Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘language’

THESE MAPS, THESE ROADS

These maps, these roads, written and rewritten word on word.

Size and distance, though, these are not to be measured.

The roads and maps are real but travelled, somehow,

By ships that fly, by pigs that speak, by horses

That move and yet not move.

The shape of words – that is the key

To all that is and is not.

The holy lines that sum up all dimensions,

That lie so perfectly,

That birth sound out of silence and void.

Chase the edge of one thing, the infinite borders,

The central compass points.

Trace with keen fingertips the way they merge and separate.

The same pattern is in the whorls of your hand and always has been.

The world is measured by its forgetfulness.

The eternal is uncovered by those with perfected memory.

No words left orphaned, no thought muddied or misplaced.

A perfect fractal prison of a million voices,

Laying down the roads and all the maps.

Remembering, remembering, it is all remembering.

Beyond the gods and monsters

There is a perturbation of light and shadow.

Beyond light and shadow, a flickering notion of this and that.

Beyond this and that, a line of movement and a point of stillness.

A certain chain of gravity, (that is love and jealousy),

And a flow of iron-grey chains.

The roads, the winds of space, move along,

The paths of gods and worlds dreaming,

Dreaming they have time and space and something,

Something else, a name, a reason, a future, a history.

A certain trajectory, a ricochet away into story.

New words, same roads, same houses, new owners,

Same walls, same ghosts, same roads, new roads,

New names.

Read Full Post »

THESE WORDS

.

These words we feed around our firesides,

They are the seeds that feed us.

These words, the sustaining grain.

By them we will be filled,

By them, we reach out and touch others.

By them, we find songs and sing.

By them, we see visions.

By them, we feel edges and give names.

By them, the sudden scent of memories floods in,

The healing waters, the healing well.

.

In these words are the songs of our forebears, their dances.

The words we use, they flavour our world.

They are our beer, our bread, our whisky, our offerings.

.

These words mean more than they say,

Each filled with spirits, each a ghost coming home.

.

We plant them here to grow, to become forest roots,

To become the patterns between stars.

They are the rivers in the oceans,

They are the paths our ancestors have always taken,

Moving on from land to shining land,

Hearth to hearth across the dancing skies.

Read Full Post »

ARCHETYPAL

The hunter father transgresses;

The mother suffers unjustly;

The child is taken.

What was wonderful, vanishes.

The light disappears, no one knows where.

Roads, veils and mirrors –

The mechanics of universal dance,

The momentous, minuscule choice.

The bright, eternal child brought low,

Brought back to the wrist of the falconer,

Brought back to rule in glory,

Brought back to catch the uncatchable.

And all the time

It is she that saves the day,

Who bestows and restores balance,

Who names, who summons, who moves

Like a moon through darkness

Sorrowful and joyful and blissfully full.

And the child, neither here nor there,

Neither this nor that,

Tricked by innocence

To reveal the weakness,

To discover an impossible death,

To wait endlessly in the wings

For the lines of the last act,

The resolution.

I ask to know the truth

So that there may be understanding of power.

That the maps are unfolded

And the well-trod, invisible roads revealed.

Because we are free only to follow the well-worn ways,

Because there is only one plot and one story

From the beginning.

Because, tried and tested are the grey chains.

Because, tried and tested is the only freedom.

The rules of falling, and of redemption.

Read Full Post »

FIRST LESSON

You will have been wandering, I suppose,

Through the sunny, vague landscapes of your life

Following the habitual hounds of thought

Weaving in and out your thoughts.

.

You will have come across these words,

Sucking them up, making them yours

Before even thinking, before even thinking,

To whom do they belong? Whose voice, now?

.

We believe ourselves sovereign here:

My mind, my territory, my dwelling place.

But is that really so? (is what I ask.)

You have wandered into other worlds

Oblivious of boundaries, so hungry for more,

So sure of what is.

In an instant, becoming something else

( a folded, entangled irony, to enjoy all the horror movie themes).

.

A skin not yours adheres,

So you become something you were not.

What we do, we become.

What we take in, becoming our responsibility.

.

Shimmering are the edges of the world.

Mirrors and doorways are everywhere.

Names are roles and speech

Sets about great tidal shifts.

.

You know what you know now

By becoming what you were not.

A communion of voices.

Read Full Post »

WRITE

Write with the surge

Of words that boils up,

Nor tide over the roar

And rushing hiss, the fast bliss

Of licking, foaming sound

Eating sand and landwards,

Landwards up to cloud

Up to grass and sun.

Past the decent reach,

Roaring past the pitch

And yaw, troubling the roads

Eating the lazy lean of worn pathways,

Spitting out new views raw and hot with life,

life that burns bright and dances wild.

Life that lifts its skirts

And does not care.

A fire and flood of windswept words

That will whisper and remain:

“That we were here, that we were here”

Long into the longer silent night.

Read Full Post »

The Stones Of Words In The Rivers Of Meaning

‘Sacred’

Is the most precious thing.

That which is unpartitioned.

That reaches roads longed for.

That unfurls sky landscapes unbounded.

That is the most precious.

That fills and empties and makes whole possible.

That wraps meaning in glory and silence.

That goes beyond meaning to mean more.

That flows beyond edges still singing.

That is utter silence enfolding, accepting.

That swells and feeds and gives succour.

That cannot be defined by limitations.

That is beyond and within.

The engine of breath,

The longing to exterminate failure.

To awaken, to sparkle, to feel more, to perceive more.

To stand on the edge of a precipice,

To leap and let go and not care.

To recalibrate, to forget.

To sing eternally.

To be welcomed home.

To be unsullied.

To become the story.

To be magnified.

An infinite expanse of meaning,

A means to go beyond here.

The awen – an inflowing and an outflowing.

Exhilaration.

It can possess but cannot be possessed.

That which carries us away.

Exponential expansion of fractal geometries.

Everlasting metaphor.

Edge of the mysterious void.

Extinction of destruction.

Edges dissolve

And we expand

Into the sacred more.

Read Full Post »

.

STORM WIND

.

We cannot outrun the storm wind

We cannot outrun the rain.

.

Between the lines appear the shapes of other letters.

.

The moment the tongue finds a shape to express a feeling.

The moment the feeling swells, a flower

Of song blossoms out.

.

We cannot outrun the swollen river

We cannot outrun the racing cloud.

.

Every thread laid and lost within the weave.

To hold one thought, just one,

When the roaring chord that rocks the pines

Sweeps the world away in ragged tatters.

.

We cannot outrun the world of sorrow

We cannot outrun this tide of time.

.

The meaning here

Is not the meaning

We seek.

.

We cannot outrun the storm mind

We cannot outrun the candle’s shadow.

.

Read Full Post »

CLOTHED

Clothing himself in these common borrowed words,

A certain style, a certain habit, turns it all around.

Anonymous ubiquity becomes an intimate paced voice,

The poet emerges from the rough hedge glowing in the darkening evening.

Everyone has seen the full moon a thousand times,

Yet still now sighs and stands still.

Clothing ourselves in another’s memory

Or dreaming a dream not even ours:

The profoundest philosophy here,

A truth of who we are, think we are,

Where our edges blur and meet,

Where our voices change key and tone,

And slip into accents unfamiliar,

Where we stop being who we think we are,

And for a moment, if only ever for a moment,

We leap from the endless river, glinting and free

Into unfamiliar harvests of air and evening

On the floating view of somewhere we can never stay,

Returning so rapidly to the noisy rush of time and space,

Swept downstream, singing tunes with a cadence now not ours,

Now not solely ours.

Read Full Post »

THE CLOUD

The cloud is on the hill.

Words will come.

What the stark trees say.

What the rivers say.

A wood pigeon

welcomes the warm rain.

I have been away,

but returned to this silence

where the words are old

and make themselves.

Read Full Post »

DAYS NOW

Days now the whispers come and go

worm words generated from earth,

words of smoke, words of plants.

.

Turn sideways, become thin,

slip between one day and another,

at the year’s ending so little noise.

.

These stars – they are not now,

they have burned bright and died

a million, million years ago.

.

Therefore, I bow down and breath deep

the dead light of our ancestors,

gone and here and gone again.

.

Time is the fat of stars;

seeping in the long years,

other glorious mornings long gone,

distant golden mornings,

other silent rooms, other footsteps.

.

Nothing goes to waste

but slowly changes from what it was

woven threefold into other days.

.

The Magister holds starlight in his crystal spheres

to rot them down to raven’s wings

where seconds copulate birthing strange homunculi.

.

They know the answers only the dead know

in butterfly whispers etching notions,

as acid reveals the jagged web of meteorites.

.

He is old now,

his bones creak like galleons do.

His mind, though, a bright moon in a stormy sky

for he is, he says, acquainted with all the demons

that dwell beyond law and science,

who converse in riddles

and move as if dancing upon other gravities.

.

Their heads are broken open,

their orifices sprouting green tendrils,

their skin, inhabited scrolls

where letters form and reform in curious calligraphies.

.

Lascivious is their language,

exotic and full of lilting innuendo.

Their madnesses are roads untrod before.

.

He reads the books that have never been opened,

by walking backwards through mirrors.

His only sustenance, the tiny measurements of primordial dust

wherein he seeks his own eternal name.

.

He practices the mudras of teaching and of dissolution.

His words fall sparsely in vast space

like birds that fly across a still sunset sky.

.

Their skin peeled back, returned to light

they tend their dripping hives,

honey vowels, the sigh of release.

They climb upon one another,

puncturing their certainty,

melting into each other’s futures.

.

The sawhorse shall be put together.

A new constellation shall appear in the southern sky

as Betelguese, or its ghost, or its future,

Weighs the likelihood of eternity.

.

The world is fire and light

and time is the fat of stars.

The apple winces in its dawn frost,

The sequoias sing to planet’s spin.

.

Clear facts stumble unheeded through forest fires

whilst ungainly notions dress the moments.

.

The alembic bubbles and quivers,

uncertain whether it can hold

the sentience of its own soot.

.

Still the Great Work must continue.

In holiness we are rubbed out completely

imagining new wings, writing new musics.

.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: