Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘joy’

Should we
look for answers,

forcing that fragile seed
of knowing
to sprout?

Or simple,
garden our questions,
the burgeon of complexity,
the fertile stretch
for light,

and delight
in tangled undergrowth,

hoping one sunny day,
for a fine
unexpected
perfect flower,

whose curves inward
drown all words,

a nectar to dance about,
coordinates to silent perfection,

a perfumed breath
in and out.

—-

2015/09/ts3-holly-cradle.jpg

Read Full Post »

IMG_1208.JPG

Those distant hillsides,
They are not velvet, not green,
But bog and rock, sweat steep
For all but ravens
(Whose feathers we might wish for,
For straight as an arrow, for
Wind carried swift joy,
For the soar of it, for the wide,
Open cry of it, for exultance,
For freedom from sins).
But down here, wind-sheltered,
Small, feasting on cold hopes,
Yearning for mist smoked valleys.

Did they watch from alder carrs
The washer girls, raw red hands
And tearful eyes, arching backs
And mournful, moaning songs?
Did they feel the Lord swell within them,
Those saints forbidden their fruits,
Wilderness dazed, sharp chinned,
Spear-eyed witnesses?

So many brave boys borne away,
Cudgeled and shivered in blood.
So many unborn, covered in autumn leaves,
And wept over.
So many promises split, broken open
(Nothing but spit and spite remaining).
So many reasons to slide into silence
Hoping for a glorious trumpet
And ’til then, peace.

Of the earth.
They are all of the earth
And know it not,
Or birch their blessings
For want of wit and a little love.

The pines roar
But bear no anger.
The pines cry
But have no sadness.
The rain sweeps down across the valley.
Leaves fall, air becomes sweetly bitter.
There is no blame, should you stay,
Should you watch.
Everything will seem as it is:
Sun through mist, a mellow round passing.

We shall melt as we are gathered together.
Melt and become another again.
One or two words (only) to pass through
The narrow straits of a few years,
Before they too will become singing silence.

This melancholy is a cloak for deeper joy.
This deeper joy, a cloak for melancholy.
All notes sung before the throne,
Chords of major and minor,
Diminished, augmented.

Read Full Post »

Solstice: words revolve a standing sun.

I

On Momentous Occassions.

Not to be missed.
A once-in-a-lifetime experience!
This breath.

II

The Pleasurable Joy of Insignificance.

A seed on the breeze
Safe floating
Away from reach.

So small
In the hands
Of the world.

So safe
Amongst the cloak
of stars.

So small
So safe
No threat.

Floating free
Insignificant joy
Sparkle of bliss.

III

Two weeks of rain.
Finally, the moon!
An embarrassed smile.

IV

Hemlock and mallow.
The dead revived,
Stretch thick green limbs.

Cat’s ear and wild privet.
The living exhale
To fuel the world.

Yarrow and blood poppy.
The skylark’s song:
Blue and vast.

The apple, the cherry,
Yet small and hard,
Dreaming of sweetness.

Elder, oh elder!
A circumference of passion,
Honey cream and pensive.

The thick warm air
Slow, turning.
The world wants not,
Waits not,
Curls and moves:
A sleeping cat.

V

When I look into your eyes,
Moon of Guru Purnima:
Silver ripples across my heart.

VI

Steady rain.
No moon tonight,
Except the disc
Upon which you dance,
Goddess of Wisdom.

20120730-191849.jpg

Read Full Post »

Flakes of falling flame, fragments, figments….

I

I shall walk in the cool green morning
A roof of grey light and white horizons
Amongst the skylark’s and the blackbird’s song
Unfettered, unrequired, unopposed, unnoticed.
The deep throb of honey bees,
The pointed tang of balsam poplar,
Each blade of grass, a cloak of life.
Silent moist, echoing air
Vaporous bliss,
Honey-tongued May.

II

My mind-
clouds.
Slow shifting greys,
Pearlescent light.

My tongue-
A flame of green leaf
Tasting filtered sunlight.

My heart-
Ullulating balm,
The blackbird’s river.

Perfect
Imperfect-
As it is.

III

Always though,

The night of pain,
Biting, back-brain
Sting of writhing pain.

Somewhere though,

The acid smell of cordite,
The skin prickle of rage,
The leaden drunkenness of hatred.

And somewhere,

Proud innocents,
We offer
A gift for Krishna,
A gift for Allah –
A scattering of plutonium:

Our gift
To the Universe.

IV

The Old Man,
Rocking from side to side
On his ox cart,
Leaves from the Western Gate.

This time,
No-one notices……

20120526-213301.jpg

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: