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Posts Tagged ‘Philosophy’

On Philosophy and Meaning

When the crazy juggled balls
fall into a pattern then
meaning holds a steady form.
Like those wagon wheels
in cowboy movies
that inexplicably
stand still
then go backwards.
An illusion caused
by an accident of timing.
Consciousness flickering,
the world holds certain and steady,
at least for a moment or two.

We can be sure of reality.
We can be real, surely?
Of what can we be really sure?

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A truth that believes

A truth that believes
it is the whole of the truth
Is a poison.

There are ghosts
In the dark, draughty attics
Believe themselves
Kings
Who are owed.

But it is not so.

A point of view
Draped
Over a few seconds
Is not, for sure,
To be relied upon
To define an aeon
Nor a purpose
Nor a good yarn.

All philosophy
Summed up and sundered:
The raven, sharp-eyed
And hungry
From his cliff nest
At break of day.

Expectant
Of
Nothing.

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A PARTICULAR DEVICE

When we look so close at life inside us,
it simply becomes a tree of madness
where ghosts host and catcall,
swapping bodies and their nightmare mysteries
( from which we have never, ever, recovered).
Such strange animals. So many hands.
So many dances. So many attributes.
A collective deity ( or a pan Demonium).
There is a clue in it all somewhere,
a clue, a clew, a thread, a maze,
a spider, a monster, an eater of the charming ones,
a hungry axis, a deliverer,
a coin on his eyes and on his tongue.
The rite of the Opening of the Mouth,
escaping gravity through the small angled shaft,
homing on the singular, most singular star.
Dust to dust. An assay of hearts
before the animal-headed ones.
We are Jongleur, kindly admit us.
Remove our head. Give us the bliss of love and asses.
Return us whole to the world without end.
And let us cease to burn.
Let our mouths be filled with the cool waters.
Seven rivers from the Garden.
A lascivious sprouting of leaves, a splayed, secret hand of fig.

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THE ART OF SILENCE

folded breath
a volume of murmurs
that is all

an understanding
discarding options
so as to mimic peace

to sleep, dream or wake.
to turn away from friction –
a wishful free flow

to harmonise, to disappear.
the River of Milk,
our mother’s beneficence

for this dream
the old man, the prince,
the returning journeyman,
rise quietly in the night
to gaze at the moon

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Scribbled reminders.

A big mistake it is
To hold that life belongs
Within the certain bounds
Of ones that begin and end,
Live and die, generated, disintegrated.
That outside the skins of being
Are voids of senselessness.
Look bravely beyond the borders,
Yet fail to recognise reflections in mirrors:
Self is an organ
Not an organism,
A way of catching the light,
Ice floes on oceans,
A difference of density.

No matter how pink
The clouds of dawn:
The blackthorn blossom remains
White as snow.

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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.

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ONE WISH, ONE BLESSING

If there were one wish offered
Then it would be this,
And if the power I had
To bless were certain,
This would it be also:
To die happy.

A simple thing,
A strange reminding
Of ends and farewells,
But think:

A happy death.
No fear nor overshadowing,
Free from uncertain doubt,
No buried regret, no guilt,
No aching yearning,
Nothing unresolved,
Nothing left undone.
Complete, completed, content.
Relaxed, ready, rested
To stay or move on.

A simple thing
So few have found.
It cannot be taught,
It cannot be contrived,
It cannot be hesitant.
One moment
Never to be missed.
Inevitable, certain,
Nothing more owned,
That fracturing of thought,
That clarity so long put off,
End of all tomorrows.

I would wish you
A happy death.
May we all be blessed
A happy death.

A life filled
And glorious,
Radiant
With all emotion.
Tasted, consumed,
A banquet
Sharp and honey-sweet.
Poised,
Skilled,
Generous and gentle.
Worn well
But lightly,
Not hoarded nor wasted.

Loved, lived, left.
Nothing else
Would so suit
A perfect world,
As this is,
But to do so.
A wish.
A blessing.
Die happy.

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