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Posts Tagged ‘night’

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DHRUPAD 2 (night)

Slow now, night now, moon now, night now. The eye shadowed, land shadowed, mind shadowed, night now, owls now, in mind shadows and moon mind too. Cloud shadowed and fine mist light drifting wood ways, the river sky, the river wood, the river mind, the moon a drop. A drop down, suspended, held drift the night words outwards, upwards, slow now upwards, star and drift and dark shadow and cloud upwards along the light line the shadow mind cool cool in moon and deep drowned one mind slain and and and no more lost no more moon no more slope to sing the river forest sky rain cloud ways slow now, slow the moon now, the deep now the silent now the shadows. Now.

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THE CORNERS OF SPACE

Follow the sun beyond the horizon
And there will never be a sunset,
Never a horizon.

The old poets knew this – that their voice
(River and root of it) runs through distance
And no ends are there to those meanings.
Each sound, a door to deeper dimensions.

(No owls tonight, though a slivered, smiling moon.
Between the song of the pines and the river:
Restless tumbling dreams.)

Here is the vertiginous well of the sky
And its steps, and its chambers.
The view of horizons and their echoes.

(Confusion arises with questions:
Clouds billow and change shape;
Gravity has little hold in dream states
Except by habit.)

Circumference, the vastness of mind,
The corners of space, encompassed
By a single breath,
Dissolves on exhalation.
A rainbow disease brought to a stunning collapse –
Endless blue.

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The Blossoming Magnitude

I step out.
Thick darkness
And above night fog.
A few stars come and go.
This world
We cannot ever leave.
Every inch of us
Reeled out from its heart.
Made to stretch
And grow and fade
Between each breath
And each stillness,
Between each moment
Of presence and absence.
The world pushes through.
Wherever we might go
This world, too, shall come.
We are seamless
And utterly loved.
A fragment only
In strange fragmented minds
That do not realise the utter silence
Contains the voices of all.
The utter silence that answers us
Is the blossoming magnitude
Of the simple ground.
A round flicker of star,
Tasted, acknowledged, named.
Never are we severed,
Never lost, nor alone,
Though the angry, hungry tide
Of voices may say it.
Our science is love
And our gravity, delight.
Obedient to our breath,
We come and go,
Remembering how it all goes.
A bowl of sky.
A bowl of earth.
Enough food there is
For all things.

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Solstice stars.

Stand still.
Take stock.
Light is short,
The cold is long.
No matter how secure
We are only ever one breath
Away from death.
From becoming fallow earth,
From falling frozen onto ice.
Take heed
Stand still.
The small time.
The long night.
In darkness
The slow drips slow,
Then stop completely.
Stars watch
And sing
Though offer little warmth,
But the way home,
The way home.

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Soulless

To come out from the sorrow with wings
(The wind rising deepening thick darkness)
To find song that sings continuance
(The rain flown miles burns cold)
To find a haven, a hammocked clarity
(No stars, nor shadow, nor moon tonight)
The long roads aching empty, dreary, full of tears
(Lightless, limp, dreams splintered, knowing not the way to try)

Over the hills, bleak white drift forces itself into crevice and bank.
A slow, tempered piano hangs notes and melody, not new, nor remembered.
It echoes so and brings some small pillow of ease.

Firelight flickers,
All sink sleepless into dream.
A small thing it is to fail,
to cease, to become unmattered.
(The street empty, the empty house,
The mind revolving. The heart of things,
A sudden distance).

—-

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Sunset (Last Light)

The road will come to an end in fire.
Struck dumb in light, a blaze of shadows punching through.

The bluff fingers of Wolf’s Ridge:
Its bared teeth stained red for a moment,
Picked bones and the impossible low laugh of ravens.

Gossip is still gossip though it rhymes.
Arwyn calling his sheep has more of Taliesin in him
Than all that cool dicing of sentences and city-slick say-so.
More of Aneirin in his mutterings: the fickleness of hounds,
The blast of grey rain scouring the slopes
Above neat, labelled towns in two warring languages.

No ceremony at the end of the day,
No fanfare sunset, no golden road, no moments reflection.
Day’s end, like a casual death, a fast artic blasting hot and close
Along narrow lanes, tick clocking, tachometer disabled.
We war Time and, hopeless, hope to win.
The map, a chessboard, a magical gwyddbwyll board
Littered with small victories and imminent defeat.

The sun will set whether we watch or not.
In the parlour tea is laid out.
One bar on the electric to keep off damp and rheumatics.
The sun, a slow thief, has taken colour from the mantelpiece portraits
And given it back to a thin blue sky,
A blush of pink, a heartbeat or two stolen from memories.

The heather will be shouting purple on the hillside now,
Smelling the end of summer and the crisping of bracken
And the tiny push of fungi fingering up through centuries of dust and gravel,
Delicate as the word of God on a Monday morning.
But not yet, not yet. Wait for twilight and dank darkness and the sweat of dew fall,
And fox and owl marking out their own fields of killing and loving.
From deep in her set the vixen suckles the dawn and dusty sun.
From their rickety, woven heights the hooting owls can see
And see again another and another sunset, further and further west,
Each hilly horizon making it anew ’til the end of time.
They know somewhere it is always sunset, somewhere always dawn.
The fungi feel it too – the sun’s path below the ground,
The path of electrons, the spin of stars,
The mutterings of shepherds and the slow counting of the dead and buried,
(Ears open for the Last Trump in case they, day-dreaming, miss it,
And losing the last vestige of decency, become fields and woods
And the sheen of light on puddled lanes).

The chapel roof, high as a barn, catches the last light
And rings to itself a psalm of glory.
It will all fade to a dull ache and a cough of cloud.
A thing of beauty does not last forever, lest we forget the truth of it.
A map of words and hope can carry much,
but not so much as this eternal river.
The whisky-dark, blue-throated Irfon wanders through its valley’s dreams,
News of another day’s sunset carried eastwards towards another dawn.


This is the last of the batch of sunset poems, except maybe a few fragments that may be sewn together sometime. Tied to personal memory of the senses and of times and places, it is very difficult for the writer, I find, to evaluate the effectiveness of the words that for other readers do not have the same connection. We are left with the shaping of the music of the sound of the words, and the hope that it will find some resonance in sympathetic minds. Endless fiddling with a creative moment may be a diverting occupation, but there is no promise that the end result will be appreciated any more. It comes down to the moment, its life energy and the taste or distaste of the reader. Second guessing the reader is stultifying and fruitless. I think I did find some useful concept/images in working on this theme, but they seem still rather scattered throughout the different voices that emerged in the various poems. There is quite a debris of purple, romantic and metaphysical gush that did not find a home. To be expected with the topic, I suppose. That’ll do for now, though.

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Midsummer night occluded.

Clouds rent slow and pale light.

One rolled silent tumble

Psalming more for gentle gods.

Rising, falling the hills

And through them threaded

Rising, falling hours of owls.

Weeping wonder

Well gone before done,

A brief flick and dreamer dreaming.

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