Posts Tagged ‘Illusion’

Surely it cannot be sustained,
This comfort resting on the back of lies.

Etiolated, we stretch tall and wan,
Straining to leave behind every root, even.

Hungry for withered light,
This forced flicker of cloud vapours, this promise of better,
This regurgitated psychology.

Every home in each mausoleum city:
A crowded tomb where the living stumble mummified,
Salivating new updates.

All the small gods gone,
Growing potatoes and beans in hidden valleys, forgotten,
Resigned to wait.

Only the blustering bullies remain, the greedy,
Insistent on their protocols, their visions for growth.

A short experiment. Forced fruits. Temptation
Of full ripeness turning to ash, turning to dust.

Make way. Make way. We study the death of stars,
Anaesthetised, unaware of irony.

Remove from us our craft
And we shall all become beggars, lost, drowning sorrow
In rainbow-stained pools, slow and viscous folds.

They stretch tall and limp, loud, enabled.
Their magic: monotony and ennervation.
Their ropes, their chains: the promise for better times.

Inertia, the slow, wearing away, the blocking of roads,
The pinching, the slighting.

We retreat from day, back to our tombs.
Too tired, even, for our own dreams, we collapse into parody.

Etiolated, we stretch thin and will soon wither.

Somewhere near,
The small gods dig rocky soil and wait.

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We do not make our own reality, nor the reality of others, nor the dream of reality, nor the wish of reality. We glance off the Real as light off metal, as wind off ice. At best we taste an edge. Then enfold upon ourselves to fill the void. Pretty shards of sight woven to inhabit a world. Sonorous thoughts woven to withstand irrelevance. Needle-slight, this point of view.
A compass of stuttering,
an occassional brilliance,
a stroboscope,
a fabric of simultaneous equations.
Erasing one world, one instant gone, recreating one world. Shiva blinks, eternity ends. The Ladder of Being, the descent of doves to the chasms of fire. A riverbed of laughter tells me what is my nature. This not this. Now not now. Never, not never. The tune, that one extraordinary tune, the perfect sequence, secret to all things, sweet and haunted, is a candle in a still cavern of dream.
Sung and forgotten,
sung and forgotten,
each note sung and forgotten.
Memory is not the answer, but memory is a clue. Will it can it shall it free us?
One word held, a flower reached for, a line that becomes straight, a point between the pointless, a key, a way out or a way in. Chained, owned, here we belong. Nothing to do but build and destroy, forget, forget. The thirteen classes of beings, the ten thousand things, the aeons and elements stand aghast, amazed:
the song of this stream,
the rippling of the sight of it,
the rainbow surface, the dazzling light.
Best song of the singer of all, golden chains to our tongues. The oracle speaks clouds of nonsense, vapours and dust. It follows its own nature. Sun and moon. The fifth day it shall return. Look to the north, the wild birds dance, the sight shall become a sound. Everything will be accomplished.
Vapour trails,
name of one writ in water.
Forgetting is the clue.
Do not forget it. Never forget it.
Forged, iron, still,
now the thing that never was, is,
and now, not.
Capture this sound –
it becomes silence.
Hold on, hold on
and it will be lost forever.
To say all things simultaneously, one chord, bringing all edges together. Eleven or thirteen dimensions. Constant is the speed of stillness. Nothing illuminating nothing. It illuminates surfaces once it arrives without moving. Constant speed of light. All sound, a commentary on the nature of silence.
A river in heaven,
Heaven’s river,
Way of milk,
Road of stars.
Looking in, looking down, looking out.
Hunters and hunted on circular paths.
Vindicated, never meeting.
Untouched is the Way.
Untrod by any shoe.


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Kyleakin evening


 Weavers of the Sidhe

Two came at twilight

From the rath,

Cold with curiosity,

Small as children

But with strange eyes

And smiles too old,

Far too old.

To see who it was

Carried the silence

By the shore

That was not the grey heron’s;

To judge the cry of one

Neither curlew nor oystercatcher;

To weigh the harsh throat

Not of the hooded crow

Nor of the raven.

To find the mote

In sunlit attic,

It’s dance to forgotten harp

Dusted earth, dreamt melody –

Dream nerves tied to sing of rock,

To follow the dancing road.

When they speak

Small blue flames flicker

Upon their tongues.

Their eyes –

Corridors of starlight

From distant galaxies.

Their thin fingers

Cat’s cradling

the centuries.

They are the same

Our ancestors knew:


Dissolving in midday light,

Returning at twilight

With shadows dancing.

They belong to place,

But not to time.

They are the rolling,

Rising, blue distance-

Yearned for,




The Secret Commonwealth

Cast out,

Cast down

From Heaven’s brilliance.

Not falling for the passion of rage,

Nor swayed by the unforgiving violence

Of righteousness,

(The simple, clear lie

of polarities, justice, truth).

Condemned by the Most High

For failing to take sides.

Falling down,


Into twilight.

Neither here nor there,

Backwards or forwards.

It is why they flock to song,

Delight in the poet,

To what moves by its stillness,

What reverberates with passion,

Profound ephemera,

Guileless illusion,

Flash of gold,

Uncertain Reality.

Shot-silk seasons

Rich with the Opposite.

Reflection on reflection,

Echoed echoes.

Not dead, nor living

They are the rolling, rising blue distance,

The accumulation of dream,

Repository of yearning,

Perfume of nostalgia.

The processions, the slow


Terrestrial constellations

Caught sight of peripherally,





Bane of priests,

Defiers of logic.

Snake language – fast

And sparkling.

A danger to mortal dreamers

Who might fade

Into the world,

Feather roots merging,

Knowing and edges blurred

Into the song of presence.

Perhaps returning,

(if at all)

With a fragment of lament,

An air,

A pavan,

A secret wrenched from time,

Lost within time again,

A wonder,

A treasure,

A mystery unholy,

Disengaging from certainty.

Duirnish sky1

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