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Posts Tagged ‘consciousness’

ARTEFACT

We come and go one by one,
or in twos and threes,
waking, sleeping from dream to dream,
handfuls of dust cast heavenwards, taking shape,
then falling back to settled earth. Bubbles, thoughts, whispers.

Birdsong in a pearl-still dawn.
All day in this small green field,
in its tangled bare hedges,
in its edge of trees,
in its deep grasses, the birds
flit and feed, pause and fly off.
All day the sunlight picks out the distant slopes,
the forests, the valleys.
And they, too, come and go with mists
and clouds
and drifts of rain.

For months now I have been working the canvases,
(for people do so like a view to hold on to,
one so dear to them, one they do not have,
a way through the mute walls,
to remember an opening out, a beyond,
a distant something).
Against its nature to drip, against its habit to mix and merge,
against my own fingers’ wish to sweep and gesture.
A discipline,
the tying down of an illusion,
confection for tongue and eye.
A sweet minded moment, an ache of forgetting.
The life of itself, a liquid thing,
to be constrained so, to process
as a stately, well-dressed thing.
Not just a swirled, delightful, mute moment.
A meaning. A purpose identified. The monitoring of the familiar.
As if. As if.

As if there were a story.
As if there were a careful, structured tale.
A small beginning, a once, a long-ago.
Through wild, thorned paths and fog and frost
to a final end so careful balanced.
A just so.
An as it is.

Something to leave behind.
Something to say.
More than a rise and fall.
More than a raven’s cry across the valley.
More than a blackbird in the cool dawn air.
More than a drift of mist above a hidden river.
More than a rise of trout as the gnats dance on light.

The fire is lit
and it must be fed ’til nightfall.
Then, untended, it will die down,
become silent.

That smooth black,
silk-dark soot:
a hand-print,
a fingerprint on a cave wall:
we are here,
dreaming.
And we found a way through.

—-

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2016/02/img_1857.jpg

The rivers rise and fall
with the rains.

The hills come and go
folded into their colours.

Day and night are
the forest’s murmured breath.

Green are the roads full of song,
the spine of sky split open,

And the drovers’ cries,
forever herding stars.

Fountains of light sucked
into velvet: the silent midnight.

These moments, so translucent,
flower quietly in the heart.

Nothing concealed nor measured,
no meaning here:
A wordless thing,
open.

2016/02/img_1856.jpg

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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.

2016/02/img_1834.jpg

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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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2015/09/img_1717.jpg

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.

2015/09/img_1716.jpg

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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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