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Posts Tagged ‘consciousness’

Book of Voices (This Sky: part 1)

Let us say: this sky, as pink certainly as warmed skin.
This, an indefinite and infinite blue, as those eyes.
And as close,and as distant, as God.
Let us say: there will be again,as ever,one voice that begins,
A clarion clear and moon-bright,
One stirring uttered echoing on the valley flank
Or deep on the sacred golden wood,
Cloutie-hung with shredded prayers,
(Shellac shined black ink careful lines on white silk,
Vehement, scratched curses on lead, tight folded,
Hidden in crack and crevice, utterance to vengeful ones
To do it, do it for me).
A shower of seasons tattered reasons,
Shattered, smattered, sculpted, howled to mothers
( hungry and cold in the dark, glint of light
And voice whispered behind the holy door).
Like this, almost exactly: one clear star
Glinted, marked out, a definite oneness,
A line, a shaft, a rope to upness and downness,
Dimensional isness, a road to stick to.
But as eye accustoms to deeper delved
And shrinking edge of silence:
One more there, and another, and so another
Until the sky is dark with inescapable stars
Vying for eye and patterning the mind with yes
And yes, a plan, a map, a purpose, a chorus
Of foamed ejaculate, a tide ripped and roaring in
Upturning pebble feather flotsam bone and tattered weed
( a flap of iodine, a wriggle).
Let us say, this close to madness
Is this close to revelation.

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A Specious Species ( fragment from ‘Book of Voices’)

Nothing sacred now but our innane, profane cataloging of elements.
Delighting amongst minute, defined aberrations of despair.
Tearing wings off angels, pinning demons, peeled, perused and wriggling.
A reduction to the economic, to the social pressure, to the self-deceived confection
Of low-fat, sugared reason.
Too smart to see the mirror’s edge,
Too self-congratulatory with resonant parsimony, (our rounded, generic, philistine voice),
To notice the hysteric, farting ghosts gesturing in the shadows,
(Who hold all the prompts, pimp and pump the lines).
All the angry poets implode with bluster, become politicians of meagre degree,
Smutty with oiled conviviality, lugubrious with reasonable desecrations.
This world, too sharp, too uncoloured, subtle and muddied,
Requiring battened-down, serial numbered, thirteen-digit barcoded, sixteenth- level encryption, a designed decorum, ready-mealed, chill-packeted
For whenever the sudden, certain hungers disturb the entertainments
Of the bland and chained perceptions.
Blake and his roaring spirits plummet burning from a pest-controlled heaven,
Nicely neurotoxined, polypropylened, thin smiled and NVQ’d.
History scrubbed and redactable, requisitioned, gilded, sold off.
Each empire and squalid colony vacuum-packed,
Date-stamped, forgotten in elusive, intellectual deep freeze…..

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FRAGMENT (from Book Of Voices)

These tides, these stratigraphies,
These meridians,
Slightly, gently shifting
(boats on a small tide, moored lightly,
Testing their freedom, anchored
In hierarchies, in distance, from
Sane land).

A certain dance of veils,
A somewhat dramatic covering
And uncovering of chance meetings.
Automatic script (as if any thought
Were planned in any way),
Knee jerk eruptions of things
To put language to, a cauldron
Bubbling up – eye of, gizzard of,
Toe of, brain of…

Always one step away
From dream,
A small distraction
And the doors open wide.
These demons, these angels
Made from our shadows
(Following us humming,
Like bees to each
Nectared crevice)…

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MIND STREAMS

(for ‘Book of Voices’)

There is a landscape
Knitted over with slim streams.
Bright and dark, loud and whispered,
Each, eternal threads worming
Stories of thought and thoughtlessness,
Stories of song and reasons and whys.
Whole histories, whole epochs, whole aeons.
A continuity of dream, a muttered heart.
A thousand voices vying for eyes,
A turn of attention, an immersion in,
An interpretation of, an affirmation.

Some sing, some skirl, some shout.
Golden chained, ear to tongue,
A merry dance, a forced march.

There is a dark, tangled tree.
From my tongue it pours sap
Through throat and lung,
Wrapped to rooted loins.
A lean language, tango Argentinian,
A whipcrack thing, sinuous sine,
Insinuous, inescapable, one
Of a number of souls.

(On the black hill, a scattering of snow,
The bare trees spell out the names
Of distant saints born from rivers,
All borne to the sea, a tidal deity
Coming and going, coming and going.)

I carry with me, pelican-like,
All the souls, black and noisy as jackdaws,
On the tree from the mother inhabited
Down to now, a flock of sharp eyes
And voluble tongue……

—-

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UNDOING

Sitting without time,
Outwith its wild unheard roar.

Moments snowmelt vanishing,
Undoing forgiven, unknowing acquiesced.

Oh, Birds of dawn, the hills are laced with cold.
Blue air placid, blanket weighed.

A roll of mist is daybreak,
A disassembly of constellations.

Sky ceiling lifts and breathes out.
Two ravens sliding sideways blackly.

The simplest lessons hardwon:
To rest without time,

All hungers melted.

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From our door
The river we see
Is named ‘river’.
The mountain on the horizon
Is ‘mountain’.
But the woods,
The woods,
Are named from whispers,
And the farms
From grief and joy.

Belonging
Is not a gift
Nor a right.
It lives in an open heart
Free from reasons
And excuses.

The old stag oak
Now wears a crown of gold,
The ash and alder wear
Empty sky.

All roads arrow straight,
But for their bends.
All hills are green
From a certain distance.

The rivers run full
After a night’s rain
And the sun is stretched
And etched with rainbows.

There is not a promise
That it cannot be forgotten.
There is not a day
That cannot be glorious.

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An attempt at translation from English into Welsh using iTranslate. Some words were altered to find correlates – it didn’t like ‘held’, ‘unbelonged’, ‘lorn’, ‘furled’. I would welcome any comments from Welsh speakers- apart from a few words that I recognise, I do not know how well the software has worked, but would be interested in finding out how close or far from the mark it is!

Sleepless, I must wait
Tight-wrapped,
Held white and unresolved,
Dissolving,
An unbelonged thing.

Di-gwsg,
rhaid i mi aros
Dynn-lapio,
Cipio gwyn a heb eu datrys,
Diddymu,
A beth nad ydynt yn perthyn.

Wait, and I shall meet you
Down by the bridge, by the ford.
Where the river always murmurs sense.
In twilight, in evening,
Furled suspended time,
Honeysuckle warm
And the whisper of moths.

Arhoswch, a byddaf yn cwrdd â chi
i lawr ger y bont, gan y rhyd.
Lle mae’r afon bob amser yn si synnwyr,
Yn cyfnos, yn y nos.
Amser plygu atal dros dro,
Gwyddfid cynnes
A sibrwd o wyfynod.

But lorn I am
On this longest shore.
White, cold white, the horizon.
The far breakers’ withdrawn roar
Leaving naked the still, black rocks,
A salt taste of wheeling gulls.
A spun void.

Ond gwan wyf
Ar y lan hiraf.
Gwyn, gwyn oer yw’r gorwel.
Rhuo Mae’r torwyr bell ‘tynnu’n ôl
Gadael noeth y dal, creigiau du,
Blas halen o gwylanod gwthio.
Mae gwagle nyddu.

—-

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