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Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

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OFFERING AT LLYN CARRIG BACH

Down through green waters
holding on to nothing
but one gift and that is
not a name given me
nor any weight accrued.
A lightness of purpose
bows my spine, the familiar
flickers and fades.

Down through brown waters
summers deep. I am peeled
reflected transparent
becoming triple, a tongue only,
a dance chained to eloquence,
a swift blade and its ghost only.
Sunlight and its memory
sprout seeds. Bright rolling hills.

Down now the black black tides
too deep to know how deep,
the glue of space and time slivers.
Cloaked I am now in a
thousand, thousand names.
A single word transfixes all.
A cauldron, a chalice, a pot suspended.
Gentle enough is the heat of that breath,
Slow slow and smooth the strokes of air.

Down through self-luminous waters
beyond all monsters and their messages.
Beyond all thresholds, all territories.
Suspended, all that I was, poured out
as a haul of fish slithering from its nets,
silver and glistening moment forgotten.
Hatching, there are pinions unfurled,
a cry rising up into a long throat.

Down through star-filled waters.
Bubbling up: the names of rivers and sea deities,
and warriors of watched misty islands
and cold air, spray-filled, and cries of gulls.
The hiss of sand blown through marram dunes.
Mistaken for a notion who is now a god,
footprints elide, pooling perfect syllables:
a sprinkle of star-flowers, the promise of dusk.

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DHRUPAD 8 (honeysuckle)

June, June now.
Elder, elder opens, opens out creamy sky cloud fragrant
and so too they drift drift drift, these hills,
the pale hills the bright hills the sunlit hills the star shadowed waiting hills. Drift slow and slow,
coming green coming all coming again.
Weave and throne song singing softly,
the clouds pile a sky hurray.
A thick slow drift, and the thin
slow rivers and the fast stormy rivers and the warm
sun waters and the honey thick shaded waters.
Green light now, green, and sudden roses
bloomed and falling, purple petals, sudden slow shifts.
High hills rise up and skylarks
and the thirsty climbing beans and vines and peas and bindweed.
And the honeysuckle the honeysuckle
blood red buds and dreaming of sweetness.
Twist and climb. Twist and curl and hold
tight as a baby’s fist
here, we are here,
we are close and tumbled and held and lovely.
All all climbed and stretching and together
and growing tall, tall
into the tall
throbbing skies.

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SPOILS OF ANNWN

Neb kyn noc ef nyt aeth idi –
Y’r gadwyn tromlas kywirwas ketwi

It is a soughing, is a sighing lament
a lament of oarstrokes, of labour
against a tidal fate, the rip-tides of honour,
of pride, of battle, of world’s collapsing.
It sings so with a heavy heart
the cracked glass of memory saying
all was lost, save us, and we returned lost:
the dark roads, the impenetrable fortresses,
the keening wind, the scent of snow and blood.

‘How many saints are there in the void?

May I not endure this sadness…’

And the roaring waves turning back
Drawn tight against the ripped sky
Banded, wheeled, armoured rings
And the horror of it is not even that darkness.
Inside these fortress rocks the lost echoed songs of the forever lost,
Transformed aching nothing twisted to silence
The thousands lost just trying, just looking,
The hinged doors screaming, the invisible worlds
Shuddering and refusing us their air, their shade.

Save seven, none came back.

Their air is not our air, their life and death not ours
To grasp at feathers and find fingers shredded to bone,
To look into eyes that look beyond days and nights.
And the ghosts of thought growing bold, and the doubts
That our good is not good, our right, a trespass unforgivable.
There was terrible beauty that cared nothing for us,
That would not let us rest or pass, terrible is such truth.

Unutterably shifted between worlds, gone, never returned.
Chaff words and book learning all shallow things
Now our eyes have been seared with countless strangenesses.

May I not endure this sadness.

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GAZA TEARS

All the poets are away at war.
We are left with birdsong and silence to sit between.

And the drip of the rain from the eaves
And the scurry of rats in the woodpile.

Beyond the shattered bones and oil-soaked rags, we are told,
There is a golden world fashioned by eloquent tongues,
Self-appointed and righteous.

Still, we burn here in sunless dark.
Freedom is a bitter word.

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Dhrupad 6 (May river)

They will fall down into their own rivers, these words these sentences finding their own surface will settle for a familiar winding light in warm beds slowly downwards to their own sighing roaring silence. Though they are not nor ever have been mine to give, you have them now flowing on from this to that a single seamless thread gathered from the highest open grasslands, gathered from just below the sky the slow drip down the vast vast vast drip down of water towards a centre of word, towards a winding tongue a weaving mind weaving sky and sound, skin and sky a story river sky river down to story silver river….

Only there, there, where the people have sunk into the land singing their stone memory bones, grey weathered on ridge shrouded elder clouds, something home death something home small cooing death, nature death smell, cream smooth death mother humming bees smell, humming stars death smell, secret curve woman death star bone smell, life death star death cooking smell. Only where the words have turned to winds and wind to rain, and bracken shields the adder’s tangle in the warm vast moist morning, the vast mist morning of the criss cross and spiral morning, of the tangled spiral adder’s tongues honey soft morning. Only where the red kites wheel and the buzzards on their watching posts watching down the old quiet roads, the rocking cracking moment by moment roads footstep views and sound sound river bird and breeze roads, the sudden view shift roads, the next last corner roads, the lost remembering roads.

Only on the beginningless roads beginning now now again sprung from grass now flowering grass now cowslips now bluebells now now the white sprinkled roads and the naughty weighted scented hawthorn heavy aired hedged about and field threaded and in the shades the holy blue the holy white the holy blood pink campion splatter and the enunciation of curly topped fern fingers finding licking tasting airy edge and warm soft soil and all and a round world edge a round world edge a round sun filled edge honey edged May in lanes and long low spiral lands and lolling loping hills folded around the fingers of the oak oh the old oak uplands upwards old and upwards the silence and psalms of spiral havens daylight to dusk to stars lit to keep off the cold cold space of silence somewhere else somewhere other rivers fall slowly down slowly drift and they will fall down too into their own rivers, these stars bright hiss finding their own surfaces, winding light just as if just as if and the adder’s ridge and the elder’s curve and the bones of morning in the warm beds of May and the mother humming and the vast, the vast the vast

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PSYCHE/BIOLOGY/GEOGRAPHY

Bone words articulate me.
I clothe myself with wonders,
taking to myself the wrappings
of delight. There are strange beings
with familiar names folded
into memories, the voices from
drowsy Sunday afternoons.
We have cast off from mystery
searching deeper cauldrons
to feed us and make us whole.
There was never one moment
when our insistent shadows
did not mimic us. Starlight,
moonlight and the silence
of hills, our rills and rivers
cannot abide, but must tumble
and roar like warriors into conflict.
The finest webs that have caught us,
giving us names and constraining us
we have overlooked. The whispered voice
upon our skin, a breath we abide within,
a quiver of light, a curl of
reflected brightness, the jingle
of harnesses
in an old
story.

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DHRUPAD 5 (bluebells)

Shimmers so
there,
unlikely unsky
sky,
woven down by green air
in the water washed wood
and the cherry sound
of chiffchaff chiffchaff,
chaffinch, twig twitter song.
Glory, glory, the deepest blue but not,
but violet but not,
but smudged heaven taste beyond eyes,
cell washed deep sound,
a sound even lying on it all,
lying across it all.
A sky blanket sun dipped.
Kingfisher blue, as if,
sudden flash blue, as if,
floating violet pink haze blue.
There
not there.
In passing flicker flicker from
a deep seen somewhere else,
from a silent safe mind springing up
with smiles.
Language unwrapped,
unfolded, spread open,
smoothed
there now, there now,
sun at last
sun at last,
sun, at last!
we shall push on push up
take colour become
come ring sound
and swing down singing
down the slopes,
a tumble bells sighing sound,
swaying dance a deeper dance,
down down the deeper sky,
sunless starless moonless,
a sea sky
footsteps
footsteps
the wooded
wooded
bluebell
way.

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