

down the side of Y Garn

roll clouds

mixed with sunlight.

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the view

slides sideways

and is erased.

there is a new silence

that comes

just before the rain.

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this season-

a balance point

clustered at branch tips.

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we shall dissolve

from light

into light.

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on dark smudged slopes,

the shout

of purple heathers.

a scree of broken moments,

small enough

to commit to memory.

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falling waters

woven together.

moments such as these

make and melt worlds.

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we shall dissolve

from light

into light.

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DHRUPAD 23 ( Pema Özer in Autumn drift)

Slow slow slowly now

slowly now taste the shapes the sounds as they form

as they fall as they flow slow with the colours of autumn

slow the autumn falling slow to mists and coming going coming mists

slow no need to seek the means the meaning to move on.

Sun will not set sun will not rise sun standing still at midnight at midday

as if as if that sage, enjoying his beer enjoying the warmth of a lazy afternoon

dusty road in the mountains distant waterfalls sheep bleating

stop stop stop the sun and hold it there, slow slow to savour moments

out of inside of within wrapped up in time time time, the breath slow slow,

the words slow slow, the same the same the same, but not exactly not precisely,

not a landscape flickers by a landscape moulded forgot seen forgot seen seen

inhabited become sun-filled,

and the trees all autumn and slow breath, fall of leaves and drifting mists

and star-filled, star-filled, the river roaring darkness like that, like that,

that is like this, like this, slow slow unfolding with no end a measured walk

a stroll another beer,

watching time relax

and stay a while

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SHADOWS

These lines – the chiselled shadows of words.

Consonants moth-whispered, vowels, lichen-grown.
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A sunlit porch and laughter.

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Light swings round the mountain

throwing a cooling shadow

across wood and field.

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Ghosts do not tip-toe here.

As if they own the place, as if they always have,

Squeezing us between regret and reminiscence,

stained by poetry, small life blooming

on cold fallen hearths.

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Their lilt of names and

who lived where

and who they loved

and who they hated,

whose sheep on which pasture,

whose son left and lost in another war,

whose daughter run off to a bigger life.

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Pipesmoke and murmurs,

paraffin and oiled rags.

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The long light stretches between October trees.

In the cities the streetlights flicker on.

On the farms ashes raked,

Cold stoves chivied back to life.

Small lives shadowed by greater things.

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The chink of tools, the warm scent of sawdust.

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A gentle downward slope into night.

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Rests Lightly

RESTS LIGHTLY

My heart rests lightly

on this wind.

It dips and bobs

and lets go

tumbling in the passing light

rolling off the gradients

of the seasons.

Fragments of rainbows come and go

piercing time with beauty

– a reminder.

The leaves too, dance and let go,

and green slides off the hills

to settle in sheltered places.

Bracken turns quick gold

then long reds.

Air spiced with things losing names

becoming something else,

becoming earth.

The willows dance,

the poplars dance all silver,

the birches, gilded.

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