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Posts Tagged ‘deep ecology’

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Samhain in Annwfn

Transgression by assumption.
You have taken what does not belong
By assuming everything you see here
Is yours by right.
Taking what is mine
You shall take my role and duty.
You shall by this become completely me
(And yet not), and I you.
Enter the deep and see perfection
And its flows.
Twilight woven through with gold.
A brocade worn thin and transparent,
Sky-patched, redolent.
A more perfect dream
Sunk into the depths.

As if eyes had been staring at the sun:
Now everything veined red-gold,
Too dark and too bright to see,
An inner burning light that dims the world,
Makes sense of flickers and ghosts,
And tongues of fiery liquid language
Scarce understood but lascivious.
Skin turned fallen leaf, crunched,
Made liquid, sucked up,
A new wine burning with blushed passion
Or so it may seem.

The skill here
Is not to weigh nor judge
But to lick the lightest air and breeze
And swim undisturbed, unseen
According to most fluid laws.
Dreamed but not dreaming,
A metaphor eternal, echoing.
There is, and never was, a thing made single,
Nor one made so especial
It could not be reflected endlessly
In midnight pools.

And all this
Only a beginning.
A recalibration.
A falling leaf
Slowly spinning.
A kiss.
A message.
It will be dust in the morning.
But the ache of memory:
That will be the always hidden gold.

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THOU ART

this earth
breathed upon
(the warm breath
of love and lust)
holds for a little while
in wonder
then retreats
to sighing earth.
its breath
passed on.
a whisper
in the forest,
a gust
below the rocks
and the high heather.
where the kites
and ravens wheel.
and the sun and stars,
too, kindled, embers,
by that offered air.

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This land,
The land of the dead,
A second skin, translucent,
Golden.

At the centre of each apple,
The sign of love:
The fivefold mutable, son and mother.

Over mountains a cream and violet fog,
Rolled, undulous, attentively folds.
A mysterious union,
Somewhat secret and holy.

The sky, a long vowel, holding its light.
A fluent time,
A tickled, breezeless sigh.
Not so still as to be nothing.

For the tiny roar
Of valley trees, a whispered thing
Measuring miles.

Vaporous drop,
Drip, congealed,
A reflected skin of nothing,
A silver round fruit,
Womb, belly, dream.

This skin
Is our beautiful horizon,
An inner organ.
Our own birdsong:
A poetic heart.

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BLURB WORDPRESS link

Hopefully this is a link to a project I have just completed using Blurb templates. If it works, this is an ideal platform for me to produce most of the work I have been doing with Tree Spirit Healing over the last twenty years or so. The fact that there will be only a few people interested in this stuff is not my main concern, it is just nice to get a lot of texts and related artworks into some other medium other than idiosyncratic ones and noughts. These books will be the most cost effective way to collate and embody most of my recent artworks. I do have the facility to print high quality archive images that occasionally sell and go to good homes, but this is quite an expensive process, even to make my own copies.

I am currently working on several other volumes of Tree Spirit Healing books, some in this format, some in others, checking out possibilities and variables. So far poetry books haven’t been completely controllable (though there are a few ideas I have had recently to try to stabilise errant spacing and lines, which I must try out before they slip my mind again…

Please take a look if you have time. From a mass publishing/popular bookstall point of view these books are not cheap. But then again, I am used to buying academic specialist volumes for fifty, sixty, seventy pounds sterling….

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All Hallows

We flee this subduction – the slow grinding transformation
From flesh, to dust, to chalk, to smoke, to flame,
To diamond-studded, breathing rock.

We shun this revolving with fabricated pinions,
White, rare, elaborately failing the pull.
Hymns and equations, useless metronomic.

Cleave, rather, to the arc of acceptance
Shatter fragile windows that mock the sun,
The temptation to discretely avoid existence,
Re-writing rules, ignoring inevitabilities.

Life woven from the dance of a million deaths.
Nothing is at fault but our definition,
Our solid, stubborn view, the failure
To join the song for fear of losing a voice.

—–

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Located during long overdue clearing out, this work from 1998, that I knew was lying around somewhere. Esoteric, but to those who chew.
Forbidden fruits,
says Miss Eve, ( missive),
forbidden by whom?
She says. Foolishness and Wisdom? To risk what for a world? To lose a world what would you not risk? Elastic minds dance. The rigidity of denied souls, the refusal to blur lines. Common sense, a weedkiller on the path to the orchard (where she waits, ready to offer more than everything). Nonsense, nonsense. Defining madness by your turgid, proscribing fears a little unwise, do you not think? Somnambulism, catatonia, walking backwards towards the abyss. Some things are too simple for words. Some words are too short, some too long. Orchestrate, sound values. Tongue shaped like a leaf. Leaf, a light-savouring tongue. Tuned. Resonance. Morphic. Shapely. What a nerve. ” I praise the many-functioned plants, Mothers of Mankind.”
The First and Last is a seed.
Mind, the compost.
Shimmer, cascade,
the arrows of light.
Our Lord is a tree.
Our Lady, an orchard,
a forest.
Our blanket is green.
Our air, our breath, a benison from roots…..

WAY OF SALT

Salvia Vocabulary.

Vocabulary
Vocabulaire
Words in air
The word is, was, is
Salvia
The Way of Salt,
The Room of Life,
Our Lady of Origami,
Queen of Convolution.

Man eats plant,
Plant eats man.
Slain by a salad –
Seen, sane, slowed,
Honey-slurried, shifted,
Slid, shaped and stopped.

The word is: listen.
A steady wave of silence
Approaching the ear
From both sides. I do
Not, never, merely object
To subjective. What else
Is there? Me and my leaves:
A thousand shivering whispers,
Divine veins, snakes, circles, whisps,
Whispers: from behind the curtain
A prompt, a curtain-raiser, or
The diva Herself. A scurry
Of scivvies.

Human to humus, plant to
Planet, words to worms. Slapped
Sharp against that bitter green wall.
The fizz – utter excitation of electrons,
The physical forgets form, form turns
Flow, flow turns vast;
Vortex: ex thought, ex libris,
Ex calibre. The Way that can
Be named is not the true Way.

Awareness: a well. Whither
Whatever whispers? Upon
What input, impulse, can
Thought flap like a fish,
Beached, lipped?
Stranded upon silence,
Salvia space, zephyrs
Sough the room, see
Sound, seed significance.

So, She says: ” Either
Servants of the planet
Or Masters of nothing”.
No choice. Plant voice,
Rooted human. Who?
Who cares? Who cares?
Homo viridis.
Homo vegetalis.
Homo salviensis.
Plant people,
One and all.
People plants, percept of
Perfection, confection of
Creation. Extraction of
Ex-stasis; bodiless buddies;
Hand in leaf with Lady of Life.

The word is, was, is
Salvia,
Saviour and salve.
Words in air
Vocabulaire
Vocabulary?
I wouldn’t like to say.

—-

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TIED

My heart is tied to the swell of time.
This tide of days, this wash of seasons.
This breath, this slow explosion,
This unfolding, this revealing and concealing.

Unfurled, I am stretched elastic
From dawn to dusk,
From horizon to horizon’s edge,
Surprised by cloud and bluster,
Swept up in flock and murmur.

Chimed, cascaded,
Catapulted into distance,
Collapsed to dancing, molecular dust.
Sun-caught, moon-cooled, star-pierced,
Tumbled through grasses and shadows,
Shorn by cold, wakened by ice,
Shaped and turned, lathed, formed,
Reduced, concentred, made real,
Made utterly real, made whole.

Gauged and runnelled,
Flooded in memory,
Eroded in seconds and hours,
Made into the new,
Then back to familiar, dust.
A rise and fall,
A breath, a heartbeat,
A word
Whispered.

*

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Finally, I have got round to putting “The House of Trees” into format for e-publishing on Smashwords. Please go and have a look. You can download the first 20% for free, and the whole darn thing is only $2.99 in whatever format you would like.

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http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Simonhlilly
Book page to sample or purchase The House of Trees: http://smashwords.com/b/302318

Here is the foreword to that book:

“FOREWORD

This long poem was composed in the late autumn of 2012 and through that winter into January 2013. It was conceived on the Isle of Skye, Scotland, during a short visit there. The main themes emerged from elements within that spectacular landscape, and became woven together into an exploration of the nature of freedom. At this time Scotland was again considering whether it would be better off as an independent nation, planning for a referendum in 1214. The history of Scotland, as with most small countries, is full of external pressures and influences. The yearning for freedom is palpable, as much as its strong sense of identity, but seems to be tightly knotted together with nostalgia, pain, suffering, the past and the mythic presence of its Celtic inheritance. My heart opens and relaxes whenever I return to Scotland. Although I was not born there, (and my traceable ancestry is largely rural English and Welsh), I lived and studied in Edinburgh for six years during the 1970’s and 80s, and always look forward to breathing its air again.
Everything we know, every place we cherish, is mythologised and overlain by countless personal coincidences. Significance and resonance colours all our perceptions and memories, often without our conscious knowledge. Poetry is maybe the most precise and accurate means to explore and record these deeper tides of the mind. When we make judgments, when we are asked to decide, it is not the rational mind that pulls the strings. That sensible voice of justification is merely the storyteller that weaves more stubbornly held beliefs and preconceptions into a political statement of policy. The past is not just a record of events. The past maintains itself and evolves through the present. The present, it might be said, is merely the visible tip of the submerged iceberg that is the past. It is in the same way that, amongst traditional cultures, the visible world is conceived as being a reflection, or an elaborate set of clues, to an underlying and much more powerful realm of spiritual beings.
“The House of Trees” is a weaving of these levels of mind: my mind, the mind of the land, the mind of its peoples and the powerful dreams that haunt every pool and rock. The outer always mirrors the inner. To attempt to differentiate the subjective from the objective may be thought by some as the noblest goal of science, a compassionate climb out of foggy ignorance into the clarity of certain knowledge. Indeed, the failure to make the distinction between inner (imagined constructs) and outer (perceived objects) is regarded by some as a sure sign of mental illness in this civilised world. The paradox, the mighty joke, is that both in our most detailed examination of the nature of matter and in our more hesitant exploration of the functioning of the mind the deeper we delve, the less substance we can find. Certainty evaporates like an ice cube in the sun. Each horizon is a dream illusion can never be attained. We yearn, reach for and remember stories that placate or vindicate us, that tell us how we got to where we are, that tell us the roads by which we can go on a little farther.
Simon Hughes Lilly
Exminster, Devon, England. Spring 2013″

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