Posts Tagged ‘calligraphy’



It is myself tumbling over words
God’s engine roaring a gobby throb
Through heart and nerves and up
To drowning tongue and out free
Into virtual sullen air.
Once solid rooted sense now willowherb whisp
And whatever-you-will, blown breezy and rain wetted.
A garden of weed unruly in bitter pale sunset.
More holy are the turning worms
Silent in their utter diligence to earth.
More holy the first few crisped furls of ash
Let go falling to ground melting for future loveliness.
Myrddin out of mind again and railing.
Everywhere the road turns are madmen
And reckless thieves.
Prophets tearing clothes wander footless into fields
And weeping eat the grasses there
For they can do little else.
Then later, carefully in glowing cursive,
Copy out their rantings for a future offspring.
Little despair misinterpreted once again,
An art of poetry, penultimate.

I have been attempting to get a poem together for the local Llanwrtyd Eisteddfod, but I really do not like working to given subject matter. I have, over the course of the last few weeks created bundles of words that are strewn around the subject matter, but none, (or maybe just one), carries the spontaneity and flow of energy I would like. After reading and making slight adjustments to what may be the best of the bunch, this tumbled out by itself ( as it were). I will likely post the Eisteddfod submission later in the month, and maybe a few fragments of the rejected pieces around the same matter before that….or maybe forget the whole thing for a bit.

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The long rain, grey,
Has dissolved a fragile distance.
With the wind, it comes and goes.
A silent room, a flutter of words.
A curl of incense, a bitter tea, warms and dries.
Perched above joy and sorrow
A ribbon road turns endless,
With only two steps,
Left and right.

A monk dips his quill.
He has become half-uncial.
A steady curve delights,
One syllable at a time.
A river of knowing
And forgetting.

Though the skin he writes upon
Is his own,
A compassed scratch,
A foliate curl,
Heroditas, Avicenna, Merlin.
A history of mirrors,
A rotated wheel.
A willowed sigh,
This river ink.


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STRUNG OUT ( a bereft history of every sing)

In the beginning,
The worm word:
Strung thin sound.
Hesitant, looped
As much as it wanted,
Either end an anchor
Of some
or other.

Soon tangled
( darned attraction
Of molecular

A good idea
Scribbled over.
Attempts at,
Forgetful of.

Seriously playful,
Now only
Serious, panicked
Lost, mazed
Traipsing time
But unable to
Echo, mutter,
Wild laughter.

Self portait-
The void black
Dilated pupils
Staring, straining
Into space.

Midnight skitters,
Meaning pretends
Vocal chord,
Knotted, node,
A gap between
Wuh, wuh, words.


something to do with the primacy of sound, language, self-referencing mixed in with cosmogenesis, DNA as a jam session ( that slick four-piece polyrhythmic jive), a quote from Robert Musil, via N. Filbert ( jump starter of my brain). Souped up silence, those seers who strive beyond language, return from heaven stumbling and drunk, stutt, tut, tutter. I place on the tip of my tongue a consonant of fire, a vowel of air, extinguished by a sliver of spittle, mistakenly taken as a reason, a viewpoint, what is only a howl of sound, a pushchaired child hooting for echoes in cavern subways….


the images are some sketches of the seed syllable ‘hung’, one of the three primal sounds of manifesting mind that may or may not become paint or silver or more words at some point

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Thought of sharing this as the quality is superlative, not just the materials, or the design, or the calligraphy, or the words, but the whole damn caboodle!

the finished pieces.

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Working towards some text-art pieces for the “Great Night” project, I began playing around on the iPad ( the app was Zen Brush). Its a delightful tactile process and the text was not much consciously filtered in any usual way. Semi-automatic writing, I could say. Not quite as calligraphic as I would like, more spider scribble! Translations follow ( before I forget and can’t read my own scrawl)…


Within the darkness
Within the walls of night
Jailor stars, spyglass planets,
The wild things lap and strut
Lines of thought dissolving
In manic, fearful laughter.


The long trident of night
Forward spontaneous deliver
No more the …..
No more the light.
A shimmer, a shade,
A will of the world,
A whiteness.


The weave says
The way, the deep says,
Yea or nay,
Gainsay it will not prosper
If it has
No inherent breath.

The slow soft
These anchors
Of shrift –
A vocabulary
Of light
Reveal the


Dissolve you
Dark lines,
Darker lens.
O, obsidian eyes
Deep set,
Your own soul
Would hardly
Recognise you.


Do not cackle
Dishevelled one
Dark, bloody lips
Deepest urged
Eater of night.


This slow
Drawn out means,
Lost in lines,
Time wept
Scribble sounds,
Not gathered
Nor pooled-
Hard to distinguish:
A drain descent
Of echoes,
A distance of deceived
Night stippling.

What is lost when it is not hand-written? Even when hard to read, it conveys to some part of us more of the intent, the hunt for words, the fight upwards into air. Illuminated by illuminated manuscript, time and care laid down for all time, a voyager of parchment and mind-matter across ocean centuries. What could be more enchanted, the mind of one millenia dead, born egged safe in new skull, scratch of quill, cockcrow and vespers…..

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