Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Kyleakin evening


 Weavers of the Sidhe

Two came at twilight

From the rath,

Cold with curiosity,

Small as children

But with strange eyes

And smiles too old,

Far too old.

To see who it was

Carried the silence

By the shore

That was not the grey heron’s;

To judge the cry of one

Neither curlew nor oystercatcher;

To weigh the harsh throat

Not of the hooded crow

Nor of the raven.

To find the mote

In sunlit attic,

It’s dance to forgotten harp

Dusted earth, dreamt melody –

Dream nerves tied to sing of rock,

To follow the dancing road.

When they speak

Small blue flames flicker

Upon their tongues.

Their eyes –

Corridors of starlight

From distant galaxies.

Their thin fingers

Cat’s cradling

the centuries.

They are the same

Our ancestors knew:


Dissolving in midday light,

Returning at twilight

With shadows dancing.

They belong to place,

But not to time.

They are the rolling,

Rising, blue distance-

Yearned for,




The Secret Commonwealth

Cast out,

Cast down

From Heaven’s brilliance.

Not falling for the passion of rage,

Nor swayed by the unforgiving violence

Of righteousness,

(The simple, clear lie

of polarities, justice, truth).

Condemned by the Most High

For failing to take sides.

Falling down,


Into twilight.

Neither here nor there,

Backwards or forwards.

It is why they flock to song,

Delight in the poet,

To what moves by its stillness,

What reverberates with passion,

Profound ephemera,

Guileless illusion,

Flash of gold,

Uncertain Reality.

Shot-silk seasons

Rich with the Opposite.

Reflection on reflection,

Echoed echoes.

Not dead, nor living

They are the rolling, rising blue distance,

The accumulation of dream,

Repository of yearning,

Perfume of nostalgia.

The processions, the slow


Terrestrial constellations

Caught sight of peripherally,





Bane of priests,

Defiers of logic.

Snake language – fast

And sparkling.

A danger to mortal dreamers

Who might fade

Into the world,

Feather roots merging,

Knowing and edges blurred

Into the song of presence.

Perhaps returning,

(if at all)

With a fragment of lament,

An air,

A pavan,

A secret wrenched from time,

Lost within time again,

A wonder,

A treasure,

A mystery unholy,

Disengaging from certainty.

Duirnish sky1

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Two very different pieces inspired by crows. The graphics are with “Zen Brush”- a really nice app. Though with some limitations, it is elegant and great tactile fun. The kanji is (supposed to be) ” karasu”. – crow, that seems to be made up from the elements of ‘black’ and ‘bird’.
The first piece was written in Tokyo this May. The crows there are raucous with great thick beaks, always talking to each other. One would always wake up about four in the morning, before dawn, fly around a bit calling to the others. They would wake much later around six. Wherever you go there will be a crow flying, calling, perching, watching. A city made for crows.
The second piece I recovered from an old diary. It has the flavour of a spell, though I am not sure for what, other than the unique shining-eye, crow consciousness, piercing perception, non-judgemental being.


Tokyo crows:
Everywhere you look,
Perched, watching,
Diving between buildings.

Even when they are
Out of sight:
Their voices, calling

In the air
Over human world,
Crow world.

Samurai eyes,
Katana beaks.
Guardians of silence:
Keeping it safe
From human ears!


I am neither this nor that
Wingbeats black and wingbeats white.
I am neither this nor that
A sharp voice that cracks the mountains.
I am neither here nor there
Echoing in the valleys, in the forests.
I am neither one nor many
Encompassing power
Rising in the cold blue.
Sharp eye
Long eye
Sharp beak
Long beak
Strong claw
Long claw.
Mind and memory,
Past and future,
I am neither this nor that
Flying between worlds
Masterless, masterful
Obeying laws
Breaking complacency
Waking the dreaming
Between sunrise and sunset.



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How a language is written, how the sounds are turned to shape. What changes, what pathways are found and lost? Here we have English, painfully constructed step by step from left to right, from past to future, letter by separate letter, precise as bricklaying.

Does each language- tongue music- become more or less when it is understood? It stays art when the medium of sounds and the message of symbols somehow dance together. Otherwise it is in danger of becoming a servant to the mundane instruction.
Free of meaning it stays a sussuration of mind, sine wave and pattern in the white noise of the universe.

Arabic script is maybe one of the artistically fluent of language symbols. It reminds me of medieval musical notation, rise and fall of chant, images on a distant horizon, ripples on the surface of a stream……..

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Woke like Coleridge from the opium of sleep:
Flashes of glimmer
scales of colour
Slippery eels sinuous muscular lines of language
Lost in murky depths.

Sitting in dapples of sunlight.
Lost in the tree tops are the
Voices of doves,
Maybe angels
Or djinns
Blown in from the desert
So many endless years
Of pious
Rigid-backed denial –
The bitter tongues
Of the righteous.

So many pious years

In the dark cool cave before dawn:

Day by day
The moon is filling up
With tears.

Even with a thousand arms,
How shall you gather up
All the lost?

How encompass
All the bereft?

Are moments
And cannot be prevented
From flying away.
Even the stars….

Even the stars.

This spring
Under the cherry blossom
Will gather the wan smiling ghosts
Once more.

We are dust
Held together by song.

Before the song is forgot.

The tongues of the djinn
Fading in daylight.
Back to the cerebellum,
To practice cadence
And metre.

Voices in Arabic:
The wind as it dances and whips
Around tent wires and mast heads,
Aeolian harmony
Between knotted spirals
Dust devils
Sand patterns.
Well water
Cold night air
Crescent moon.

In Kuwait,
She said,
Every household
Had a musician,
Every one
A diver
For pearls
Of cool, iridescent
Oud in the shade of night fall……

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