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Posts Tagged ‘landscape’

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CWM DWFNANT (2)
(Our geography)

It does not dwell here
It does not stay.
Coming and going in mists
Dissolved to spirit
Absently haunting
The green valley quiet.

Its wings are white shadows
Milk dropped in pools
A cleft, a demure device,
Dark and luscious mystery
Hovered near madness
Far too far from reasonable reasons.

It dwells otherwise, a dark language
Spoken backwards.
Returning time to itself,
A rotating quern of years and miles.
A mighty sign at the corner of the eye.

Blessings to the world-weary
That strip the meat back to bone,
Break the bone to feed on sweet hidden marrow.

The lick of mist, the lick of its still wrist,
Far-flung, a throat of words
Pushed back deep into the hills.

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SOIL OF A NEW HEAVEN

The bare trees bend.
Birds bob and float –
Words of a haiku
Searching for a place to rest.

A single beam of sunlight tracks the valley floor
From a sliding sky-pool of bright gold.

The last few leaves have fled
And there will soon be rain.

A fragrant savage despair –
Like love, but not love.
A bitter yew red dust wedded
To ash and water,
Sprinked jet, sprinkled amber.
A language hugged and big as mountains.

The words of Taliesin sucked in through eyes,
Turned, fermenting in a cauldron heart.
Spat out in a limping century,
Adrift in baseless magic,
Amongst debris of another false economy.

Strike this hard sky-grey flint until the sparks fly –
Then the river words shall flow torrenting
Pulled by a centre true and weighty:
Inescapable earth, the spinning fort
Where all yarns are woven up, mataté and mill.
We shall be ground yet,
Ground down and ground up.

We shall become grist and whispers in the ears of playing children
Who do not know anything of us, not names nor actions,
But threaded on the same hopes,
The lilt of a language as natural as falling asleep.

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OUR GEOGRAPHY – CWM DWFNANT

It falls from other airs, some other whispers, other, other cries:
The echoed uplands out of sight that push the clouds
Where the ravens reach.
It wriggles itself fast into its folds,
carved back, a groove deep and dark,
slanted in forest and tumbled stone.
The road spins around it, a snake’s hiss,
slick and narrow, and the racing waters beneath it.
Its name is Stream from the Abyss, from the Deep,
from the Resounding Deep.
And it is loved by cloud so
And loved by mist so.
They cling to and nourish themselves there.
They are born there and are raised there.
Mysterious as poetry, its waters race down
From their hidden places, bright and ice cold,
stirred by shadows from worlds above and worlds below.
Cwm Dwfnant, a mouth that utters,
An eye that gazes heavy-lidded,
vision crowded,
Dream-wrapped.

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A LESSON ON MEDITATIVE MIND

Hungry mind feasting on words.

Cloud in the mountains,
The river fast and deep.

Stillness comes,
But not silence.

Silence is the wing,
Mind the eye
Of that red kite
In the valley below.

All the busy roads
Are laid out below her,
Yet she follows none,
But sees everything.

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ROAD TO MAESMYNIS

These roads
Climbing back through time,
The golden oaks shading golden valleys
And a luminous cold blue in the cold sky.

Hard frost first thing, has gone.
The air lifts above freezing for a while.
In scattered farms the dogs bark as we pass.
The ruined church roofed in yew and box.

It will go nowhere, but end at a gate,
It will give the same view as memory does,
Changing things depending on what catches the eye.
This road says come and go, come but go.

And the sheep in the woods chew and stare.
Not far from the town, but slipped in time,
It curls and narrows, gives views and withholds views.

It remains in the passing sunlight of the mind,
Becoming something else: a map, a philosophy,
A litany of older names, the past holding steady,
Clothing memories in new skin.

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DHRUPAD 15 (this bowl)

This bowl
this bowl
nothing is lost

this breath
this breath
nothing is lost

they move through the mist
like music through the rivers
like longing lovers wanting more
and more
and to be filled and to sleep.

This bowl full and full
and empty and empty
this rain this golden view this
mist grey and dark and silent in the
rivers way
the rivers way and the mist
like doors and music and footsteps
quiet padding on this breath

gone his voice
gone his smile
gone this word gone.

This bowl holds everything
love and tears
love and tears this bowl
this heart this land this mist this mountain
this song this singing this loving this holding
this heart this bowl this silence this empty

gone gone this path this river this
gone gone this path, the bowl this river.

And they walk up mountain mists
as if
as if wading through streams,

gone gone
the dead singing and glorious,
the swinging singing star eyed dead gone gone

Shall we fold
shall we shall we
fold up neat and smoothed our memories now
Neat and smooth for later
safe for later fresh as rivers bright as stars
Folded away for later
Where it all still is the same
But better
Where it all still is
Where nothing is lost
This bowl this bowl this bowl.

The fine webs
That tie us
all together
Golden and silver
Stretch and snap and little by little
those of us who remain drop
down into singing
darkness suspended by dreams
And dreams and names and the way things were.
What ties
us here
what ties us
when so many
have gone?

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LI PO WAITING FOR DRAGONS (DINAS WOOD)

Li Po, I suppose, will be standing there,
hands thrust deep into sleeves,
breathing the slow hills.
Admiring the play of light
and the way the oaks
catch the late year’s brightness
on their wriggled limbs.

And how green is the gold,
and how golden the air
spicing the hazy distant.
In leaf litter, the rustling
of jays and squirrels,
gathering up the fallen year.
In the glass layered river,
sounds swallowed
and turned to light,
light to sound.

Li Po remains motionless,
holding all the river of his thoughts,
so he forgets nothing, misses nothing.
What has gone, and what arises:
balancing the mind of clouds,
the mind of mountains,
the mind of Dinas, cave-filled, hunched.

He sees the forest crown
shaping syllables: each tree
a slow, fast, steady song.
He weighs dark and light
On the cliffs of Craig Clungwyn.
Notes the rainbow mists
above the Doethi valley.
Floats above the scouring wind,
hawk and skylark and willowherb seed.

Li Po, waiting for dragons,
for the roar of the Tao in the mountains,
the narrow road winding northwards,
the cauldron of the seven stars.
For the eye of the world to open unwavering,
mind melting into mind.

He will not have long to wait –
a century or two
at most.

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