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Posts Tagged ‘deep mind’

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CONJURATION

He sits by the window letting the landscape go.
A little incense will stretch and curl in the moving airs.
There is welcome rain on pale, misted hills:
The meadows and their trees will green.

The shoals will flicker beneath thin surfaces,
And there is skill in waiting and skill in catching up the glimmer.
Sometimes it is enough to hold one wriggling thing.
Sometimes a light touch will tease a line,
A bright twist into this world, a hopeful humming reel.

There is the holding and the letting go.
A whisper wish to Gwyn ap Nydd
Who hunts these lost ghosts and churns them upwards.

To mark a path only, or to push down into it,
Or to be pulled willynilly in mad rush and see,
See where it leads, traipsing forgetful, curious.
Or but to float above serene and light as hawk bones,
To not become distracted by maybes,
To contain all, to exclude nothing, to lose track of no slither,
To allow a subtle sedimentation – to be that patient,
To become equanimity, geological.

It will be the touch of madness that marks it out,
The touch of madness they shall not forget.
The discomfort of impossible resurrection:
Light that is not there, a bubbling up of echoed sounds,
A mystery of conjured voices, a song of ghosts.

This, the slow and certain engraving of our vanishing lives
Upon your smoothed and cooling brows; etched, hatched and nested within
Your twigged and tumbledown minds.
A thimble of the past to dull each ache of uncertain stitch.
That impossible race to reach each sunsetting horizon.

Between the moment and the madness
Is where the bright shoals swim.

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AIRSTRIKE

i am man become tree become sky.
travelling north, grey bridges
vaulting green deep scars,
stitches across the stern uplands of heaven.
roaring waters rush thin and white night and day,
they pay no mind to their lifelong fall.

this winter comes thick and fast
with clear days and deep frost.
i sleep always now upon a bed of stars
dreaming of blank-eyed heroes
mouthing stumbled anthems.

our only hope for glory-
to pretend we have more than this.
though the gardens become wild and ragged,
our minds untended, left to doggedly roam
moss-covered, grass-cloaked ruins,
the words left us, handed down,
untranslateable sorrow.

for this do we make our art:
for the fluorescent eggs of time
hatching diaphanous things
in hopes of worthy, unreasonably beneficent gods,
who have already fed and will not slay us so quickly
but watch, drunken-eyed, indulgent.

histories scab over, but so itch we must scratch
and things will never heal as we would wish.
a bitter cold between dawn.
valley ghosts, the sweep of headlights
heading to cities.
one by one, things shall awake from sleep.

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NIGHT THE FIRST

It is not the placid herds of angels mooing praise nor the conniving pedantic demons.
It is not the male nor the female, nor the roaring furious ones, nor the cowered silent ones.
Nor the eloquent silence, nor the tearing ripping void of sorrows and despair.
Nor the words
Nor the music
Nor the movement
Nor the flash of wings
Nor the sleepy curled furry ones
Nor the bleak uplands, nor the cold winds, nor the emasculating inanities.
Not the glorious truths of dust and measure, nor this, nor that, nor memory, nor forgetfulness.
It is nothing but a book of voices, an intercourse of pulse and pause. A regardless cause, a fleabite itch, primary and secondary, a flowering of galaxies in a tumbled arc across what is not itself. A fierce catastrophic ejaculation, a burst of incalculable seed that looks, feels for, fertile ground uncompromised by purpose or censoring scissors redacting sense and nonsense. A piling out of truths and lies. A justification for beginnings. All the words ever spoke uncysted, growing wings and spines to feel the new red flow, to make a difference, a sifting wind blown unmappable, desert nothing to be quenched but regurgitated photonic haze.
It will inevitably
Fail to favour the blasphemers
With muscle and righteousness,
The gore-caked murderers insistent
Will be cropped and fed quiet bones
Ground down by swans
To cloyed, sweet dust.
There it is, a landscape emerging from mist, a dawn construed half familiar, half achingly strange, inhabited, or not,
Pierced with fierce birdsong
And scything swallows.
A slow mind of colour ripped up,
Pasted from a memory belonging to others,
A grated zest palled, recalibrated as means to an end,
Muscular worm palpating, digesting,
Evacuating.
A little nothing, an almost nothing (see there, a failure to avoid fake evaluations, an arrogance indicative of the species that so presumes an elevated itch: the ability to destroy is the right to destroy). Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from the evil of others. Every time. And slay our enemies who laugh at us with good reason, mocking our belligerent, petty gods, our loathsome, vast and irreducible shadows….

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TANGENTIAL (stumbled sketch)

There: art, not a thing,
not a, not owned.
Flown.
A consummation not consumed.
A mirror mirrored. What gods do.
Play innocent of consequence.
What childen do ( when they forget to be good or bad):
Follow the trains of thought noise feeling echo memory dream back back oh back.

Mr. Young,
Dr. Cold
seasoned by dust of science,
almost right, but then again…
Too serious to see the truth.

Tap the words, metaphor, semaphore,
Heirophant, hieroglyph, sign, sigil, psychopomp, or
Orpheus walking in the singing mists.
It is not this, but only just.
It is almost here, and then again…

A blurring.
Ink does it, that small spidering reach,
The small fibres sucking, new chaos stretching,
Mycelia of thought reaching out from meaning.
What Taliesin knew
( the bards struck speechless by
His seed syllables),
It is so nearly thought,
So nearly speech,
So nearly, nearly silence.
A catch of breath, a sigh.
Shall we turn round to look
Whose warmth stirs
The neck’s nape?
And will they then vanish,
Or us, ourselves, dissolve?
Unclothed before the tree,
Giving names,
Bestowing edge.
From where
The seven rivers
Mellifluous flow.
Sprung from the root
Of our moist tongues.
He, the seed.
She, the fruit.
Both vessels hollow,
Ringing.

—-

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DARK PATHS

Weighed down,
dragged down.
The dreary shadows of Hades.
Evaporated, become vapour,
a sigh, a damp complaint.
Tumbling or attaining
A natural level, gravity grave.
All the Wise Ones. Look! They have the heads of animals. All the guardians of the Hours along the River of Night, they all have the piercing eye of hawks, the sharp noses of dogs, the cunning of crocodiles. Look! The Sky Dancers, the holders of secret clarity, flying cloud-free, singing rapt with heads of horse, lion and vulture. Elephant-headed is the vast Remover Of Obstacles, librarian of memory. This is the meme, the clue, the thread. ( this thread, shallow steps into dark cornered gloom, where the monster, of course, is waiting, of course, with bull’s head.) Follow the dream meme to the shadows.
Six weeks respite
from relentless rain.
Now it drives down.
Wherever it falls:
the same streams and rivers fill.
They brim and gurgle
above the howl of wind
in their long, worn familiarities.
The waters rise up, and I am sunk down, becoming nothing. Abandoned. Lost. Forgotten, misplaced. Having lost the long lists, the fabricated descent, step by step, blindfolded, to here. In sepia, well-presented, motionless, in Sunday best, they are staring out nameless. Forgive us our forgetfulness as we forget those who are silent. Forgive us or forgive us not. For it is only the slicers, the severers of arteries, the disdainful destroyers, the meticulous murderers whose names we remember. The blameless, the harmless, all failures unknown. It is to the entrepreneurs of tyranny that we look up adoringly. Those who lead us to the precipices of dogma – it is to their simplistic gravity we tumble into darkness, grateful for the black and white of damnation.
These are the dark paths
through the deep forest,
shadows cast darker,
deeper by whatever light is shone.
From here, from there,
those shades cannot be driven.
They adhere to form and fact,
for that is their way.
However bright the light,
though they may shrink and shirk,
they spin and do stretch to find the corners.
Only if they should self-ignite, bloom,
flare up in glory of their own natures,
ceasing, then, to be the other,
will they become all radiant.
Each speck, each curse,
each scar luminescent.
Offered a single choice, here or here, we set off down the wrong path, at first hopeful but soon abandoned, suspicious of irredeemable error, fated, doomed. Each turn incised, carved in those shadowy lanes, brushed by insect antennae. The rasp of quiet, scaled, coiled flanks. The drip, slow drip of cold poisons. The hero, the fool, the hermit, along the path of crushed bones, dry, marrowless, to the castle of skulls, cemetary of good intentions, of careful planning.
No matter how one thinks of it. How eloquent, how elaborate, how sapient. They will become expunged. The soul is woven from these dark paths, these cul-de-sacs, these alleys. Even, even, without a name, without a body, their tracks will whisper that same pattern, draw along the same lanes, the familiar valleys into oblivion, the pathways of your soul. The slight impression of each signature, the names chosen to be ours. Mind matter cascading along, funneling down the worn crevices, fingertips wearing the print from crumpled maps.
But that is not all. There is no simple black and white (should you still think it so). These dark paths are the roots that feed us. Now and ever. The strings that knot the random into puppet dance.
That shadow identity.
There it is:
that, and this,
shadow
identity.
Vast and strong, stronger even than seems goodness, than polite graces, than washed out, mealy-mouthed heavens bright with weak wonders, bloodless fancy. Left behind to thrive, to wait, to build armies of reasons why: the roads that were rejected, the masks felt to be inappropriate, the behaviour reprehensible, the lusts out of step, the loves and hates unjustifiable. Building our building on the dead, who live yet, who live in the corners, the alleys, the shades, who steer us showing the way ( for they know the light so well, where the limitations dwell). And should you think yourself attempting holiness, or at least well-intentioned, trying hard, socially responsible, you will ( and this is most certain, most true, most shocking, rocking, roaring your slick foundations, my dears), run most, run fastest, run longest, deny the most vehemently what is also the golden, radiant best, the limitless possibles, the unfathomable depths of glory, screaming from it as if it were utter darkness, an ending to, a melting of.
Haunted will we be, relentlessly, drowned in guilt pretending to be good intentions
will we be. Hunted, will we be. Slain over and over.
Dark paths.
Visit the interior
Of the earth.
There shall be found…
There all shall be found.
The source, the spring
That can flow pathless,
Requiring no other truth,
No other choice.
A silver cup
On a fine silver chain
A dip, a sip,
To become
Unchained, dreamed, folded, woven, returned, unharmed, whole.

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