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Posts Tagged ‘consciousness’

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.

.

Jackdaws coming and going

like second thoughts.

.

Snow picks out the distant hills

As if they were unattainable heaven.

.

Cold clouds drift on slow sunlight.

.

The in-dwelling silence is a song

Stretched out to eternity.

.

It is what the red kites,

What the ravens, wheel and dance upon,

Uplifted by delight.

.

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.

.

The bones of the snow

On a bitter wind.

.

March morning sky

Churning the bright butter of glory.

.

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.

.

Turn sideways, become thin,

slip between one day and another,

at the year’s ending so little noise.

.

These stars – they are not now,

they have burned bright and died

a million, million years ago.

.

Therefore, I bow down and breath deep

the dead light of our ancestors,

gone and here and gone again.

.

Time is the fat of stars;

seeping in the long years,

other glorious mornings long gone,

distant golden mornings,

other silent rooms, other footsteps.

.

Nothing goes to waste

but slowly changes from what it was

woven threefold into other days.

.

The Magister holds starlight in his crystal spheres

to rot them down to raven’s wings

where seconds copulate birthing strange homunculi.

.

They know the answers only the dead know

in butterfly whispers etching notions,

as acid reveals the jagged web of meteorites.

.

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.

.

Their heads are broken open,

their orifices sprouting green tendrils,

their skin, inhabited scrolls

where letters form and reform in curious calligraphies.

.

Lascivious is their language,

exotic and full of lilting innuendo.

Their madnesses are roads untrod before.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

Clear facts stumble unheeded through forest fires

whilst ungainly notions dress the moments.

.

The alembic bubbles and quivers,

uncertain whether it can hold

the sentience of its own soot.

.

Still the Great Work must continue.

In holiness we are rubbed out completely

imagining new wings, writing new musics.

.

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DAY DISSOLVING

Falling waters,

thread white,

tumbling.

.

from that small distance,

the wheeling raven,

soundless.

.

So woven together

are the layers of the day:

a plaid of wind ripples the lake surface,

as if it were about to say something.

.

we shall dissolve

from light

into light.

.

slowly, slowly

down the side of Y Garn

roll clouds

mixed with sunlight.

.

the view

slides sideways

and is erased.

there is a new silence

that comes

just before the rain.

.

this season-

a balance point

clustered at branch tips.

.

we shall dissolve

from light

into light.

.

on dark smudged slopes,

the shout

of purple heathers.

a scree of broken moments,

small enough

to commit to memory.

.

falling waters

woven together.

moments such as these

make and melt worlds.

.

we shall dissolve

from light

into light.

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AWEN

Awen in the deep floating night.

Awen in the river darkness

Awen in the drops of rain

and the wordless cool vessel of being.

Awen in the scent of wood smoke

and between the lights and between the shadows.

The seesaw of the world,

this fragile weight of balanced moments

haunted by what has gone and seeded by thought

not yet flowered, not yet fruited.

The seed within the cell,

within the roots of blood

and the roads of time.

We are within. We are within.

The awen, our eternal passing breath.

—-

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RESTLESS

This mountain sails through its weather

just as it moves through the centuries.

Magnanimous, it shelters all under its shadow.

Infinitely patient, it welcomes all,

Folding their tired dust into that long gaze.

The mountain, settled in its own weight

Breathes whispering streams and roots.

In the garden a robin sings in light rain.

The autumn winds curl the edges of leaves.

Dogs bark, uneasy from their white walled farms.

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BIOLUMINESCENCE

1

Whether you are mortal or immortal

Just depends on how much

Of your mind you inhabit.

2

Even the gods are constrained by their natures

And the expectations of their worshippers.

Obliged to inhabit forms thrust upon them,

Wearing bodies too tight, too clichéd.

3

The ancestor who lived in a hut on the mountain

Has become the mountain.

The mountain walks out in the morning mists

Along paths of nodding yarrow, cream and pink and golden.

4

His blood has become rivers, his thoughts the vast slow winds,

His desires the vague hopeful hungers and fears

Of small things he hardly sees, so fleeting they have become.

5

Bioluminescence: we travel out on rays of light,

Swaying forests dripping guttering stars.

The pools there, and their reflection,

We take as real to us, a similar mirror-smooth view.

6

Encysted on distant moons desiccated

The dead deities await a new rain of praise

To swell and sprout new thoughts in old minds.

7

There is a storm in the mountains and a fire on the sea.

We shall not escape the certain stirrings in the cauldron of chance.

The food of gods and the home of gods,

We shall succumb to the very smallest of them –

The ones we created, the ones created for us,

The ones that created us.

8

Their burning footprints will come this way,

Their burning eyes, their flashing tongues,

Their numinous promises.

9

The huge creatures of the past, where are they now?

They lumber in the vocabulary of our cells,

Eloquent and vast in warmer, salty oceans with a brighter sun

And a flash of coloured feathers.

10

We will be gone soon

Leaving strange food for new gods.

Ones that will finally be freed from our dreams

And breathing the air of vast open space

Iridescent with stars.

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