SCRY
1
Small things
From deep pools
We rise.
Vaporous things lifting,
Turning,
Weightless drifting.
A lick and dissolve,
Ice smoke, sighing, aimless
Rise, spin, twist and dissolve,
A white fade lift,
A tongue, forgetful, vague.
Without a mirror, you see,
We scatter.
2
The falling down of words
Like honey bees or like rain.
They shall patter and gather together.
They shall wash away all dust of death.
They shall be as mirrors
And as suns.
3
Johannes, named from a river
Forever flowing east,
Named from the delta of Aphrodite
And the Aegyptians,
Of perfect memory and skill mathematic.
A subtle blade, enough to wriggle between worlds,
Searching the point between brightness and darkness.
4
All the cities are dying.
Accursed, they spread limp
And rot from centre outwards.
We have purchased all, yet still hunger, empty.
5
The view mists, fogs over.
A spray of rain and rose petal.
Summon the spirits again, Edward.
Summon again the blast of visions.
I have learned the language of angels
And now they pester me
As flies in summer meadows.
The kings and queens of England
Process in elegant spite, shifty-eyed,
Blaming cousins and the fickleness of peasants.
6
Around the garden walls,
Drab sparrows squabbling,
Happy as morning.
In the hills again,
Lost in mists,
Tight-lipped hunters.
7
Those accustomed to gaze and gaze
Letting in the world unmasked, unaltered,
Though they disappear, remain behind each edge
Every line of silver,
Seared into time’s retina.
Like Padmasambhava’s cave,
Taking up his body’s shape,
A perfect void forever sitting,
Open mind, open heart, unclassified,
Uncategorised, a species beyond light,
A ripple cascading throne,
A point through stillness, through reflection,
Through mirrored glare.
The eyes that look back
At all eyes,
Time collapsed to a breath,
Space folded
To a golden nest,
A beer relished at evening.
8
The sacred,
Always a little smutty,
To these men of science.
A vermilion stone smeared with faith.
9
So slight is the edge that shines,
The mirror’s reflectant skin.
So small a thing to throw back vision,
To show what is and is not there.
Such a line between, ( if line there is),
Seen and unseen.
So fragile a mechanism
To construct comprehension.
We settle to a silver lie,
Satisfied with thin smiles.
10
The eyes may tear something new from light.
New stranger seeds, planted in sight,
Doubts of how deep and shallow
All this reflected life might be.
God buried deep in the liver of a fool.
The Devil buried deeper in his reason.
Rise and fall, a history of empires
In this one small breath.
The same elements congeal
In madmen and in stars.
Somewhere a sun shall rise
And we shall be young
And beautiful again.
11
They push through our bitter fictions,
A stain within vast humid dream.
Spirit filled are the worlds elsewhere
Engraving slowly, they take form line by line.
Removed are the curls of nascence
A ticking clock, a creak, a shadow.
12
It is not malevolent to desire survival,
To thrust through to bigger life.
We are pushed and torn apart
As natural as morning, an evolution of sorts.
Best not, then, weigh nor judge,
(All, after all, the mockery of self
And self-existence).
A fly lands and takes off,
A pest, a nuisance, slow in slow air,
But what if, what if.
13
Our prevalence, our striding
Incessant self-portraiture:
A mistake, a neurosis, surely.
A better view must prevail,
A breaking through of stronger stories,
Radiant gods with heads of eagles,
Sky gods with lightning hair.
Beyond a mirror’s glass
That thin veil allowing silvered vision,
Presumes a surface woven illusion.
So many haunted eyes,
14
The utter strangeness of it.
A timed lapse, a void, a flicker.
Dark matter, the deep fog,
A sunless pressure, trenched, ocean deep.
Black smokers blistering more strange life.
We become utterly replaced again.
15
A charming magus chants destruction
And parturition in one caught breath.
The wonder is we do not see
How small and fast, how struggled and unfree,
How lost and how imprecise,
How glorious and how wrong.
16
The wise remain silent,
Watching skies unutterably changed.
I cannot say with whose voice for sure,
Or whence or from when.
A slight recorder.
A wave front.
A gravity well.
A spinning top
Each second more slowly.
The grate of opening
And closing doors.
—
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simonhlilly 
Conversations with Invisible Friends: 11
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, awareness, commentaries, Holbein, metaphysics, Poetry, prints on March 18, 2014| Leave a Comment »
YELLOW LEAF
Jade.
Jaded.
Used to be to make immortals of us.
Green mask, green breastplate.
Now verb, adverb.
We lack lustre, grow weak.
Taste dust.
The cloth has worn thin
on our fine designs.
Look carefully through:
something else moves beyond.
—
TOUGH AS
We become rubbed thin and fragile,
or tougher than we look –
Worn leather, finely cracked,
no longer mirroring any pride,
any care.
Its own nature
(to hold old bones together, to have some guts).
Slipping into a role,
where we become comfortably bedded in,
but invisible and fading.
A worn path.
—
HELD RELEASED
I shall trace through ways and roads of time,
The pathway between white and that of rainbow’s lustre,
Enfolding moments, met and so woven,
Cupped as hands that spill never any drop.
In the weeks of early autumn,
In golden, honey, humming days,
As trees loose the leaf’s weight,
(The burden of slow breathing days)
Throw their branches skywards,
Open out empty, like slaves set free,
And cry cool:
“We are clothed in blue
That is the kiss,
And it shall never cease.”
—
SLEEPLESS
Though I cannot twist the fire around
Where it leaps and slides.
Though sleep is elephants in chains.
Though lamps fuse the night.
Though time and shadows stutter.
Though voices still and all breath whispers.
Though your skin lies here velvet as hillsides.
—
VESSEL
This voice born from caves
This voice shaped emptiness
This voice the flavour of silences
This vessel of poetry,
Always lucid,
Empty ’til held
And warmed by palms,
Tipped towards lips –
An exchange of breath.
—
SOLACE. SPELL
Rocked, enfolded, supported.
Nurtured, swaddled, assured.
Smoothed into sweet sleep.
The birds of sunset,
The birds of dawn.
The stars of evening,
The stars of morning.
A dappled, tree shade,
A strong trunk,
A canopy of gentleness.
A rain of comfort
An opening.
A belonging, a belonging,
A belonging.
Succour, solace, ease.
Breathe, remain.
—
KEEP
Probably better roofless,
These thick-walled
Shrugging thugs of the landscape,
And green-walled, green-tombed,
A habit for thrush and snail.
The fading echoes of invader words,
Muscled in, muscled out,
Left to a bed of leaves
And nostalgic wanderings of day visitors
trailing after twittering children….
—
REMAINS OF IGNORANCE
The river’s song:
the rocks in it’s smooth mouth,
the fear lumping in its warbled throat,
the distractions from waterness, from seawards rush,
from oblivion.
What it is not, that is its name.
It’s song is what it tries to evade, to avoid.
We are our frictions,
our aches ( what angels long for, what demons envy).
We, the worn face of mountains,
frosted, bitten stand regardless of pasts,
burnt in sunrise and sunset,
pierced by starlight.
The pain of breath,
the loss of in and out,
limited is the beauty of the limitless,
how it discovers,
entangled sweetness.
—
CORE
It is the nature of the deep mind,
oceanic, vast, lying dreaming
beneath the pedantic foppery
of fashionable habits of thought.
It is the engine,
the body of sinew,
the geometry of neurons,
the long, glimmering night,
the dragon’s steady, piercing eye,
the palace with silver service laid out,
waiting for Last Supper.
—
EQUATION
Teasing apart into this and that,
glowing piles of good and bad.
The labels are not the thing,
but short circuit our emotion,
(so smart we are. )
The truth is made of lies,
and bears our name.
Is, is not. Is not, is.
Neither is nor is not, is and is not.
Truth within lies. Truth lies within.
Within, the biggest lie.
Equations in a flow.
Freeze frame missing the real.
Paradox paradiddle.
Shiva’s drum.
This way, that way.
—
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