Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘mind’

2017/05/img_2732.jpg

MARGINALIA

below this turbulence:
slow, vast, are the currents.
Knotted threads soften, unwind
(As morning mists
In curling, upward sun).

The ghosts we hold most dear,
Those haunted voices we always hear,
That diffuse the endless night-
They come and go
As if they owned the place,
As if they mattered more.

They are so tiring,
These endless stumblings
Proudly towards truth,
Where simple goodness would suffice.

The broken-nailed, mad eyed dreamers,
The demon-fed preachers.

For we tumble towards a close,
And that is always and only certain.

Here, is the benign patience of Spring
Come again to remind us
That warmth will split the hawthorn blossom
(And the hills already drunk and hazy on it).

Just one sunny day,
and all we dream of
is summer.

A slow dance of swallows,
lambs and birdsong,
One blue warm billowy morning in May,
enough to banish all the long months
Of winter, to open and relax,
To build a nest
As if it were forever.

Read Full Post »

2017/05/img_2719.jpg

CONJURATION

He sits by the window letting the landscape go.
A little incense will stretch and curl in the moving airs.
There is welcome rain on pale, misted hills:
The meadows and their trees will green.

The shoals will flicker beneath thin surfaces,
And there is skill in waiting and skill in catching up the glimmer.
Sometimes it is enough to hold one wriggling thing.
Sometimes a light touch will tease a line,
A bright twist into this world, a hopeful humming reel.

There is the holding and the letting go.
A whisper wish to Gwyn ap Nydd
Who hunts these lost ghosts and churns them upwards.

To mark a path only, or to push down into it,
Or to be pulled willynilly in mad rush and see,
See where it leads, traipsing forgetful, curious.
Or but to float above serene and light as hawk bones,
To not become distracted by maybes,
To contain all, to exclude nothing, to lose track of no slither,
To allow a subtle sedimentation – to be that patient,
To become equanimity, geological.

It will be the touch of madness that marks it out,
The touch of madness they shall not forget.
The discomfort of impossible resurrection:
Light that is not there, a bubbling up of echoed sounds,
A mystery of conjured voices, a song of ghosts.

This, the slow and certain engraving of our vanishing lives
Upon your smoothed and cooling brows; etched, hatched and nested within
Your twigged and tumbledown minds.
A thimble of the past to dull each ache of uncertain stitch.
That impossible race to reach each sunsetting horizon.

Between the moment and the madness
Is where the bright shoals swim.

Read Full Post »

2016/12/img_2462.jpg

White with snow are the hills on the horizon.
The rivers are quiet, the pools frozen.
Clouds from the north taste bitter cold sunrise.

The deep, dark, breathing earth accumulates to itself,
As if the threads and shreds of shared sentience
Net down the long years and become soaked
With drip and ceaseless dream, each wish and ache
And spark of memorable brightness,
Catalogued, compacted, savoured, saved.

And with these do they clothe themselves: in a world’s memories
And thus, learn to speak in howls and long whispers,
An aesthetic without emotion, a dance only, a game, a chess board,
A gwyllbwyll, a ritual that is not quite imitation nor mirroring
But has its own exquisite golden reason,
A long dreaming sublimation of spent and careless thought.

All these cobwebs and leaves, they are truly
the only gold to be cherished.
The damp and fusty decay of life thrown off,
Carefully considered and gathered again for feasts of kings and angels
And dark giant forms that have no concern for any future,
but nurture the past cradled in deeper woods, rocked in song,
Draped in arcane languages, swung on sunless, starless seas,
Shattered on mirrored starry pools and fountains.

A moment too slow for this world’s water
( a dream of even clearer water, a blood clear river,
a serpent spiral of cool life,
Silver water, perfect loom of water,
eternal life giver, rock cooled, cave silent,
Tremulous with distant footfalls, distant light.)

More real than the real, more real than time,
more present so it is squeezed between each chink
Of time and space, our substratum, our mother matter,
our folded vast and black pinions,
Our beautiful storm, our glory and tragedy,
our mulch of words.
To where all words sink and their images too,
to reform, re-loved beautiful monsters, free from doubt,
Unburdened of guilt, violent and innocent,
purely, demurely selfish and sharing the virtues of edge and shadow.

Ploughed deep in the dark trenches,
the midnight river boat of sun and moon,
sung with choir of gods and stars and lascivious,
long limbed goddesses born for pleasure.
They will swallow us all, open up and consume,
become fecund and full and birth us over and over,
their lovers named and unnamed, loved and laid to rest.
The smallest of things, a feast of passion most holy.
Most holy the earth and its names,
most holy the mystery beneath us,
the mirror within us, the eyes, the feral eyes,
the hungry eyes that look back
and do not ever, ever, look away.

Read Full Post »

2016/09/img_2288.jpg

THE ART OF POETRY

It is myself tumbling over words
God’s engine roaring a gobby throb
Through heart and nerves and up
To drowning tongue and out free
Into virtual sullen air.
Once solid rooted sense now willowherb whisp
And whatever-you-will, blown breezy and rain wetted.
A garden of weed unruly in bitter pale sunset.
More holy are the turning worms
Silent in their utter diligence to earth.
More holy the first few crisped furls of ash
Let go falling to ground melting for future loveliness.
Myrddin out of mind again and railing.
Everywhere the road turns are madmen
And reckless thieves.
Prophets tearing clothes wander footless into fields
And weeping eat the grasses there
For they can do little else.
Then later, carefully in glowing cursive,
Copy out their rantings for a future offspring.
Little despair misinterpreted once again,
An art of poetry, penultimate.

I have been attempting to get a poem together for the local Llanwrtyd Eisteddfod, but I really do not like working to given subject matter. I have, over the course of the last few weeks created bundles of words that are strewn around the subject matter, but none, (or maybe just one), carries the spontaneity and flow of energy I would like. After reading and making slight adjustments to what may be the best of the bunch, this tumbled out by itself ( as it were). I will likely post the Eisteddfod submission later in the month, and maybe a few fragments of the rejected pieces around the same matter before that….or maybe forget the whole thing for a bit.

Read Full Post »

2016/08/img_2200.jpg<

Out from the Red Book (The Book of Voices)

Out from the forbidden book,
the hidden, the book bound
in oxen skin, bound in blood,
written in blood, as ever ( perhaps).
All gods (perhaps) begin in imitation
of the gods before.
Infected by the ticks that suck so greedy for meaning.
They begin (perhaps) as commentators, as compilers of concordance, as hagiographers, innocent and pious. Warming to their subject, become polemical, become critics. Constructing their own palaces they forget they are not dwelling within them, and so they become populated at first with (perhaps) the inanimate objects of remembrance –
a bowl,
a key,
a shrugged-off coat.
But soon the mirrors appear, innocent and deep as pools to windowless walls, become themselves windows, become doors, become landscapes, become the weight of antediluvia, become reason enough, become cared for, become owned, become obligated.
Demons are a different species entire.
Not content with philosophical dream
( who is who and what is real,
really real, that is divinely speaking, that is).
Demons cut the crap,
they want results, statistics, measurements, tangible, manipulatible (viz.)
Demons are out to make real change
in a world they disown and disavow.
A world they have spontaneously generated into,
demons deny evolution and chance.
They are here to correct all the clumsy mistakes, all the errors of judgement, all the delusion, all the fantasy. Demons are not here for the ride. They do not acquiesce. Intellect and cunning are their survival skills. To make a difference.

Wait. Wait.
A rolled mist
Blurring edges
Is sitting on the mountain.
Late summer air is still.
It may or may not rain.
Assiduous sheep are tugging
At the grasses,
Or seated, stare off unfocused:
Repetition of mantra
One continuance of chewed whisper.
Listen now. The air remembers rain.
Small leaves dance.
An incense of warm earth.
It becomes cooler
and the dreams return.

It begins with a slight inflection, a singular infection,
a voice that is or is not familiar. A stream, a trickle of thought.
A seed putting out simple translucent root, a fine idea, a resulting pleasing symmetry of leafed cotyledon. A simple isness, A here it is clear and sharp. Before long it, how you say, ramifies, manifestly bifurcates, adheres to Fibonacci's mad acceleration. Where there was one voice, now a fractalised howl of mob and counter-mob, simultaneous equations where x equals why not.
And so the poor dreamer,
and you, poor dear reader, face the chime of choice
which voice it is to follow and where to jump off ( this careering madness),
and when to argue back and when to say no I am lost
in a construction site for a palace I gave no permission for, on land I may once have said was temporarily mine own, or borrowed, or coveted, or squatted upon in a long evening of rest and so fell into dream and slept and melted into the earth, and dreamt of centuries cascading and so thusly, thusly,
the branched words
create and dissipate
and melt.

And what then of the nature of the soul? (Another voice, this one, fighting back up for its moment of enunciation. God or demon, I cannot tell). An eternal this, unchanging as rock. Perhaps once it was so. Before Pre-Cambrian, before the Ice's oceanic weight bore down, grooved and dragged, split and scarred. Crushed and ground down in green darkness, ejected into sunlight as sand. This beach, your soul eternal: the gulls angelic and the gulls demonic pattering for worms buried in your upturned, dreaming face ( as it were).

A radical change of direction, a root radial, circumstantial, circumspect, returning to the red. The red book of Carl Gustav, the Red Book of Hergest, The little red, the red rag, the red flag ( who was raised first by slaves in peasant revolt and by the Welsh Valley miners in the Merthyr Riots long before the bolsheviks begun to get bolshy at the Bolshoi).
The red palace,
the red hall,
the red encampment.
Our mitochondrial mothers chanting in darkness,
sweat and iron and honey.
Beyond gods' dreams or demons' politicking. Beyond history of flesh, before and after reason. A drumbeat trance, a passion ululating. A long house divided into rooms, fires and pools of water, a vestibule, an entrance way, a tunnel, a choice of doors, a basket of grain, a purging void, a suspension of all but breath. Before the gods wrote psalms ( such bitter pious violence), before the demons copied them in glorious, golden satire, before the bifurcation of left and right and wrong, before our bilateral superiority, our redundant symmetrical mirroring, before the cultivation of the tree – thought-topped, guilt-rooted. A simple red ark holding all, a grain. Carp, pericarp, stamen, a seed neither plant nor worm nor fish nor fondness. A hearth of mothers. All things, they say, have been your mother. Birthed by all. Nurtured by all. Loved by all. A golden thread of goodness, stitching, stitching. A darn, a repair, a suture.

The cloud has lifted,
Tentative sunlight.
Mountain's crown domes up
Into a temporary sky.
All the flock is rested now,
Stilled and free from hunger
( though a crow still hops between them
Pecking for worms in the grass).

One tide voice recedes. One dream takes the advantage. The red book pulses, veined an endless circuit. It disappears into green hedgerows and down to the valley wood. If the worth is not here, it does not lie elsewhere. The word's sound in another's head. Demon or god, I cannot say. That is all. That is an ending, or a beginning.

Notes: this tribe of voices arose after reading a couple of pages from C.G.Jung's 'Red Book'. The text was a dialogue between two entities, one of whom suggested to the other that it was real but nonetheless a fantasy. This being the case, many more possibilities were able to be conceived. Being real, and being fixed, and being limited. Jung has been assiduously avoided for a century now. More subversive he is than Marx ( who of course modernly eschewed all things spiritual as a hoax). The voices I was entertaining could have been those of the sub-cellular. I have met them before. They have impeccable logic, and are deadly to the pompous ruler of the personality.
How the voices are represented by the red flag of peasant revolt is a clever twist ( just noticed). The cellular majority rising against the oppression of the elite. But also the red rag of forbidden blood. The mysterious female contract with creation, and so the women's huts, and so the Neolithic floor plans of squatting goddess form, and so the subdivided longhouses that remind one of the mitochondria, those indwelling stowaways in every cell – the female genetic line from primeval bacterial beings….

2016/08/img_2198.jpg

Read Full Post »

2016/05/img_2079.jpg

A Landscape Illuminated.

It is the drift between the breath of in and of out,
the fleshy petalled night a poison,
and an endless moonlit rain.

In gardens at very least, the green
will muscle upwards a brief month or two
from cuckoo’s bell and sighing swallows
to the ticking, scratching melodious crickets.

In hills, now, flakes of gold are falling snow silent
and the thin ghosts ever crying for justice
in the long, cold, blue shadows.

We dim with daisies a glimmer haze
And drop of hawthorn goddess,
scented and mean on red-folded air.

Sliding, we are sliding, uncertainly
whether up or down again, the long drip.
Time it is dripping, invented, named, measured
and wasted away as if dawn and sunset were not enough,
and the stars forever clouded and lost in mystery, as they are.

Adrift and turning, rocked gently, dismally declined.
Warmth slow escaping, longing for another somewhere
with bees and lilac and long, painless sleep.
A landscape illuminated, kissed in light,
unburdened with consequence, unfolded.

2016/05/img_2088.jpg

Read Full Post »

2016/05/img_2041.jpg

NIGHT THE SECOND (A LANDSCAPE POPULATED)

All the clues are there in the symptomatic madnesses. Here they come willingly.
Lurching dressed in the horrors of those Germanic artists driven mad by the scent of the rot of death and the acid blue veins of ergot. Give us this day our daily dead. My very bonnet badge: clan mother belladonna and mad dancing.
The restless limbs rippling,
A hot wind, a sirocco over the waterless sands
Of dried, flaking skin, a glowing leprosy,
A holy transformation back to earth.
Tropanes needle and embolden. The Golden Mean, the Fibonacci, eroded by endless rains so the weighty cliffs of selfhood grow sodden and at last liquify collapsing, stone to mud and root and revealed bones, the sunken bells already deep in salt silt haunted – the unblinking cynic eye of dragons counting the too few millenia of tall brains swaggering top heavy and profligate as if all were truly made for them alone.
Chiselled are the precise gargoyles vomiting rain,
Pissing spouts of life.
The clues are all there, my dears,
They are so close so as to
Raise tiny neck hairs with their breath.
So moist are their lips, my dears,
So darting their electric tongues,
Their opaque eyes staring still,
An inward crouch, a search for vowels
In a sea of consonants.
Only evil comes of elucidation. Eat it all up. Revealed are the shadows in light to be answers.
Clear-cut the butterfly-winged angels come straight from sucking the nectar of God, will drive the penitential into burning buildings and the queues of forbidden passions will be kebabbed and skewered for each chimereal constructed thing. Stare long enough. Turn not away. Given signs and clues and testings. For how many millennia have the lists been corrupted? Turn away upstream or downstream. The same song.
Even angels wither there, becoming demons.
Self-mutilated, gnawing on bones of certainty.
Marking aeons in long, shallow scratches, muttered lists,
Reasons why and why not.
The shelved, locked-out passions, the dirty shameful things. Power piled up, an unused compost that can never rot lest fed, forgiven or owned once more.
It ferments, ignis fatuus, Hand of Glory.
Abhorrence and disgust,
To look elsewhere and forget,
To disinherit, to deny.
Not an easy thing to remain sane and honest. Not a habit that is cultured or condoned. A dangerous device is this difficult conjuration. Likely to consume as consummate. There may or may not be maps, may or may not be instruction. No consensus from a millennium of points of view whispered into the rhythm of the blood.
Be wary of the insistent ones.
The ones offering sense.
White noise as their echoes build up.
White noise becoming stillness.
A perfect inaction,
suspended, turning slow,
turning slow,
cocooned and waiting.

2016/05/img_2048.jpg

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: