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Posts Tagged ‘metaphysics’

ALDER FOLD

Singing severed head

Folds and puts away

The blanket of space,

Rolls away time.

A comfort against poisons,

A comfort against memory.

Sunlit is the hall,

Spacious with birdsong.

The sound of the sea

In the sound of the words.

And there is no greater magic than this.

By the shore, by the river,

By the evening light,

By the dividing of the roads.

One gasp and it will be gone.

Floating down stream,

Lodged in the mud

Of a new world.

The root of the tongue.

The cotyledon of sight.

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THE ROSES

The roses

They have been in bud

For months

Through sun and rain.

Now they open,

Bloom for a day or two

Giving joy to all,

Then fade and

Fall apart.

The roses.

The roses.

They throw off their beauty

Like dancers.

They value more

Their roots

And their thorns.

The blood red hips,

The hard won strength

To go on.

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A SUCCINCT PHILOSOPHY

.

Language

Localises

Mind

.

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THEIR NAMES

Their names are the doors they wait behind.

Dreaming, dreaming, they thus dream us.

A silver moon scythes the snow fruit that admits us.

Timeless is the round dance of breath.

There is constant war in heaven, and hunting,

And fast, hot seduction.

How else, otherwise, could it be here?

The stars pour themselves into the hills.

There will be ice upon the marshes.

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A lot of my writing this year has been towards an art/word project inspired by The Black Book of Carmarthen, a small, handwritten manuscript containing poems collected over a lifetime by one person. It is the oldest known manuscript written in the Welsh language. A mixture of ancient bardic poems and prayers, it is at once mundane and transcendent, simple and utterly baffling. The words that come to me are either reflecting some of the imagery or subjects of the fifty odd pieces, or dwell on the nature of the author and the continuity of language and writing. The art works I am making mainly combine parts of the manuscript pages overlain with my own woodblock prints from decades ago. There will, probably, be a book that combines text with image. It is in no way a translation of the original text. It is one artist’s reflections of the magical mirror and timelessness of ancient books.

MER KERTEV KEIN (Black Book)

(The marrow of fine songs)

It is a river

Uncurling in caves,

A white torrent on dark slick rocks.

It is a shoreline cave where mystery is born by echoes,

Far from comfort, where opposites couple in the roaring of it.

Spanning centuries each word tumbles combining elements.

Shadow worlds are dressed in time to shatter and rebuild the fragments.

Oh, speckle-breasted thrush,

Thrice the song to sing.

Morning rain.

Rain of morning.

Dawn storm.

Eternal song.

A river where meaning slips like fishes,

A flash, a flank, and gone.

The next ripple, the next wave, the scintillating light.

Umbral echoes.

It dances from sound to sound.

A juggler slipping from stone to stone

In the midstream rush. Where next? Where next?

And the foaming roar of it:

The world dancing elements and prophecy

And the arc of words cast up and caught, too fast for the eye.

A stream, a stream, of passion itself.

Sound clothed in the names of things,

The naked, naked sound.

A river of God’s being,

A bowstring caught and released,

The mouth’s harp

And its breath drum rhythm song.

There are spirits here

There are ghosts

Where I see these landscapes,

Familiar, sunlit, wild

I have never been.

I am haunted by the names

And by the meanings

Within the meanings I know.

Other pages in other hands:

Mirrored, pushing through.

I am become a palimpsest of prayer-

The angels with clawed feet

Offering golden torcs.

A language of waves,

Of echoing empty hills.

My eyes water the seeds of words,

Grow vast forests.

The dance of sounds:

Lost timeless for a while,

We dance and dance.

The memories are not ours

That lodge in our hearts.

My soul fragments to the four quarters

As though I am already buried.

There is a cold wind from the north.

A woman who is not a woman

Moves at the edges of my sight

Whispering rhymes with berry-stained fingertips.

One of Three and Three in One.

Before Eden we quake.

The Tower was too high,

The Tree was too bright.

The Flaming Sword

That drove us outwards

We stole for shovels and mattocks.

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It is not the roads that we have lost

That leave us blinkered and aimless.

It is the songs.

It is not the gold we have given away

That leaves us impoverished and hungry.

It is the songs.

Left silent without even echoes.

The body’s rhythm stuttered,

The heart’s reason stultified.

We have gathered, huddled in silent cities,

Upright, efficient, vague and unmoved.

No tides of song, no roaring winds of song,

No rising hearts, no heat.

Never lost in the making of names.

Never tangled in the fleeting syllables.

No lilt, no catch, no net, no praise.

No meaning that dives deep below meaning

And feeds the spirits of the dead and of other places.

No offered breath, no chant that infuses hours with timelessness.

The electric hum of compliance.

The drone of automatic equilibrium.

White noise of dissolving passion.

Quietly waiting an end to tedious static.

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July is a slow river.

It slides behind a mirror sky

Smoothed by silence and bees

A breeze of roses and sweeping swallows,

A sweet weight of honeysuckle.

The hay is cut between rains.

It lies in long warm lines.

Certainty and uncertainty

Is what we live with.

Storing up what keeps us.

Everything is harvested in its own time.

The western wall carries the sun’s warmth

Well past the white skies of midnight.

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THE LEDGERS

I have been collecting the names

of demons from dusty ledgers,

Each a fossilised passion or despair.

Every one a poet and a diva,

Conceited, numerous as neurons

In the brains of man.

Some starved, some sated.

It is the nameless ones

We should be fearing most,

Whose attributes and legions are unlisted.

It is they that twist the fibres of time and space,

That lead us down reasonable paths

To utter foolishness.

They bear the bitterness of millennia being ignored,

Sidelined by brassy, golden heroes.

Volcanic, metamorphic, sedimentary –

They constitute, certain, a slow wearing bedrock.

They know too well the mountains and horizons we long for

Are all relentless and prone to murder.

Dressed in orifices of delight and disgust,

The greatest demon is the one that teaches

That there are no such things as demons,

Denying all history, mocking the laboured divisions

Of day and night, and reasons why,

Filleting the intellect from all shining breath.

They are well-beloved now in sharp suits,

Eloquent in Greek and Latin, they dream in Sanskrit,

Swear in Aramaic, count in Japanese.

They name and number every combination

Of moral gymnastics.

They are masters of the callisthenics of judgement,

Ballroom dancers of complete seduction.

They are the best of us, who best us.

We, the sly self-harmers of evolution,

Ingenious inventors of delusional druggery.

They are dressed in war and holiness

( as we could tell the difference).

All they need is a little time, a little understanding.

‘Sit you down, take us through your thinking.

We will listen.’

Non-judgmental, professional, just taking

One or two salient notes.

Paring off slices of soul for real estate

At bargain rates, a place to retire to,

With excellent views.

‘But look’, they say,

‘We are nothing

But patterns of thought.

Born, nurtured, clothed,

Given names.

Exercise us,

we will become domesticated,

The new normal.

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GOLDEN MERIDIAN

“Here at the centre of things.”

(There at the centre of things),

“We see everything and hear everything.

How the chorus of dawn is continuous,

How the shadow, like a wave,

Retreats from the light around the world’s edge.

How the light, like a wave, retreats

From the shadow and silence of night

With owls and thunder.”

There is one here,

( there is one there),

Dressed in liquid gold

Like a summer river,

Like a wood filled with birdsong.

He says:

“If you wish to be more

Than you are now,

You must learn to suspend your knowing.”

He says:

“Your in breath is the outbreath of another.

Your outbreath is the inbreath of another.

She says:

“Look. Listen.

The birds of dawn

Forever singing.”

She says:

“Look. Listen.

The eternal stars

Forever resting

In cool midnight silence.”

He says:

“Beginnings and endings are words.

Life and death are words.

To travel beyond words

Is a road few follow.

All those here are dancers.

Movement comes before sound.”

She says:

“There are no questions

That cannot be answered

With more questions.”

He says:

“Eternal sunrise.

Eternal twilight.

We admit those

Who have forgotten their names,

Only.

What is your name?”

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A LIGHT TOUCH

Every demon knows the trick with butterfly’s wings.

Tesserae, perturbation.

The small becoming great.

An oceanic instability, a gram shifting,

A star dissolving into endlessness,

A thought let loose and floating,

A pinch of plutonium.

Weights and measures,

The weighing-up of Newtonian Laws:

Every demon is a mathematician at heart,

At home in the seventh hell of statistics.

Every scintilla collected, each iota measured,

Each ember sustained with warm breath.

Last straws gathered and categorised.

For everything begins with an itch,

A discomfort, a desire for other.

The angelic hosts slay ninety-nine

Point nine nine of the unrighteous.

The demons nurture the resistant few.

They know that majorities are powerless.

That it is the minority that always spark a new inferno,

That say: why? That plot and saw through the bars,

That dig out the mortar with their fingernails.

The invisible, the insignificant, the disregarded, the despised.

The debris of universes drifting together.

The small becomes great. No blame.

The well has run dry. Nothing furthers.

Seek elsewhere for survival.

The fittest have slaughtered each other.

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