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Posts Tagged ‘light’

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SPRING EQUINOX MORNING

For this
one instant
A radiant pink
Squeezed and bright
Between hill and cloudbank.
Set round and sure
In circled gold
Dawn sun
Ringing
Time.

On the back of my eye
First flash of morning sun
Dazzles still.

Turning around
First flash of sun
Drives out thought.

Small promise
A moment of radiance
Before clouds close in.

It is the colour
Of heated silver
In a burnished silver sky,
Warm and cold balanced both
Tasting equinox.

A claddagh ring
This dawn:
Heart sun
Held safe
in year’s
Two hands.
Promising
Spring.

Promising spring
Dawn soon waylaid
A party of snowclouds.

A party of snowclouds
Cautious at first
Racing drunk and wild
Across neat fields.

Across neat fields
Light sparkles on dewfall.
Birds chasing each other
Pause a moment.
Spring dance.

Spring dance.
Changing partners
Their feet flattening daffodils,
A whirl of wind and hail.

A whirl of wind and hail
Is the news from the north.
All is silent in the garden.

All is silent in the garden
Dawn sun has vanished
Deep
within the daffodils’ trumpets.

Deep within the daffodils’ trumpets
Is the sound of spring to come
A bright fanfare.

I cannot describe
The colour of the dawn sun,
But perhaps
A blush of fire,
Burnished warm
By the fingertips
Of infinite patience.
Smoothed glow,
Delicate, cherished.

Sun hidden.
Collecting firewood.
The hearth
Still our closest companion.

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Working towards some text-art pieces for the “Great Night” project, I began playing around on the iPad ( the app was Zen Brush). Its a delightful tactile process and the text was not much consciously filtered in any usual way. Semi-automatic writing, I could say. Not quite as calligraphic as I would like, more spider scribble! Translations follow ( before I forget and can’t read my own scrawl)…

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1
Within the darkness
Within the walls of night
Jailor stars, spyglass planets,
The wild things lap and strut
Lines of thought dissolving
In manic, fearful laughter.

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2
The long trident of night
Tree-reached
Forward spontaneous deliver
No more the …..
No more the light.
A shimmer, a shade,
A will of the world,
A whiteness.

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3
Some
Some
The weave says
The way, the deep says,
Yea or nay,
Gainsay it will not prosper
If it has
No inherent breath.

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4
Away-
The slow soft
Words
These anchors
Of shrift –
A vocabulary
Of light
Awaits:
Reveal the
Door.

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5
Dissolve you
Dark lines,
Darker lens.
O, obsidian eyes
Deep set,
Your own soul
Would hardly
Recognise you.

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6
Lined,
Linked
Do not cackle
Lolly-tongued
Dishevelled one
Dark, bloody lips
Deepest urged
Destroyer,
Eater of night.

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7
This slow
Drawn out means,
Lost in lines,
Time wept
Scribble sounds,
Not gathered
Nor pooled-
Hard to distinguish:
A drain descent
Of echoes,
A distance of deceived
Ghosts,
Night stippling.

What is lost when it is not hand-written? Even when hard to read, it conveys to some part of us more of the intent, the hunt for words, the fight upwards into air. Illuminated by illuminated manuscript, time and care laid down for all time, a voyager of parchment and mind-matter across ocean centuries. What could be more enchanted, the mind of one millenia dead, born egged safe in new skull, scratch of quill, cockcrow and vespers…..

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IMBOLC

The small fires
Must sustain us still.

Cold flows,
A cloudless wind
From the North.

Hope is our scarf.
Hope warms our hunger,
A thinly stretched continuance.

One small spark
At dawn
And the long,
Slow fuse
Of Spring
Is lit.

The beck and rill
Of Time.

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Moonlight through glass

Beginning of the New Year, according to some counts. Woken, as fairly normal, by roving,climbing, cats and whilst in the velvet struggle to regain sleep, caught a tumble of words on constellated subjects. An attempt to recover the drift hours later is usually unsatisfactory – but then dreams themselves are always so much more coherent before the linearity of recall.

The first unrolled from the title of a collection of poems I am getting ready to e-publish ( “won’t take long, start with something easy”…). The title, “Moonlight through glass” is itself taken from a small relief sculpture I made about thirty years ago : just words carved in relief upon reclaimed hardwood floor tiles from an old dance hall. The image is one that satisfies, redolent with silence, serenity, emptiness, peace. An ambiguity of completion and loss. Its partner is the image of “Moonlight on rooftops”. Somehow the epitome of melancholy to me.

Yesterday evening I was playing around with images for the cover of said, slim volume. Getting into the flow, I was revisiting a couple of colour prints, modifying them for a dramatic black and white. Happily, it turned into a potential project all of its own ( or at least so it seemed in the fever of creation). A sort of abstracted yantra meets medieval woodcut, chats with Blake on angels and ghosts, then nods at the engravings of Gustave Dore ( he with the appropriate accent), with a reminiscence of Book of Lambspring and alchemical doings. Possibly a way of illustrating words on the Mahavidya goddesses. Hence the circling of subjects, the orbit of words, that follows:

MOONLIGHT THROUGH GLASS

Moonlight through glass:

Solve et coagula

Dissolve and solidify.

Resting in silence

A vapour of thought

A mist of emotion

Twin mystery

( two of too many):

Light and orbit.

Something fast as infinity

Slows through a lens

Of liquid sand;

Something as unconcerned

And chaste, a satellite

Held gazing face to face,

A waltz of gravity.

Taking form, giving name, chasing thought.

Dance of equations, conjuration of stillness.

Simulation of solidity, (vibrating nothingness).

To give meaning,

To build a path in a pathless wasteland

(suddenly goals, suddenly distinctions)

Mirroring, reflecting, perhaps, the definition of our purpose.

Narcissus has become our jealous god

(echo lost, echo found).

Dancing round the fire,

Oh, we know that one’s name

That will spin gold for us

(though he will still trick us in the end).

And why, why, do we honour Prometheus,

That medler who ruined more than his own prospects,

Who brought down much more than fire upon us?

Too smart for your own good,

Answers too shiny-

Clear-cut, obvious, too self-serving,

Too monstrously elegant.

Ferment.

Closed system

Athanor.

One strong enough to withold,

To withstand all turmoil,

A roiling of opposites.

Not designed for madness

But madness is where we all must go.

The madness of too much,

The madness of not enough.

An incontinent ejaculation,

White noise, staining silence,

An endless slurry of love songs,

A loop of imprisonment.

Ferment.

The numbness of moonlight –

Passion stilled within the heart.

Whitened. Blackened. Consummated.

Brought forth.

Soot-faced puffers

Strainng to wriggle free.

Moonlight through glass:

The achievement,

The surrender,

The transcendence.

—–

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And not too dissimilar ( the metaphysics of stellar cosmogenesis, of electromagnetic emotions), words orbiting the bright imagery, the dark, powerful, inhumanly human goddesses, Ten Nights of Transcendent Darkness, Objects of Transcendent Wisdom, Mahavidya Goddesses. This one the aspect known as Tara ( Second Night of Hunger).

TARA: SECOND NIGHT OF HUNGER

Tara, Tara,

Hungry star,

Unquenchable yearning.

Infinite distance

Is the path to return by.

Light from the farthest edge

Wishing to return to your comforting blackness.

Consumed, conjoined, united,

Undifferentiated,

Possession of belonging,

Lines of gravitational force.

That which separates,

That which holds together,

And beyond all these,

The desire for so much more,

The desire for so much less.

——

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For the clearest, and certainly the most poetical and image-rich words, concerning the Mahavidyas I would recommend Alain Danielou’s great work “Hindu Polytheism” ( that majestic title now sadly pedestrianised to “The Myths and Gods of India” ).

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WINTER SOLSTICE

Shortest of days
Exquisite punctuation.

The golden egg
Hatching new time.

Birth-waters reflect still,
Cold blue skies.

Mist in the mountains,
Mist in the valleys.

Those that can,
Continue.

All others expire,
Release

Returning from the edges
To the centre.

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This flimsy, delicate swish of hour’s numbers
Does nothing to still the tide
Of growing diminishment.
Daylight shrinks still
From either end
Of the dawn
and the dusk.
No use blinking,
No use turning back
or away.
The dark is rolling,
Storming down the hills;
The shadows creeping up the valleys;
The dead stirring, wakening,
Thinking about walking abroad,
Stretching thin and between the worlds…
The slender will turn gaunt,
The well-fed, complain.
In the thin rain, in the slicing blast
The candles will all falter, wan:
Light is a force
That fights the splintering months,
Of which we have too little
And none
To see
in this world
For an age yet….

afternoon skies: maples,wind and Beinn na Caillich, Skye

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Light of Lammas

Light of Lammas.

Dew-drunk and tipsy with Time,
Skewed, slewed, slaughtered.

The slow, steady sun fires the cloudbanks,
Silver, silver, the grinding stones spill silver.

Seed nods, falls gold, is gathered in.
The scorched path, the well-worn path,
The weave of light that webs the world.

Morning my breakfast, twilight my supper.
This spirit-filled world exactly like no other.

Burn the seeds of concept
In the furnace of the dawn.
Dreaming is the clue
To the nature of things,
Laying light upon Lammas morn.

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“Light of Lammas” an original print by Simon H Lilly

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First few notes and ideas from a trip to Iceland last December. Another piece disappeared soon after writing – joys of instant technology – perhaps the giants of the aurora prefer to remain hidden, together with the dragons of the ice….

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I

A slight
Misinterpretation…
It was not
“Nevermore”
The raven cried
But
“endless”
Or “forever”…..
That timeless view
only one who sees
The whole horizon
Can utter.

II

The weight of white, cutting wind
Relentless,
Borne over the miles of ice,
Raising ghosts that smoke and snake
Across the black remnant of ice-free ground….

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III

At first,
Day on day of snowfields
Aches eye and brain.
Tired of colourless, outstretched miles,
We long for a taste of colour,
A clash of the familiar….
But with the continuing cold
Comes acquiescence:
No longer is this a world you know,
No longer parameters judiciously to be weighed.

IV

The weight of gravity,
Settling white,
remorseless accumulations
Of slow curves.

“We do not care
For your insistent heartbeat.
A fist
Thrown against forever,
A line of footprints smoothed and vanishing…..”

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V

“Nevermore”
Was not the raven’s cry-
That
Was a mistranslation.

Understandable, though,
The tones of black
Require a certain bleak vision
Mixed with cold humour:

A perspective of wan horizons,
Endless fields of snow
Punctuated by moments
Of death….

The word
On every raven’s call
Is
“Forever”.

Maybe
It was a gloomy
New England Protestantism,
(Baldur dead forever),
Maybe
A seer’s view….

Try as you like,
Small human,
Whatever weavings and turnings,
Clever, fast, considered,
All shall return to forever,
The dust in my voice,
The iris of this instant.
My name is Horizon.

“Nevermore”
Is the cry of one
Who can never look over the world’s edge,
Never see the sun under the earth,
Night fuse,
Egg of light……

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