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Posts Tagged ‘consciousness’

Dream between dreams

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on June 18, 2014| 4 Comments »

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DREAM BETWEEN DREAMS

It shall be called
The dream between dreams.
It shall have the sound of rudra veena
Howling the low, long song
Of mountains.
A doorway that vanishes
In walls and moments,
Hunters of persistence and cunning
That track betweens
With such eager precision.

A sepia lithograph of ancestors
Scattered with scratched code.
A stuttered sunrise,
A mumbled equation.
Fragmented, woven storeys.
Intercepted thought-
A patterning of stars.

It shall take beauty to itself.
It shall wear a body
Suspended and gently packed
With birdsong.
It shall have a sunrise
Located in a northern way.
Magnificence untranslated and untranslatable.
A verticality, a rotation, a specific gravity.

Freed from the body
It twists to a certain extent,
A mind will take colours to itself
As murmurs of joy.
A shuffled deck of cards
(Where all images are constantly changing),
Vapour words uttered to themselves and gone,
Drawn from all tomorrows,
A suffering of beauty.

The rudra veena says:
“Music is the very means
Ye shall venture through vastnesses,
The telemetries of time and space,
Control panel of deity,
Bender of physics, answer to worlds,
Mating call of galaxies.”

—

The rudra veena is an instrument of South India, a pumped up, pimped up sitar, more growling even than the surbhahar ( a bass sitar). It has two huge gourds at either end, that wrap around the person holding it, and a long,wide fretboard. It has a monumental, alien sound in recordings. Live, it probably vibrates bones and deepest soul. Beyond human, the rudra veena is the player, human being the instrument.
( search ‘rudra veena’ into youtube and give yourself a thrill!).

—

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Conversations with Invisible friends 12

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on April 16, 2014| 2 Comments »

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OPEN

Beyond doing,
beyond not doing,
beyond beginning again
and remembering.
Disbelieving nothing,
the old man,
walking
through walls.

—

WITHIN WITHOUT

Neither is it the wind
Nor the tree
That howls
In this storm:
In the convolution of the ear,
In the eye’s tear,
In the blood’s roar,
It finds a home.

Emptiness
Finding and losing
Edges.

Bitter beauty,
Is beauty
Nonetheless.

—

KEEN

Slaked,
tongue cup still tastes,
somewhere,
sharp sorrow,
pulse.

—

DEFINE

Clarity: not a knowing,
not a thing,
not graspable,
never owned.
It is a landscape, high,
with a wind from the mountains,
a forgetting of,
a removal of frames and views,
cold on the tip of the tongue….

—

RESOUND

When we hear a phrase of the tune we have always danced to,
we remember and forget,
become more and less ourselves.
That’s it, that’s it.
Struck dumb by namelessness,
bright eyed,
melting.

—

—

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Ninth Key to the Green Kingdoms

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 7, 2014| Leave a Comment »

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KEY NINE
(Undines)

“Your science of rigidities
Are lies of the fearful.

We, here, are void and free.
Infinite, immortal flow.

Limitless, deathless
Tuned, turning tides,
Roaring silence.

Impossible song
None can forget.

Escape you frozen fears,
Melt,
Meander.

You are, anyway,
Made vessels for our fierce bliss.
Flow,
Willing.

Let go.
Find us,
Void and free.”

—

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Veil

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 17, 2014| Leave a Comment »

VEIL

Here, embedded in small, lapsed
Suspended moments,
(Gossamer, silk, turning)
Too early, too late,
Webbed with inconclusive dream,
Stirred spirallings, seed of wind and light.
A weighing and disregarding
(The shallow confusions of purpose)
Sense and organs of sense
Bow to slow breath:
The fine, high transformation:
Time into space
Dissolving to time once more
(A thin cloth, this melting memory).

They sing,
Though there is nothing
To sing about,
They turn and wander
Unaccompanied, perfect,
These angels, these spirits,
These exhalations of earth.

A moist dawn air-
News from the sea,
Too soon for Spring,
Yet Spring has begun.
Moving on from now:
An arc of returning gravity
Held, pulled, this roaring love.

The eloquent have learned to
Separate and divide,
A weighing of threes
(These simple roads forgotten).
Coleridge would stir in sleep
Mud, slow drying, on coat and boot,
One fading leaf, one budding stem
Has all the answers
We shall ever need
An we blink
An we stay awake.

The slow sonority-
An old man tastes
The luxury of ancient language,
A fine whiskey
Sweet with smoke and bitterness.
His rhythm is a road across hillsides,
A road into morning.
A fine line
Dividing weeping
And contentment,
As it always is,
As it always
Is.

—

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Tangential (stumbled sketch)

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 13, 2014| 2 Comments »

TANGENTIAL (stumbled sketch)

There: art, not a thing,
not a, not owned.
Flown.
A consummation not consumed.
A mirror mirrored. What gods do.
Play innocent of consequence.
What childen do ( when they forget to be good or bad):
Follow the trains of thought noise feeling echo memory dream back back oh back.

Mr. Young,
Dr. Cold
seasoned by dust of science,
almost right, but then again…
Too serious to see the truth.

Tap the words, metaphor, semaphore,
Heirophant, hieroglyph, sign, sigil, psychopomp, or
Orpheus walking in the singing mists.
It is not this, but only just.
It is almost here, and then again…

A blurring.
Ink does it, that small spidering reach,
The small fibres sucking, new chaos stretching,
Mycelia of thought reaching out from meaning.
What Taliesin knew
( the bards struck speechless by
His seed syllables),
It is so nearly thought,
So nearly speech,
So nearly, nearly silence.
A catch of breath, a sigh.
Shall we turn round to look
Whose warmth stirs
The neck’s nape?
And will they then vanish,
Or us, ourselves, dissolve?
Unclothed before the tree,
Giving names,
Bestowing edge.
From where
The seven rivers
Mellifluous flow.
Sprung from the root
Of our moist tongues.
He, the seed.
She, the fruit.
Both vessels hollow,
Ringing.

—-

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Subject as Object

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , on January 9, 2014| 19 Comments »

THE SUBJECT AS OBJECT,
OBJECT AS GROUND
OF BEING.
ON EDGES
AND BELONGINGS.

Tat tvam asi
(That I am)

How to merge,
how to remain,
how to see beyond corners,
in darkness wells.

In deserts,
the sand-filled mouths of raving saints.
In forests,
the still elegance of shadowed eyed.

How to merge, yet remain.
How to allow in,
yet keep clambering upwards.
I.
Mistaken identity.
The signpost as the destination.

Cleverness and guile all our days,
we forget to let go the tight bands,
corsetted edge, held in,
possessed and unpossessed,
apart, separated,
vulnerable to elsewhere,
withered by time,
an erosion of horizons,
alluvial plains, fluvial deposits,
drumlins, morraines.

The debris of becoming something else.
A knot, nor a net.
Next, betwixt, between.
Amongst.
A singular deception.
A swell, a tide, a sea, a surge.
A chorus of voices.

Solar mansions.
A circle divided remains a returning path.
name me and I shall vanish,
dancing around the fire.
Foolishly,
I know all things,
but have forgotten how to dream,
and so am rootless
awaiting celestial bees.

Meander.
The great river.
The sky roofed path.
Wonder of wonders.
Breath out.

Looking,
it eludes us.
Remain still, somehow,
forgetting skin.
A vessel.
Is it form, is it emptiness?
Neither, nor, not.
No lessening is it,
ever, ever.

—–

A roaming around ideas on Self, what is ours, what is beyond, where memory might abide, and asking why should there be limits to our wonder.
Stirred by “Immunity” http://manoftheworld.wordpress.com. I am always a we, a cellular empire. I is also a view, a sharing and borrowing of voice.

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Scribe, Entangled.

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 4, 2013| 2 Comments »

SCRIBE, ENTANGLED
(Transience measured)

To carve in sound
The passing wings,
The roaring flicker of Time.

To hold up, turning slowly,
To reconsider, to honour,
The long and short moment
Immeasurable, of incalcuable value.

Ice equations melting with each sigh,
A collecting, falling, echo geometric.

Consummation by flame, bright dancing
For a moment, a transmutation ungraspable.

This location of variables,
Borrowed breath, quivered pattern,
Delineations: all immanent
Divinity.

Break the stream,
Suspend the pulse,
Question the lack of purpose,
The reason why,
And nothing further
Can be revealed
(The one answer already given).

This is the prize
For existing.
Why look round
For more?

—-

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Blink- dream stream ( for Nathan)

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 22, 2013| 4 Comments »

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BLINK
(for Nathan)

How is it some patterning of the familiar, some phrase turned this way, that way turns more than echo, enlarges, exponents, fractures into its own chaos pattern?
We blink and the world disappears. We sleep and the universe unravels. We talk to the distance, converse with the invisible, as if our thoughts had pulses. And then there is that silence, in that forest, where that tree falls, unhindered, unremarked, unwitnessed. And the question marks the doubt.
What will be missed?
Slowly turning, slow breezes of distant breath,
We are enwebbed,
Weightless, waiting our turn.
A sweep, a cascade,
A clamour, a whisper,
A yes, an and but,
A slight widening of eye,
A lick of tongue to lip,
A spark, a cinder reseeded.
Upon an ash of dull vocabulary, a sudden dust devil dancing, acrobatic heretic, acrostic cross-stitch. And there it is, temporal flux. Gravity well. A siphon, a vortex, a cascade of neurons inventing new species. A bloom of bacteria basking in the bright futures of near-death.
Nothing is further from the truth, it never crossed my mind, a creature of habit, transfixed in the headlamps. A tumble of the banal: our raw matter to tease out, to squeeze.
I am winged yet
And spinning,
Woven somewhere,
Laced, enbroidered,
Pricked out,
Sketched.
Not quite becoming,
Hesitant.
You were and are a mirror of sorts, silvered, distant. A moon sailing through cloud. There, intimated, expressed, uncovered. A lapse in time. Time-lapse. Shutter speed. Blink. Blink. Forgetting,
Remembering,
Forgetting.
To whom belongs the face in the mirror?( Always looking a little surprised, a little disappointed). Of all the voices in my head, strange rainforest bouquet, there was, is, will be, one more calm, one more complex, a careful equation. News from Nowhere.

” Matter
is merely
mind
deadened
by the development of habit
to the point
where the breaking up
of these habits
is very difficult.”

Stubborn, fixed. It is alchemical. I, alembic, a host of raven wings and a lost crown of kings.
Here, it grows late. There: later or earlier. Those who watch, watch over the sleepers. Those who sleep, dream the waking world. Blink. It begins. Blink. It ends. The mirror remains a mirror reflecting upon what it is not. Blink. Turn away, it ceases. Turn back, it re-appears.
As if never gone away. As if never gone by. As if never gone.
Even, even, they say,
In a complete vacuum,
In a complete darkness,
No matter how dark,
No matter how hard they try,
They say,
There always, always, seems to be
Half a photon
Somehow
Remaining.
Light
Persisting.
(Just
A
Thought.)

—–

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Settled

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 6, 2013| 4 Comments »

SETTLED

So it is settled:
Cupped, hammocked
In golden hay fields,

The sun
Of this northern land
Free, for a week or two,
To proudly swell
In still, blue skies.

To warm brick and path
Long past sunset.
To pull trees starwards
In deep green shade,
Sheened with dust.

Nestled, the violet mallow
In golden grasses.
Nestled, the purple knapweed
Along the pasture edge.

The hedgerow elm,
Two years dead,
Swathed lush in ivy,
Crowned, adorned
In arcs of wild rose.

Life rushes in
Dressing old wounds:
White yarrow, pink yarrow.
Sudden sweet drift-
Overwhelmed by honeysuckle.
The fingers, white fingers
Of bindweed count the days.
Swallows sigh happy
Swinging high in evening.

It is a time of tasting,
Of breathing.

There is music,
There is silence,
I can find no difference.

There is one second,
There is the next,
Tell me, if you can,
Which is more perfect?

—-

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magatama says

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 20, 2013| 10 Comments »

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MAGATAMA SAYS

Magatama says this is what you are, a wriggle in time, a wriggle in space. An eye that is hollow, a mind that is hollow, a space where, a vessel where, sentience pools and flows through. Embryo spinning round sun yolk. A distinction, a seam, a pebble, an accumulation of used data, a debris, a morraine, a momentum of moments lost, not quite forgotten.
A tube, sealed at either end with only hope. It will not suffer to remain. It too will distort amd become formed, reformed. The spin of horizons never long denied. A new in and a new out. A new edge, a new world, given names from somewhere else. The hollow eye, for the hollow eye does not see except what it has seen before. Somewhere there was a beginning, but it was not here, not here. Each key becomes a door, each door a wall, each wall a cell, each cell a wondering of me and mine, a selfish small delight, a harbouring of dream. Now the tide slips, the shattered, polished brilliance fades. We are left high, drying, the long keening of gulls, sandflies and bladderwrack. No more words. Day becomes day.
Scatter, scatter,
Ye stars!
Scatter,
Ye manifold living beings!
However so far
This home
Shall never become lost,
(though misremembered,
Though mistook),
So wrapped, so folded,
So entangled it is
Within your sheer fibre,
Your fluid, your feeling.
Flee as far as
Beyond the named,
Further than edge,
Farther than form.
Digging foundations for what walls exist, reconstructing our noble and grave histories, mirrors and clouds, equations, flocks of reasons seeking a roost, a reputation. The sun has hidden herself in a cave. Where is the sly shaman will entice her out with curiosity? Shiny things, laughter of others. Wrapped up in, wrapped around and upon ourselves. In becoming out, out in, the curve of edge, empty but for its own density.

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The scratching, sketching reveals magatama is also an ear, an orifice that listens, that absorbs…..and so too, turns doodling into that ubiquitous Celtic mysterious icon, the ‘trumpet spiral’, or for the more botanically minded, the mushroom divided, or for those who watch the way waters weave, the rippled surface vortex……but the doodle as doodle, as gesture, as delight of wrist, it is an outward sweep, a slow arc, an inward sweep, conch consciousness, two shapes from one line, an ineffability, a mystery, a going out and a return, the shape of a soul. Spirit language. It is always tricky, always says more than it says. Clouds conversing with hills………

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