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Posts Tagged ‘consciousness’

A LULLABY AGAINST FEARS

Do you not see the doors swinging open, swinging shut?

With each breath in and out, the breeze of their coming and going.

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Cold is the mountain and the white snow will wake you, will wake you.

There is only a moment to know more,

Only a moment to remember and forget.

Until we know what it is to dream it,

We shall never waken.

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We thought we had removed from ourselves

The scent of death that followed us down

Through all the long centuries.

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We thought the posy of politeness had done more

Than mask the fear.

As always, it is the smallest of things

Breaks open the delusion

Of genteel comfort.

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Every room, every landscape, every moment,

Has a door that, should we walk through,

Would take us into other places, never to return.

They swing to and fro with our in and out of breath.

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A door of leaves, a door of grasses,

A door of breezes, a door of riverbanks,

A door of whispers, a door of praise,

A door of sorrow, a door of breath.

These doors coming and going

Between the world you know

And the worlds you do not yet know.

How many have changed you beyond recognition,

Forgetting the song you were singing

To get lost in a tune unfamiliar,

That better becomes you?

So many doors, remembering and forgetting.

A door of small things, a slight imperceptible door,

And you have gone to be elsewhere,

In sunlight unsullied, in radiance of starlight.

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PLAGUE DAYS

The silence grows with the lengthening days.

We may yet learn how to breath in

And how to breath out with simple joy.

We may yet sit still and listen to birdsong,

Settling into the world we almost lost,

And now have the chance to find within us,

As it has always been, as it has always been.

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CHAPEL OAKS

Scattering dark fingered roads

Across bright dazzled morning.

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Jackdaws coming and going

like second thoughts.

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Snow picks out the distant hills

As if they were unattainable heaven.

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Cold clouds drift on slow sunlight.

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The in-dwelling silence is a song

Stretched out to eternity.

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It is what the red kites,

What the ravens, wheel and dance upon,

Uplifted by delight.

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The pain of frozen air

Is how we know

we are alive.

CHAPEL OAKS (2)

A murmuration of starlings

A murder of crows

A ricochet of jackdaws

A damnation of preachers

A singing throne of oaks.

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The bones of the snow

On a bitter wind.

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March morning sky

Churning the bright butter of glory.

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The hands of trees reach out,

Shaking in eternal prayer.

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CLOTHED

Clothing himself in these common borrowed words,

A certain style, a certain habit, turns it all around.

Anonymous ubiquity becomes an intimate paced voice,

The poet emerges from the rough hedge glowing in the darkening evening.

Everyone has seen the full moon a thousand times,

Yet still now sighs and stands still.

Clothing ourselves in another’s memory

Or dreaming a dream not even ours:

The profoundest philosophy here,

A truth of who we are, think we are,

Where our edges blur and meet,

Where our voices change key and tone,

And slip into accents unfamiliar,

Where we stop being who we think we are,

And for a moment, if only ever for a moment,

We leap from the endless river, glinting and free

Into unfamiliar harvests of air and evening

On the floating view of somewhere we can never stay,

Returning so rapidly to the noisy rush of time and space,

Swept downstream, singing tunes with a cadence now not ours,

Now not solely ours.

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TALIESIN ECHOES

“I have been the radiance of stars”

Standing still feeling the heat leave.

Pierced, made nothing, made all

By the silent kissing of a million stars.

Hanging headfirst over a boiling void of words,

Whispered, muttered down the centuries to now.

How beauty strikes us dumb

And then, how pain creeps in.

The holding and the letting go that

We never learn.

What the river says, what the river says.

Ye warriors, so like primroses.

Ye poets, so like hedgerows.

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A MANTRA OF HEALING

in flowering mist

the vague precisions of light.

amongst the deep sounds

of singing silence

a spinning word

casts out tentative meaning

what are we, if not

remembered stories?

paths not yet faded

into oblivion.

stumbled upon brilliance,

gracefully falling

into new forms.

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DAYS NOW

Days now the whispers come and go

worm words generated from earth,

words of smoke, words of plants.

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Turn sideways, become thin,

slip between one day and another,

at the year’s ending so little noise.

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These stars – they are not now,

they have burned bright and died

a million, million years ago.

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Therefore, I bow down and breath deep

the dead light of our ancestors,

gone and here and gone again.

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Time is the fat of stars;

seeping in the long years,

other glorious mornings long gone,

distant golden mornings,

other silent rooms, other footsteps.

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Nothing goes to waste

but slowly changes from what it was

woven threefold into other days.

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The Magister holds starlight in his crystal spheres

to rot them down to raven’s wings

where seconds copulate birthing strange homunculi.

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They know the answers only the dead know

in butterfly whispers etching notions,

as acid reveals the jagged web of meteorites.

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He is old now,

his bones creak like galleons do.

His mind, though, a bright moon in a stormy sky

for he is, he says, acquainted with all the demons

that dwell beyond law and science,

who converse in riddles

and move as if dancing upon other gravities.

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Their heads are broken open,

their orifices sprouting green tendrils,

their skin, inhabited scrolls

where letters form and reform in curious calligraphies.

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Lascivious is their language,

exotic and full of lilting innuendo.

Their madnesses are roads untrod before.

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He reads the books that have never been opened,

by walking backwards through mirrors.

His only sustenance, the tiny measurements of primordial dust

wherein he seeks his own eternal name.

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He practices the mudras of teaching and of dissolution.

His words fall sparsely in vast space

like birds that fly across a still sunset sky.

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Their skin peeled back, returned to light

they tend their dripping hives,

honey vowels, the sigh of release.

They climb upon one another,

puncturing their certainty,

melting into each other’s futures.

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The sawhorse shall be put together.

A new constellation shall appear in the southern sky

as Betelguese, or its ghost, or its future,

Weighs the likelihood of eternity.

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The world is fire and light

and time is the fat of stars.

The apple winces in its dawn frost,

The sequoias sing to planet’s spin.

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Clear facts stumble unheeded through forest fires

whilst ungainly notions dress the moments.

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The alembic bubbles and quivers,

uncertain whether it can hold

the sentience of its own soot.

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Still the Great Work must continue.

In holiness we are rubbed out completely

imagining new wings, writing new musics.

.

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