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Posts Tagged ‘birdsong’

Dhrupad 3 – blackbird song

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on May 11, 2018| 1 Comment »

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DHRUPAD 3 (blackbird song)

Blackbird rain, blackbird river,the rich so rich evening cool air, evening rich scent air, blackbird still river standing cool. Pines whisper the breeze the breeze the slide knife heart song thrills, mellow knife heart knife song. Rounded world voice river now ripple now voice. Apple rounded, juice voice, drip drip drip voice, echoed stone voice, remembering voice, saying floating cool rain voice. Golden smooth and jet black shiny voice. Rain split, rainbowed wrapped twist thread, weaving woven gold and gilded through and through, this warm this cool this water clear air song voice moment. Stopped and started time held and space thrilled, sun and moon and stars all, all named together, one river named, one moment twirled named, this river sorrow joy river, this eye opening out, vast vast this throb, this little throat, this heart, heart full, rain washed, cool washed, all washed, voice river, named.

—

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The Thrush’s Song

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on February 22, 2018| Leave a Comment »

THE THRUSH’S SONG

“I was a droplet in the air.
I was the radiance of starlight.”

I was a morning in late February,
Fresh with moments of green
And a wealth of birdsong.

I was a gradient of light
Sliding on the hillsides;
A calibration of sorrows
On the mountains;
A word somewhere between
Joy and sorrow.

A maker of firelight warmth
And a cup of hot tea,
A conveyance of small wonder
And a hunter of consideration.

The wind is light
And the clouds dissolving in colour.
The ground is waterlogged
And the trees become thirsty.
It is still silent on the road,
The paths still empty.
Their shadows hold winter,
Puddled, ice-blind eyes.

There is nothing that is not ordinary,
Nothing that is not wonderful.
The triple song of the thrush
Sings it all, again and again.
Praise for praise’s sake,
Word on word.

—

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Two for a Sunday

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 4, 2014| Leave a Comment »

SERMON

From his pulpit
On the top-most branch
The wood pigeon’s
Sonorous sermon
Drones, resounding,
Slow around.

Beneath him,
Hidden in back-pew bush
Disrespectful sparrows,
In their Sunday best browns and bibs,
Chatter and play,
Impious, but loved,
Regardless
Of the Most High.

—

LIGHT

An instant before birdsong.
Time returns with increments of colour.
Light is all there is:
Light frozen, light expanding.
We orbit meaning, voiceless
In wonder,
Witnesses to glory.

—-

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Eighth Key to the Green Kingdoms

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 6, 2014| Leave a Comment »

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KEY EIGHT
(Iona)

The heart beats
Then it stops
Then it starts again.

How strange!
The eye that is
The organ of understanding
Is the well
From which fall tears.

Storm clouds rush in,
Salt on the air.
Amongst the leaves
A thrush singing:
Listen, listen, listen to me.
Beauty, beauty, beauty.

No heart can overtake
The long passages of time.
Beauty dissolves.
Kings, saints, seasons, tides
All vanish, vanish
Into the hollow hills.

The hollow hills
Will vanish into the sea
And sunset.

The eye
Forever bathed in tears,
The heart that starts
And stops –
The thrushes song.

The clouds
Pass over:
Sunlight
On the mounds of the dead,
Dancing with the eternal dancers.

—

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Drift

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on February 19, 2014| 2 Comments »

DRIFT

A half moon wanes,
Floating on birdsong.

The world spins towards darkness,
And spins towards light.

Clouds stretched, skeined,
Soft-edged, rippling.

A drift, a slow drift
Into day.

This quiet time,
Twilit, a gift given
Before the goad of doing.

—

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There should be cuckoos

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 15, 2013| 2 Comments »

THERE SHOULD BE CUCKOOS

There should be cuckoos.
The warm silver clouds
Low with rain
Sheeting the high hills,
Green and weighed down
With yesterday’s light.

There should be cuckoos.
Floating, echoing hidden
Like a gong, like a memory
Turning over the still heart
Melting tight paths of thought,
Manifest distance.

There should be cuckoos.
Inhabiting every wooded fold
Deep in the world
Now settled, fruiting,
Slowly inturning, indwelling
Heading high to solstice
And then the long
Slow burn to harvest.

There should be cuckoos.
Now the hay is turned and gathered
Now creamy elder scents the air,
Worlds in worlds, layered, established.
Angels barefoot down the lanes,
Honeysuckle fingers, messages forgot.

There should be cuckoos
Measuring this loosening, this hollow,
Replacing thought and song
Answering all, settling all,
Letting go, adrift and floating.
Low clouds, rain heavy,
Warm air’s slow somersault
The swaying grasses, the rippling grasses.
From the green world’s roof,
From its rafters,
There should be cuckoos.

—–

(Ornithologically suspect, as cuckoos here in England usually call most in April, but it was the thought of cuckoos on a warm, cloud-filled day in June, that inspired this flow of words.)

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Dream-quick

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on May 18, 2013| 4 Comments »

MIND FLICKER

Dream-quick,
These words
Borrowed
From
A deeper well.
—

AIR OCEANS

Broad prowed,
Galleon wood-pigeons
Dip and anchor
On buttercup oceans.

Bright morning breeze.
Lullaby shanties
From crow’s nest trees.
Sun-still islands,
Slow air tides.

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Flakes of falling flame….

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on May 26, 2012| 3 Comments »

Flakes of falling flame, fragments, figments….

I

I shall walk in the cool green morning
A roof of grey light and white horizons
Amongst the skylark’s and the blackbird’s song
Unfettered, unrequired, unopposed, unnoticed.
The deep throb of honey bees,
The pointed tang of balsam poplar,
Each blade of grass, a cloak of life.
Silent moist, echoing air
Vaporous bliss,
Honey-tongued May.

II

My mind-
clouds.
Slow shifting greys,
Pearlescent light.

My tongue-
A flame of green leaf
Tasting filtered sunlight.

My heart-
Ullulating balm,
The blackbird’s river.

Perfect
Imperfect-
As it is.

III

Always though,

The night of pain,
Biting, back-brain
Sting of writhing pain.

Somewhere though,

The acid smell of cordite,
The skin prickle of rage,
The leaden drunkenness of hatred.

And somewhere,

Proud innocents,
We offer
A gift for Krishna,
A gift for Allah –
A scattering of plutonium:

Our gift
To the Universe.

IV

The Old Man,
Rocking from side to side
On his ox cart,
Leaves from the Western Gate.

This time,
No-one notices……

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