EXTRACTS FROM A MIND TERMA
1
Scratched on the eyeball of heaven:
Cloud scripts, lines of vowels winged.
Healed in rain to fall as blue,
Sweet, bitter, sour, salt.
The salt tears, the sweet winds
Rolled and formed, a new language,
A new tongue……
A syllable, mists between the hills.
A spiral seed caught, blessed
And released.
Eye pillow, this white page.
A dream of golden script, a song
On the nature of infinite silence…….
A drum of skin,
Voice of thunder,
Time and space syncopate.
Truth, a fugue…..
A dancing pattern
Of starlings’ feet
In the snow.
Dakini laughter.
So wonderfully free
Now we no longer exist…..
This language as fabric, satin,
Silk, a filigree, an equation, a map.
Tomorrow’s moments transfixed, melted
Moulded and spoken.
A lace of nerve endings,
Bobbin molecules, probability
Folds of protein.
An unlikely smile,
A figure in the distance
Becoming unreadable.<
<
Carved in fumes:
A rainbow science,
A bitter construction.
This breath
Echoes its form.
A terma of space
On the tip of my tongue,
Tasting of juniper…..
The footprints of a wandering mind,
Showing where it has been.
Memory, an exhalation,
A ceaseless blink.
This sullen, steadfast belief
In surfaces.
Extinguished the mystery,
Now it is weighed…….
Seed death with the dawn.
Of many forms, inculcated, remorseless,
Inescapable consonants……
A fascination
With the tuned
Eloquence of moments……
Heart stutters,
Breaks open:
Light revealed,
And a pattern of stars……
Flaming shimmer.
The shape of flowers,
Incense, offerings…..
Sun and moon:
Witnesses…..
Cascade.
——
2
There are moments moving through time.
There are moments floating in space.
There is a rushing in of seasons.
There is the pressure of words
Forming deep and golden,
Blind, squirming, seeking a voice,
The warmth of meaning.
Clouds of words,
An utterance, a glory of sound,
A liberation, a going forth,
A compression, a forming……
It settles as snow,
Silent.
Silver drifting
Thought,
Dissolving down.
As flakes
Caught on fingertip,
A change of state,
An elemental thing,
Effortless……
The repository of time
Is called
Space……
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Words Nest
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, boundaries, commentary, cosmologies, creation, edges, endings, existence, identity, Poetry, psychology, reply, words, writing on February 21, 2016| Leave a Comment »
But ‘we’ is not circled.
We have no edge ( though we think otherwise)
(though we think we think).
We think beginnings and endings,
we think words, breath, silence, breath,
intake the other, exhale the other.
cannot remember any moment beyond
a circumscribed horizon, cannot, even, the dreams,
nor the memories, for sure (was it, was, was it so, was it not?)
There are, of course, clues.
Vagrants, with a certain mildewed smell,
mutter slewed directions, their demon-bright eyes.
(but those we shun, as shadows,
as churchyards at night, as the insisting amoral voices in the mist,
peripheral, shuffled, ambiguous).
The long halls, the rooms, the chambers.
My dear Giordano, such equations, such equators.
So few and tired are the moronic habitual paths,
so broad the primrose paths
to Hell untrod, unstudied.
A rumour of damnation, like a roll of distant thunder,
a storm coming. Well, certainly, there is a storm coming.
From the edges to the centre, from the centre to the edges..
An ending ( of sorts).
And then it echoes around another’s skull.
Seed syllables.
The end of worlds.
The beginning of worlds.
—
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