Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cold, divergent action, ephemera, fulcrum, mind, moon, passing, peace, Poetry, spring, time, uncertain meaning on March 13, 2013| 3 Comments »
MOON SCREECH
Moon screeches across the sky-
Chalk on board,
Ice dust on the wind.
Layered circumspection
Is no wiser than
Reckless certainty.
Inside me
Scream a thousand
Small possibilities
Extirpated, snuffed out.
Inside me
A thousand more arise
Radiant effulgence,
Birth smiles.
It will take
No time at all.
It will take no time
To wipe all this away.
Swept clear,
So fragile
This dream.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ambiguity, clarity, language, meaning, mind, scribe, scriptorium, Songs, transmission, words, writing on March 8, 2013| 1 Comment »
SUCH SLIDINGS
Such things (percepts, perceptions) often flow by us unnoticed. Our primary influences, the objects that create us into a subject….
It still happens regularly.
Listening now to an old song I knew then, the words, so familiar, intergrown as barbed wire into a tree, unpeel in clarity and reveal completely new words, new meanings. Of course that is what the lyrics are, clear, logical, making sense, making story. So why the mishearing for so long? We mis-hear more , much more than we mis-see. We misconceive more than each of these-(the bending of light to catch the whole within the goldfish bowl of brain).
Words never were single things but woven strings of shining diaphenous vapours. Put sound to lined squiggle, equations of broken down breath, equally spaced, segregated, punctuated, coralled, from left to right, or right to left, or down, or up. Do that and will ambiguity cease?
The brain knows the undercurrents within its own tides, knows it bitter contradictions, straitjacketed by moral aughts and whips of coulds. Knows that what it chooses for the tongue is equivocal, mean, one flavour in a banquet ( food fight) of possible stances. The wardrobe is endless, the dresses magnificent, the masks tempting, the shoes to walk in, the boots, the sandals of this and that. What pose to strike, what cajoling, what convincing? How shall it be constrained to a point of view, a consistency?
So, and so, we read, consider. But they are others’ words in our own familiar voice. We doubt their simple surfaces, look for fissures to rip apart the art, to find the puppeteer, the hypnotic svengali, the foundations, the gold down in the creaking shafts of tunnelled darkness. Kobolds, nockins, gnomes. And they are truly there, those monsters. It is their world of excavations and spiralling, dark distances. Intracellular, interspecies, interstellar, wormholes of digested matter shaped to uphold its own existence. In that land it is we are the monsters: the pale, limp-wristed aliens, senseless interogators of the obvious, denying the purity of paradox, the meat of merged matter.
It was the plants that first learned to talk. Chemical drifts on the wind. Songs of molecules calling and exchanging. They then taught what they knew, o my beloved, to the threaded fungi who fed and serviced the needs of root and sun-eating leaf. Those bright, sympathetic neurones of soil-brain, why, they, of course, my child, spoke to us as we possessed them, they becoming our tongues as we digested their matter, their material, their meaning. The verse of the world, we, the hired orchestra at the banquet of life, and the jugglers, fools and jesters, too ( polite ripple of leaves, green, amused applause for their ingenuous progeny).
Fenris wolf bound with a thread of whisper. That which is not, finally constraining the bluster and sharp teeth, snapping jaws of what is. This nonsense I would carve on a cliff-face to last millenia of sun and frost. This effusion I would slow and temper with gold leaf and lapis lazuli, carefully ground,carefully apportioned. A crushed ink of beetles, oak gall and vinegar, black and holy, to flow from a feather – the required spell to make a flow, a light touch, winged words. There, then, a clear delight of hand and mind, set down, illuminated. Inhabited script. Inhabited scrolls. Vegetative, rampant, loving itself, emergent mind.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged breath, inner and outer, language, mind, nature of light, Philosophy, Poetry, Sound, thought forms, way of heaven on March 6, 2013| 5 Comments »
Mirror words
(As are
All words)
Reflection
Of movement
Within silence.
Feeling shapes
Mimicked
By mouth
Borne
Outward
On breath.
Soft
(or hard)
Explosion
Into
Meaning
Within
Other minds.
Spontaneous
Blossoming
Of pictures,
Coalescing
Inner light.
Their fruit:
Other words,
Other pictures.
Like light
(perhaps)
From the outside
All appears
Bright and colour,
Whilst residing
Inside is
Darkness
And silence.
Where edge
Meets edge
(the silvered
Surface)
All appears
Perfect, clear-
Though it is a
Reversed world
One that can never
Be seen
Except
In reflection.
When is a
Mirror
Empty?
When it is not
A mirror.
Silent gesture
Shrug
Distant thunder.
In the forest
Falling tree
Mimics
The way
Of Heaven.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cosciousness, landscape, mind, Poetry, sea, thought on February 28, 2013| 2 Comments »
A ROAR OF VOICE ( edge of apparition)
Here it is
Here it is again
The ocean’s rush and roar
A world voicing, praising,
Cursing, keening
An endlessness of salt,
Sweet and bitter.
Rushing in from the single
Blue link to forever,
Illusory horizon, false edge.
They rush in:
Exalting waves,
Then comes the gravel undertow
Pulling ribboned grief back,
The harsh grain and the smooth grain
Rolling endless in the noise of it.
The augmentation, the echoing roar.
Endless is the diminishing,
The withdrawal of hope
Dissipating memory
Negating victory,
The slop,
The soaking away.
A cold white voice
Bleak on air
Hunger of the gull.
I croak and roar
A black god low on the face
Of the deep,
Cormorant shadow silent
Skimming rise and fall
Voice of centuries
My food
My food.
Tiresome
The endlessness of it,
Remorseless the repetition.
There is a vision, a dream
Of rockpools crystal still,
Small jewels rock held, safe.
Bashed, swept up in a new tide
Moon-pulled
Star-quenched
Tumbled and forgotten
Whispers, wraiths, sand-casts
Footprints.
The thin water’s return,
Small waters to a foam bed.
Upon my ears, my breath,
My blood, a voice
In perpetuity,
A bubbled spume, a seed,
A generation.
Its name:
The ocean, the sea,
Is remembering.
Its name
Is forgetting.
A sand of salt, skin salt
Eyes salt, pulled and pummelled
A sway of green weed
Locked to rock
Dreaming silver shoals
And an opening of sound,
Out.
Meaning found
Retained.
No one yet has built on such,
An ocean where lasting is long,
A dreaming forever.
For coral cities are sand,
Mountains, ground.
Sift heart water
Harmless as light
Polishing, melting
Wearing away with song.
Oceanic dreamings
Oceanic wakings.
Subsiding
With noise
World’s
Sleeping
Easy
Breath.
*
( ocean roar: one’s own mind audience, even if quiet, the world’s onrushing rumble bears down.
Never between, never shore-locked, never apart from, swept tumbling, hiss and thud, white noise.
Waveform, signs, sines, spirals. A word in your shell-like……)
*
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged consciousness, February, landscape, metaphysics, mind, nature, Philosophy, Poetry, sky, subject-object, thought, time, wind on February 6, 2013| 8 Comments »
SKY RIVER
Three days now the sky
Has been a rushing river of airs.
Caught in its roar
The bright moon day by day dissolves.
Now a thin cold lip,
An edge of ice fast melting.
Here’s a line, here’s an image,
Bold and clear, easy to recall,
Easy to frame.
But gone and shattered,
A leaping fish, up and shining;
A crystal hung in the sun
Never the same patterns of spinning colour;
A stream, a burble of tumbling,
One melody caught but then lost,
A fugue of endless forgettings.
So, the points, the main points,
Quickly before they slide, again, away.
What and where is the wind when it is not blowing?
What and how is a river when it is not flowing?
What and why is the mind when it is not full of words?
How can we say anything is certain
When we fail even to remember
Our passionate dreams from the fading dark of dawn?
Nothing seems fixed in the buffeting swirl of mind’s river.
I am the possessor of the sight
Of a juggler with knives and doves
Enraptured, disbelieving, horrified.
But I is an eye
In a peacock’s tail,
A ripple and splash
Over a river’s wide shore.
My certainty, no more than that cloud,
Breathing and gone as it races southwards,
Seawards, forgotten on the horizon, no longer itself,
Melted, merged, a long sigh.
Hold here, hold here, anchored.
That is, perhaps,
To miss the point.
Consider this elegant and judicious thought!
Consider this cloud, this sparkle of light,
This aeolian harp. This sound
That comes and that goes
( in the forest is there even a roaring
With no ear to hear it?).
There is something,
But it seems nothing when held.
There seems something,
But it is only a dreaming of numbers and probabilities.
The wise having spoken,
The rabble clamour and grab those chiselled phrases
(lacking any memories of their own).
The wisdom of mankind:
A moon melting away into shade,
A wind rocking the rafters,
Shaking the valleyed woods,
Inchoate, a chord.
Hold, and it is lost, dismembered, forgotten.
The colours of the dawn: a sequence of shifts, no moments,
No savoured fragments. Only as the blink
Of an eye, an inability to keep
Attention,
A distraction of impressions.
Mind, a movement of itself
Outward into itself,
A brash Mozart
Of improvised narcissism.
If you are not now looking at me
Then what am I?
Give me worth
Or I am less
Than dust
On the tongue.
Dissect and sever
Dream from sleep,
Sleep from waking,
Sense from feeling,
Real from fantasy.
Dam the air, dam the stream,
Divide the slow curves,
Tree shaded,
From the racing weir,
Rock shouting and white.
This moment of perfect sky,
Three woodpigeons buoyed and floating
Down to the small green field.
A rip of blue.
Two gulls distantly weaving.
Cloud shifting from grey to pink,
Teased out,
Carded fine and white
Through the teeth of the fast cold.
Recording moments:
A needle stuck
Repeating the same few bars, the
Same few, the same.
Or a rabble of squabbling voices,
A heckling audience,
Swaying faces in the dark.
A consensus of insanity
Taken to be, of course, sanity.
The sky is pearl and golden.
Three day’s wind
Has smoothed out the light,
Has rubbed the hills green and smooth,
Has dissolved the moon.
That is all.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged archetypes, art, consciousness, exploration of consciousness, externalising, inner-outer, internal dialogue, memory palace, mind, neural pathways, Poetry, psychonauts, research, Sense of self, subject-object, the unconscious, thought on January 31, 2013| 4 Comments »
RAG AND BONE MAN
Misdirection.
Frantically waving
The world tries to warn :
Going the wrong way!
Looking out
When you should be
Looking in.
In the palace
Broken debris accumulates.
(Holding a red, wriggling
Worm of thought.
Articulated, reticulated,
Sinuous, slippery.
Transfixed now,
Sectioned.
It oozes
Phonemes,
It oozes
Pheromones.
Colours of, shapes of,
Moments of, pain of,
Pleasure of.
The demon (daemon)
Of Meaning,
No Archon this,
Nothing but Choronzon –
Crowley’s chaos beast.
Bright bubbles of edge
Bursting into void.
Clasping reality:
The cliff-face, wave-foam,
Everything
And nothing revealed.)
In the palace,
Silent, deserted,
Debris put by:
Collected are souvenirs,
Remembrances, clues,
Identifiers, histories,
Reasons, threats, excuses.
What has been rejected,
Labelled unacceptible,
Exerts as much gravitational pull
As the central proud combustion
Of signposted identity.
At the edge
We place the dark gods,
The Titans, the giants from before.
The ones whose names
We have all but forgotten,
The ones of the earth,
The child-eaters,
The self-generators.
With stick and staff
The thick-lensed caricatures,
Bewebbed stuttering scholars,
Chemical smudged whitecoats,
Steadfastly measure and dissect.
Never looking within
Never stirring the dusty dragons
The leering, prancing obscenities
The brilliant but quite mad molecules.
For, tell me if I am mistaken,
Is not the person but a bombastic dictator?
No democracy there, no credence given
To heart or lung or liver.
A hijacking by a handful
Of slick, white myelin-sheathed johnnies,
Serotonin spivs, smart mouthed,
Cocky seen-it-alls, know-it-alls.
These our trusted advisors,
These our judges, our jurors
Pretending po-faced objectivity,
Arbiters of reality,
Politic grandparents
Guiding us away
From the dark corners
The guts in the cellar
The stains and axe marks
The awkward questions
The nightmare realities
Of distinct extinction
Irreparable re-examination
Of priorities.
The patient sublimates.
The patient projects.
The psychopath, quite reasonably,
Believes a distinct view
Nothing but a gift, a duty.
Fearing that anathema
Of the Irrational,
The horror of insanity,
The embarrasment of pettiness
That dwells within,
A roil of unscientific, subjective
Oddness
(we all know it, we all know it
How can we not know it?)
Sweeping the dirty
And the improper continually
Under the carpet,
Rearranging the tired flowers,
A quite flick of the duster,
A spray of masking wholesomeness.
Spending nation’s worth
Probing the fractions of matter,
Qualifying,
quantifying statistical expectations,
Mathematically generated creatures,
Galactic searchings,
Subatomic manhunts
Whilst
Heroically
Ignoring
That one thing
We can call ours,
The architecture
Of thought,
Pulse of Memory,
Symbiosis of consciousness,
Monster of imagination,
The flicker of
Inward sound,
Power
Behind the throne.
We cannot, m’lud,
Declare the patient sane
Nor their acts judicious
Nor their perceptions true
Lest the evidence is forthcoming
From the Defence.
Is the ghost a demon?
Is it a god?
By their acts shall ye know them
By the world they allow
Not by their advertising campaigns,
Not by their multiple-choice questionaires
Not by their glossy manifestos.
Not by anything
But the evidence of their own,
Lonely, determined dive
Past the mechanoid elves,
Past the phosphorescent jellyfish
Past the trembling glory
Past the irrefutible
Past the last possible excuse
Past the only reason
Past the words and past the silence
At last to the bright halls,
The shining paths,
The alien, familiar gardens.
I hung for nine nights
I hung for nine days
Upon the World Tree.
Naked, I reached downwards,
Screaming I took up the runes,
Word upon word
Word to wellness
World was woven,
One Eye am I,
One view, completed.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged communication, entanglement, imagery, interdependence, language, mind, Poetry, words, writing on January 11, 2013| 4 Comments »
Skittering from
The mirrored mouth,
Whooping and free.
Once they settle
In another’s mind,
What can be done?
Shrug,
Go hunting
For more..
( words are seeds and seas)
I wrote this as a comment to an N.Filbert piece on Spoondeep (What writing will). The comments and additions to the post were vast and various, so maybe the virtual brain became a little fired with neural connections. Anyway, it refused to post these words (several times), so I put them here instead. One leaf, caught in its own spiralling dance, whilst the wind blows the rustling red others to the horizon’s edge….
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birdsong, joy, Lao Tsu, May, mind, morning, pain, plutonium, polarity on May 26, 2012| 3 Comments »
Flakes of falling flame, fragments, figments….
I
I shall walk in the cool green morning
A roof of grey light and white horizons
Amongst the skylark’s and the blackbird’s song
Unfettered, unrequired, unopposed, unnoticed.
The deep throb of honey bees,
The pointed tang of balsam poplar,
Each blade of grass, a cloak of life.
Silent moist, echoing air
Vaporous bliss,
Honey-tongued May.
II
My mind-
clouds.
Slow shifting greys,
Pearlescent light.
My tongue-
A flame of green leaf
Tasting filtered sunlight.
My heart-
Ullulating balm,
The blackbird’s river.
Perfect
Imperfect-
As it is.
III
Always though,
The night of pain,
Biting, back-brain
Sting of writhing pain.
Somewhere though,
The acid smell of cordite,
The skin prickle of rage,
The leaden drunkenness of hatred.
And somewhere,
Proud innocents,
We offer
A gift for Krishna,
A gift for Allah –
A scattering of plutonium:
Our gift
To the Universe.
IV
The Old Man,
Rocking from side to side
On his ox cart,
Leaves from the Western Gate.
This time,
No-one notices……
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Earth, focus, grounding, limited vision, mind, never mind, reality, relaxed view, seeing on May 12, 2012| 9 Comments »
Thoughts from the Earth: Reality is approximate.
I was thinking about some friends who were going through difficult times, and thinking also of the pressures of the modern, rational worldview on other more traditional ways of seeing things.
A great, possibly the best, way to stabilise emotions and strengthen personal energies is to make a conscious connection to the planet. Simply feel a flow of energy from the base of the spine, the whole of the pelvis, down towards the centre of the Earth. When I do this in a quiet, receptive state often concepts and ideas clarify ( or at least, emerge), in my mind.
The following words arose and contain some interesting ideas…
What we consider ‘reality’ is what we are focused upon – what we consider important to us.
It is a lens that brings into focus what we choose to make central to our experience.
Everything else becomes unfocused or invisible. It may still be there, but we can no longer see it, no longer experience it.
We do not “make” our “own reality”.
Reality has no substance.
Reality may be what ‘is’.
But we cannot know what it ‘is’ when we are focused in a particular way.
Seeing a bigger aspect of “reality” then, is not about our focus but about how we can relax our focus.
It is not about finding what is important to us, but relaxing into the experience of whatever we are experiencing.
What we chose to consider important or real, the view of reality we take, is significant for our emotional stance, but not necessarily any more useful than any other stance in terms of achieving freedom from limitations.
However, one focus is no more valid than another.
If one dominant world-view is heavy on our lives, choose another view that is less oppressive – but do not mistake that one is ‘right’ and the other ‘wrong’.
It’s just switching channels: you are still being mesmerized by something that has no intrinsic holistic experience..
Reality is approximate….
( ” Reality is approximate:
What you believe is true
Only holds from a limited viewpoint.
From every other place, it is untrue.”
” What you think
Is not what you are,
But what you think
Holds you in its patterns.” )
quotes from “A Guide to the Power Plant Spirit Cards”. Simon H Lilly 2006
“everything is possible” is not saying the same thing as ” everything is easy”.
Acting in accord with the energy of the world requires letting go, relaxation, acquiescence, flowing with the energies manifesting – but not fighting or giving up; giving up but not relinquishing; relinquishing but not dissolving; dissolving but not dissappearing; dissappearing but not falling asleep…
Becoming the world – becoming smaller and becoming greater….
Whatever language we use the words that represent an object can never make the object, never be the object.
The words can echo some qualities of the object, but not the tangible experience of the object. The same is with reality.
However we choose to describe reality, in whatever terminology, in whatever storytelling way, it is never the same as, or equivalent to, the reality itself.
Thought, logic, language can never experience or define what is real in any complete way.
Open sudden clarity is the only door to melt and unfold the Real….
simonhlilly 