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Posts Tagged ‘consciousness’

A PARTICULAR DEVICE

When we look so close at life inside us,
it simply becomes a tree of madness
where ghosts host and catcall,
swapping bodies and their nightmare mysteries
( from which we have never, ever, recovered).
Such strange animals. So many hands.
So many dances. So many attributes.
A collective deity ( or a pan Demonium).
There is a clue in it all somewhere,
a clue, a clew, a thread, a maze,
a spider, a monster, an eater of the charming ones,
a hungry axis, a deliverer,
a coin on his eyes and on his tongue.
The rite of the Opening of the Mouth,
escaping gravity through the small angled shaft,
homing on the singular, most singular star.
Dust to dust. An assay of hearts
before the animal-headed ones.
We are Jongleur, kindly admit us.
Remove our head. Give us the bliss of love and asses.
Return us whole to the world without end.
And let us cease to burn.
Let our mouths be filled with the cool waters.
Seven rivers from the Garden.
A lascivious sprouting of leaves, a splayed, secret hand of fig.

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SCARECROW

this
my transparent, liquid window

give us our dreams
our daily dead
sound without meaning
words without end.

sweep this.
collecting debris
for the sake
of some little gravity.

this shaped pattern:
small notion wrapped in upon
ghosted misted identity

forgetting sunsets
to inhabit the dawn,
a superstitious equation
bequeathed a pulse.

lay it down,
lay it all down,
open and dancing
up to the mountains.

this thread now,
this chariot –
broken star fragment
drowned in salt.

lay the fire to the green fields
flesh in new colour,
frost-patterned, cool.
still the eye, the tongue, the demon.
still the angel,
still the urgent bright ones.
still the whispers,
still the memory.

this house perched high,
this sunlit porch
this upturned story
this dewy claxon.

give us our dreams
our daily dead
sound without meaning
words without end.
amen.

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ALL THE WATERS

I cannot stay and I cannot go.
My heart melts like ice
On the high valleys in April
And I am given, melted to crow
And the cry of curlew.
Taken up and laid down:
All cool rain on the grasses
Of the rolling meadow,
A drift of cloud, a mist,
A risen vapour turning,
An Ascension to light,
A transfigured condensation.

All the waters of the world
Are one river.

By the bent and tangled hawthorn
We wait and wait long
For the return of blossom.
Yet we always are surprised-
The wealth of cream incense
Laid upon it, arching down,
The fragrant dew,
The hum of bees,
The expanse of growing summer.
The heart bursts open
To the horizon’s edge of light.
Warmed and belonging
A simple home
A simple return.

For all the waters of the world
Are one river.

And all the lost and drowned,
Flesh taught as dolls,
Roll now to and fro
In the breakers
On the tourist beaches.
Their last breath unheard,
Surrendered to the waters.
Their names and origins
In the thick, green weeds
Feeding tides and fishes,
Rolling, sightless, a little more,
Til they, dissolved in bubbles,
And rising now, meet the air they were refused
In the lands of milk and honey,
The brambled cliffs,
The stain of fallen fruit,
The rag-tag remains.
Bitter will be the tears, bitter and salt
As they ever are,
Dubbed with senseless poisons
And reasons and reasons why
And why not.

How long
before we learn
All the waters of the world
Are one river.

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THE WOMAN WHO WOULD DANCE

The woman who would dance on treetops;
who would walk with trees,
Tell me:
What is the shape and form and extent of the tree?
What is its roots, and what its height?
How can its girth be encompassed?
How can its wisdom be translated?
There is, you see, no merit in finding answers.
Answers are not how this, or any other, universe functions.
Multiply the questions.
Each a branch, each a root.
Questions. Spreading, holding,
Illuminating, transducing.
The word for tree
Is the word for truth,
And it is not one thing
Nor many.
To wrap it around an ankle,
A web around a bone, around skin
Around a scent, around a movement.
To wear a tree. To be worn,
Within and without.
Smiled upon, an ocean waved and rippled.
To be cast out upon a twig,
Without a name,
In a bag with no name,
In a basket with no name.
To forget one name, a touch of light,
A trembling on starlight,
A passage between attractors.
Begin and continue:
That is a tree.
An umbrella to worlds
A clamour of tongues
Green and cymbal-sharp,
Their little edges are questions.
To find an image
One must not seek an image,
(we need no other backwards mirror things),
To scribble and allow the dust
To coagulate, drip and remember
That all the waters of the world
Are one river.
The slightest, remotest puddle,
Slowly drawn upward, freedom
Within gravity to become cloud,
The tiniest thing, the thing most free,
Falling with accumulation,
Flowing with urgent weight,
Becoming all else by need.
A fountain of water held upright
By the will of the sun.
An urge to delve darkness,
To send out messengers,
To converse with all the syllables of scent.
This becomes another tree, so you see.
A one, a self, a many, a one.
Passionately, she wishes to become inscribed,
Pictured, illuminated, to become aligned,
Limned, re-limbed.
Chosen, loosed, re-booted,
A future unveiled, woven around.
The past taken up, enthroned
And unfolded. Truth made real
In arching bough, the only dance there is,
A bounce up and out from ground
And a certain, graceful, impossibly slow
Decline.

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A pearl day, smoke shaped.
A lick of mist this river’s voice.

Hills turn cloud, clouds become all.
A single dreaming moment
Explains everything.

More precious than breath
It lifts weightless, turns and dissolves,
Sky colours leaning out.

What was golden dulls to dust.
An aching tumble of sweet May,
A thorned white wave enthroned.

A season’s birth heavy laid,
A full descent, a grace,
An offered all, begun.

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Clouds flower in moonlight.
A wind rises, full of owls.

Cold that will wither the buds,
The sun will make right.

Far away, mountains have fallen.
What was, has crumbled.

We dream and dream and fall through time.
Each view infused, each moment passing.

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Book of Voices ( This Sky: part 2)

Each cell voicing its own obituary,
Each mitochondrial Neanderthal fire-watching,
Knapped sound, flint words, held, tapped,
A feel for languid, mushroomed word
( so much glory hidden tangled beneath a milk stream
Of holiness, food, fingered, fluvial through substrate,
A healthy holy rot).
All with voice, all with dawning chorus of song.
An evacuation, a cacophany profane, blessed,
A golden urgent urination ( just so),
A mineral-rich, arcing satisfaction, an urge,
Urgent, unguent, a chrism (even), an eventide
And morning of the first day.
Smudged, succumbed, scumbled, it solidifies
And whispers itself out.
Such clarity cannot hold, a boiled ferment bakes dry,
Returns to sleep, mist rises in the valley,
Stars become acceptibly few, named, blink in and out.
The voices turn to their own dreams involuted,
A cochleal murmur suspended,
Slow revolving wrapped sleeping in spider-webbed tranquillity.
Sleep whilst you can, sleep in unity, in slow breathing
Revolved planetary orbits. Sleep pretty and woven.
Eyes lidded now, eyes lidded.
(Words, fragile as insects, scurry iridescent
Into darkness.)

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