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MARGINALIA

below this turbulence:
slow, vast, are the currents.
Knotted threads soften, unwind
(As morning mists
In curling, upward sun).

The ghosts we hold most dear,
Those haunted voices we always hear,
That diffuse the endless night-
They come and go
As if they owned the place,
As if they mattered more.

They are so tiring,
These endless stumblings
Proudly towards truth,
Where simple goodness would suffice.

The broken-nailed, mad eyed dreamers,
The demon-fed preachers.

For we tumble towards a close,
And that is always and only certain.

Here, is the benign patience of Spring
Come again to remind us
That warmth will split the hawthorn blossom
(And the hills already drunk and hazy on it).

Just one sunny day,
and all we dream of
is summer.

A slow dance of swallows,
lambs and birdsong,
One blue warm billowy morning in May,
enough to banish all the long months
Of winter, to open and relax,
To build a nest
As if it were forever.

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CONVERSATIONS 15

REWRITE
Convincing ghosts rewrite our certain pasts,
or bitter to the last, at least try to inject their dying voices,
inject their reasons, their stories.
We all, full of hunger, scurry for validation,
deny our small wickednesses, rewrite, remember.

SHADED
In that
Green shade
We are made
And unmade.
Click of insect moments.


COUPLET
The demons of eloquence
are not always right,
but their arguments
should always ruffle and delight!


HARMONIC
What each we are,
A note plucked once and dying.
Attack, sustain, release, delay.
That harmonic wave is what we are,
How we intrude,
How we linger.


SMALL
Over that hill it is always dawn, always midnight.
The smell of dew on hay,
The rising insects floating silent.
All this is uniquely ours –
This dawn, this sunset,
A moment fashioned and nested.
An egg of memory, in this small circle.


SUNLIT
The pillars of the sky:
Skylark’s song.
Morning stillness.


NOT QUITE
In you…
Nothing moves
That is not world’s spin,
Past’s voice.
A wind’s will,
A wisp,
Not quite a nothing
Not quite a quite…


EDGE
One star remaining
White edge of the summer night
Rimmed, restless, drawn out.


BINARY
Alert
Or asleep, on
or off,
The eye
Of the I,
Blink, unblink,
Blink.

—-
VALEDICTION
The vale of now.
We move in and out of it
Hardly touching,
So caught up we are:
The sounds of our own echoing,
Fading footprints.
Mouthing alphabets
And times-tables.
Numerate, literate,
Dust dressed in story,
Veiled whisp, regardless.

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CONVERSATIONS 14

HOW EASY
Wonderful wonderful
how easy a cat will purr
how easy a flower will open
and scatter
how easy a smile
how easy a hand
how easy a good word
leads the way
becoming a vast flock
of joyous song and seeing.

VERBAL WARNING
Word to word
invisible tugged ties,
chains golden from tongue to ear,
a ripple of bells, a chime, tinkled river,
mind stream quenching thirst,
a million million reflections
showing nothing much of anything,
just how it is.

SEDIMENT
In the deepest oceans
Are the bones of all
That have ever lived.
A sediment free of sentiment,
World shaping pressure
Of was-ness turning into is-ness.

GRACE
Dressed ghosts, borrowed rags.
Why so hungry always? Why so?
As if bereft. As if supported.
As if punishment. As if reward.
As if a test.
Interpret this.
Pain and beauty.
Edges, boundaries, limits.
A dance to slow music.
If we can be but elegant, somehow,
so the universe turns toward us
(as we turn toward its ever open eyes),
weave a new way, gentle, strong,
accepting, melting, acquiescing.
Grace, it would be.
Perhaps reason enough.

RED SHIFT
Heat haze.
A shimmering road.
All the colours shifting towards evening.
A sharp sound rumbles into deep distance.
An elucidation of edges.
A smudge of vast moments.
Thought storm, tranquil dreaming.
Your voice (somehow) in my head (somehow).
Via the heart of things,
we ricochet amazed
through crystalline spheres.


HOW ELSE
A tissue of lives.
Connective, connected surfaces.
A fine tracing of whorls and ridges,
Whispering alphabets
Attempting an understanding,
Perhaps a cataloging,
An exposition of position.
A thin, sky thin, elucidation
A slender, tender hinting thing.
Not quite dream, not quite wish,
Nor remembering, nor forgetting.
This placental sustaining,
Held suspended,
Amniotic day,
Bridged away from pain.

Else we slip unseen,
Or so we conceive it,
Mouthing wept whys
Into blank cold nights.

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WINGS

Looking over the hills,
Low cloud,
Dusk after rain.
I would wish you
All wings,
My friends.

SOUND CHAMBER

This voice born from caves
This voice shaping emptiness
This voice, the flavour of silences.

CUP

This vessel of poetry
Always lucid, empty
Til held and warmed
By palms, tipped
Towards lips,
An exchange of breath..

TICK

There is no time
In the worlds of spirit,
Nor in the worlds of matter.
Only in the mind of Man
Does the click and tick
Of moments
Signify a neurotic cauldron
To oblivion or eternity.

HAVEN

This mind, timeless, anchored
Rocks, sways, on word tides.
Gull-wind senses roam and wheel
Searching food.
The patterns of love
And belonging
In rippled reflections.
Harboured, havened, home.

SLIGHT

Sweet violet
White and nodding,
Rising in damp westerlies.
Prophets with blazing heads roar by
Raving,
Not hearing, not caring.

SEMIOTICS

Nice, nice, nice!
(Triple nice denotes favour of the gods),
a vapour aromatic, bitter,
Rising from certain, approved of,
Sacrifice.
One who knows his place
And knows it might
Be nowhere particular,
Except the particularity
Of cloud chambers
And the silent
Expansion of a supernova
(Inexplicably given
Nomenclature
Of someone’ wife).
The only object
Is its name.
Three moving lines.
Hence the wise man
Remains silent
Watching the return
Of swallows.
No blame.

IN THE MACHINE

Love the depths!
What computers really dream,
what they say to each other,
not just oh and one,
but a cosmology of dark spaces,
exploding stars….

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SELF ISH

Peeping at the hidden.
Hide and seek
(with mirrors).

—-

MEDIUM

Ghosts whispering
The punchlines:
Threads
To keep bodies
So sewn together,
Not thown apart
By squalls of inspiration.

—-

WHISPERED

A dilating centre
Uncertain
Of coordinates.
Infinitessimal
Microtones
Tumbling towards
Silence.

—-

IGNITED

Too much heat,
too much fire,
these humans have,
always burning, burning,
eating, moving, consuming.
Never resting,
always agitiated,
causing friction, rubbing, rubbing.
Their souls long for water,
rest and floating,
cooling, cooling,
thirsts quenched,
tidal breath….

GESTURE STROKE

Splash smudges
with heart,
layers of is and not,
traced, life bullets,
ricochet laughter,
breath, whisper,
a record of tears,
ripples, line, ashes, dust….

—–

TAO ASTROPHYSICS

Almost perfect,
Keeps things
spinning.

—-

SPUN OUT

You, cocoon,
melting memory,
ready for wings,
silk breath.

CRITIQUE

It is a moth with lovely flutterings,
hypnotised, enamoured,
thinking its death a mirror,
a winged dance of flame.
The shadow of iridescence,
a shadow of dust.
It tastes like earth, bitter and sweet.
It has taken up a song
and is consumed therein.
For this,
do we praise,
or blame?

—-

MY DELIGHT, AN AMBIENCE

A
Landscape of words,
distant passion,
play of light,
a flurry of thought,
a cloud passing…..

—-

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Conversing with Invisible Friends (5)

SLEEVES ROLLED, WRITER

Grit and bones
and sharp eyes
poking holes
in the sly fabric
of things.
A thankless task,
but it must be done
and continued to be done…..

—-

WOODLAND SIMULACRUM

A rustle of hymnals
A breeze of sighs
A birdsong of childen’s whispers
A sly, sharp toothed smile:
Reynard’s rising cassock…..

—-

MOTIF MOTIVE

A translation
Of passion
Across centuries.
Careless subtitles,
Redacted, rebranded,
Pre-ordered, double wrapped,
Only
In the deepest bones
Of nightmares
Far from any lights’ switch,
The rumble
Of Doom, a certainty,
So necessitates this frenzied
Juggling of human
And divine,
Wriggling
From flesh
To light.

——

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Another selection of comments and pieces inspired by other’s blog posts or blog comments. (We orchestrate…..)

NOISE

Prayer,
confessional,
creed.

God or Godless,
we ramble to ourselves
within our own bone cathedrals,
echoing with sighs and curses.

There is a completely soundproofed room
in some MidWest University.
No one had yet managed
to spend more than 45 minutes there.
Hullucinations after a few minutes.

We are not designed for silence or darkness.
We bleat and howl in our own jungles,
bleat and howl….

GIFT

This body,
This world:
A gift from a million suns.

NIGHT RAIN

A rain of words
puddle the page,
tongue-mind umbrella unfurls,
tastes flicker neon image,
dream world,
dream world.

MIRRORED

To see ourself reflected in the smile of our love
Is the only mirror should be allowed
Not the rotated smudge of silver window
Nor frozen shadows unbemused, inanimate.

—-

SQUALL

Whose soft words
Sweeping through
My mind’s cool edge,
I wonder?
Sound of distant rain.

Sound of distant rain.
Something seems forgotten:
Cool emptiness,
A taste of sorrow.

A taste of sorrow
For no reason
That I know.
Mantra of compassion.

Mantra of compassion.
Wind and rain
Blowing away
Ephemeral things.

—-

A CAST FOR WORMS

Well better and betterer.
Words for worms!
( Diet of Worms?).
Worm world.
Worm holes.
Cast about, Charles Darwin
( worms, his first love).
Lumbricus terrestris.
The name itself
Segmented, wriggling.
Beneath us all.
We, at last,
Their own dinner.
Earth to earth,
Tasting earth,
Making earth,
Loving earth.
Our Masters,
Squirmy worms,
Fast food,
Slow food,
Love food.

—–

ART OF POETRY

This hybrid birth,
a form of archaeology,
digging as science,
the science of digging,
the art of concealing and revealing,
building and collapsing, that is ,
constructing,
hybrid construction,
a constriction of possibilities,
a constraining of maps,
quantum thisness and thatness,
leaving more out than in,
making a point,
missing any other view,
poetry: the straining for meaning
without even pretending success,
e.e.cummins and e.e. goins,
a vowel,
a vapour,
a string of pearls,
words making doors,
doors opening,
sutras,
stitches,
hints for hunters…..

ROBIN

Looking back:
The world-
Bright, cocked eye

—-

GRACE

A small thing
Is not the same
As an inconsequential thing.

A loud voice
Is not the same as
A voice to be followed.

In one second,
In less, even,
The world can be born
Or can disappear
In front of our eyes.

Each person made afresh
Each to see what can be seen
What can be sung.

No wrong notes
If we do not know the tune.
We shall diminish and wither away
Jumping to conclusions.

Falling skillfuly
Is called flying.

Stumbling elegantly
Is called dancing.

Moving gracefully
Is called living.

—–

PERCEPT

Plum saké.
Too much
Slurs the mind

—-

METRE

It has presence and voidness.
It has frozen processes,
exited time,
become apt, concrete,
paradoxically gone.
Here
and both there and elsewhere,
but only inside
does it play a tune.
Lithophone,
bone music,
skeleton key.

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