Posted in Uncategorized, tagged creation, landscape, luminous, mist, peace, Poetry, time, Wales, winter day on March 1, 2019| Leave a Comment »
LUMINOUS 2
The day has no horizons
aimless we are where we wander.
short hours lost, dressed in silence
free of consequence, free of purpose.
as if the world were just created,
six days gone and the seventh, wondering.
the burden of memory not yet felt,
luminous ghosts of joy in luminous surrender.
and the hum of bees
or distant traffic
or chanting.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, landscape photography, Li Bai, Li Po, Mid Wales, mist, pen and ink, Poetry, rain, summer on September 4, 2017| 4 Comments »
INK WASH
open window.
now and then:
sighing cars
roll by.
gutters muttering
in light summer
rain.
time caught
on cobwebs,
lost in cloud.
sedge grasses flower,
green trees
statue-still.
Li Po hums
and sketches
silence.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Abergwesyn, art, june, landscape, mist, photography, Poetry, rain, Wales on June 8, 2017| 2 Comments »
JUNE DRIFT
I am as blurred as the cleft of Cwm Dwfnant shrugged with cloud,
shunned in its darkness, up hanging from the heights, silent as a hawk.
like ladders the thistles grow, straight and high, and the sedges hustle
the grasses, cropped short, and rain-laden.
the woods, a hushed audience, wait for rain
that is as welcome as the sun, as welcome as the long, pale dawns,
as welcome as the naked starlit evenings.
sallow seed slides and drifts, amnesiac angels, bounced on warm air,
and shallow cool down by the gurgling river’s bank.
and the globeflowers at Nant Y Bran bursting and butter-bright as suns
on their long green necks. and yet they still cannot look into tomorrow.
where shall be ever planted the sweet heads of valerian
and the meadowsweet foaming up through the coming of another summer.
light drizzle rains down, slowly drifting east. a cuckoo mist, a cuckoo silence.
I am blurred as the sources of all rivers are, nominal, approximate.
this white drift is a moment that now dissolves the hills
and clarifies by shimmer and shade the valley’s deep and every fold.
the unknown and the known are not new dreams to us.
they clothe us and wrap us round, swaddled and held still, a long lullaby,
sometimes with words, sometimes with sounds,
sometimes with a warm breath
that is itself no different than love.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, landscape, landscape photography, May, mist, nature, Poetry, rain, Wales on June 5, 2017| 3 Comments »
These blurred, cool days are best,
Soaked with fresh green airs
Hedgerows smudged with bluebells,
Cowslip clouds lolling heavy in the grass
And the rivers running brown and full
Over hollows and heaped grey rock.
And everywhere the blackbirds sing
On wooded slopes,
And the flit and flick of swallows
In the slow rain.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, attention, clarity, continuance, deep mind, Gywn ap Nydd, inspiration, landscape, landscape photography, memory, mind, mist, phiotography, Poetry, the Wild Hunt, thought on May 15, 2017| 3 Comments »
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.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, cold morning, dawn, landscape, landscape photography, mist, mountains, nature, Poetry, Wales, Winter on December 31, 2016| 14 Comments »
Ice Breath
Is it not true
That it is always the past
We burn to keep ourselves warm?
The young sun
Is on the tops now,
The deep valleys shadowed,
The mists let go, rise and melt away.
One slow hawk
Skims the treetops.
The cold, still sky
Has yet to choose its colour.
Ice will soon breathe,
relax to water,
Struck by the
warm weight
of light.
Those
that have survived
the night
Will stir
and sing.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, August, dawn, hill country, landscape photography, landscspe, late summer, light, mist, photography, Poetry, seasons, sky, valleys, Wales on August 20, 2015| Leave a Comment »
Swathed, mist cool
Tasting blue dawn
As still as an egg
Hushed as only August can be
Held in a lap of seasons
Replete, ripening,
Remembered now
The bite that is frost,
The gradual fall inwards.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dawn, landscape, landscape photography, mist, Poetry, summer, sun, Wales on August 12, 2015| Leave a Comment »
veiled
though we sleep
dream or wake.
the world wrapped
in its own light
soaked in whispered
breath.
a fountain of waters
a tree, a river,
wondrous emergent
a circular thing
a pearl gently
warmed in fire,
dawn misted,
floating.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, atmospheres, being, black and white, cloud, evolution, ink and print, light, lightness, metaphysics, mist, photography, Poetry, stratospheres, thought, transcendence, vapour on July 20, 2015| 2 Comments »
THE VAPOURS OF HEAVEN
Shall they stray far,
These wandered thoughts,
Drenched with the vapours of heaven?
Shall they, distilled, sublimate,
Take new form, grow winged
Then smiling, dissolve?
Shall they, folded,
Nest upon timeless light.
Sleep, and wake golden,
Luminous, singing?
Shall they, without surcease,
Dance eternal energies,
Still named, at home
On vast, breathing cascades
Of space?
Shall they, (these thoughts),
Turn swallows, spin as swifts,
Light as thistledown, rise
Like willowherb, weightless,
A drift in summer,
A slow gentle breeze
Bird-filled?
Shall they stretch, sprout nerves,
Become sensible, grow good souls
With new names, find mouths
And lips and tongue
And sing their own song?
The vapours of heaven:
A saffron casket, rainbow-locked.
Small whispered bells,
Honey-lipped bees.
A sky stretched
To blue transparency.
A tent with purpose,
An unseen sea,
Scaled skin of cloud.
In amongst and between,
Within cloud and moving mists,
Droplets suspended awaiting surface:
To acquire direction, to know gravity,
To locate tidal choirs.
It is all music, all music,
Nothing but song.
These images are taken from a series of ink drawings, scanned and photographically enlarged to reveal strange details. The revealing of other structures formed a parallel word stream imagining thought/word becoming sentient of themselves, hence the text, as one possible accompaniment to the images. (Other possibilities included star names or quotes from the works of John Dee). Some of the images are pixelating because of extreme enlargement, so these I may remake as pencil drawings…
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beginning of summer, consciousness, daybreak, dream, ephemeral phenomena, hawthorn, landscape, mist, nature, perception, Poetry, reality, seasons, time, viewpoint on June 4, 2015| 2 Comments »
A pearl day, smoke shaped.
A lick of mist this river’s voice.
Hills turn cloud, clouds become all.
A single dreaming moment
Explains everything.
More precious than breath
It lifts weightless, turns and dissolves,
Sky colours leaning out.
What was golden dulls to dust.
An aching tumble of sweet May,
A thorned white wave enthroned.
A season’s birth heavy laid,
A full descent, a grace,
An offered all, begun.
—
simonhlilly 