Posted in Uncategorized, tagged darkness, generation, goddess, in conjunctio, light, oak, Poetry, summer on May 15, 2014| Leave a Comment »
SUMMER’S TALE ( The Ancestral Speaks)
I have found an acorn, small and green.
Given my murmured breath,
Given it my own waters.
It has grown thick and strong
Arching to heaven.
I have planted it deep
In my warm darknesses.
Rooted, it quivers
Bursting forth white blossoms,
A dripping mistletoe,
A sacred thing.
Becoming worlds we,
Trees of life, twined,
Exhale and rest
On warm earth,
A sun-dappled ground.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ancestors, belonging, Earth, full moon, healing, macrocosm, memory, Poetry, ritual.shamanic, stine circles, time on May 15, 2014| 1 Comment »
1
We are, after all,
Nowhere other than here:
Held in the soil-stained hands
Of earth.
Held as a wish, a dream,
A joy, a grief.
Gone home to rest, to be cast,
To be moulded, kneaded.
To be on the cycle,
To be recycled,
To be returned,
To be cherished.
2
The dream was of the great circles, Stonehenge, Avebury. Their function, to stop people “falling through earth”. To set them back on the wheel in the right cycle, the right place.
Using the right quality of sound and space, the right length of rod, the self-healed, snake-strewn ground.
3
Drawn up awake
But dreaming.
Brought all to the rivers
By moon-faced reflection:
The one face.
Drawn out awake
Yet asleep, soul’s home
Bright revealed.
Pierced by blade and bleeding,
Held, not allowed to fall through,
We shall be returned, given life.
Turned, turned , the road become moonlight.
Flesh golden, stripped of burdens,
Certain ratio, a spell of line and curve,
Placed on the wheel,
A language of trajectories,
Forces multiplied and compensated,
An art of vectors, of prophecy,
A heft of distinctions.
Revived with tongue and breath,
A dance in footprints,
The learning of a song,
Its thousand thousand verses.
Its drummed rhythms
Its curses, its blessings.
Jewelled serpent:
Her back, the path of the sun.
Remember,
Those of you who know,
The bite, the sting, the knowing.
4
There shall be three:
The child, the man, the woman.
Eternal, bound, faceted.
In threes the remembrance.
In threes the curse.
In threes, the healing….
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged attention, book of hours, Haiku-ish, hours of the day and night, landscape, May, monastic, nature, offices of prayers, Poetry, prayer, Spring time, time on May 14, 2014| 4 Comments »
4
(Nones)
Swallows dancing
At the eaves:
An architecture
Of song.
Round worlds:
Nests take
The form of heaven
The form of earth.
Lined soft,
Down heartbeat,
Safe and sound.
—
6
(Compline)
A perfect moon
In a perfect sky:
Perfect hymn,
Perfect prayer.
All night
In dew-wet fields
Lambs call to their mothers,
Mothers to their lambs.
On shrouded paths:
Solomon’s seal,
Lily of the valley.
Simple grace.
—
The original Hours of Prayer were seven, but over time some combined together, like Matins and Lauds at sunrise, and some seem to have been dropped, or abbreviated, like the Vigils throughout the night. We are poorer for some freedoms. The rhythms and tides of quiet attention lock us into a humbler being within the world.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dawn, daylight, hours, landscape, May, morning, nature, Poetry on May 13, 2014| 1 Comment »
MINGLED
1
Matins
Mingled
A corded, thin delight
A wandered stream
Water and light
Water and light
The small bright hearts
Calling out daylight
Ached between clouds
The blue clouds
Pearl bright heaven.
2
Terce
It has grown now
Green and golden
Rounded as a cloud
Bright as butter
A light harvest
A sun feast.
3
Sext
A dappled day
A cowslip day
A buttercup day
A bowl of cream light
Hours blooming and dissolving
Sparkled with rain.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged DylanThomas, landscape, mimic, nature, Poetry, tribute, Wales, welter, words on May 6, 2014| 6 Comments »
I read a little Dylan Thomas last night. First time for a long time. “Under Milk Wood” is a true classic, but much of his other verse writing, I find a welter of words that quickly become too rich and dark for my stomach. But it is jazz. A complex, distressing barrage of improvisation that stuns the prissy levels of consciousness and lets the bardic, raw unconscious voice reel in delighted freedom of sound and association. A windful sky of darkness racing with occassional glimpse of translucent still starlight. So here I am, witless and broken backed…..
DYLAN
1
Son of the wave
A fluid tide jazz
Murmuration of starling words
Swinging drunk
Self-eloquent
Singing down evening lanes
The world exultant
The world squeezed
Tumbling in woven line
Dancing on tender, long toes
Sparkling.
2
My father’s mother, too, was a Thomas,
Small as a mouse with a shout and a bite
Who faded fast, turned white, drowned in herself,
Lost and homesick for something lost.
And I, maybe, now abraded down to
A Welsh road of rolling river words
Tied golden, chained to tongue
A dance for ears, mighty, joyous,
Cloud-wrenching, heart-bursting soliloquy.
3
A deliquescent, delightful urination
Of golden words.
A mushroom-minded mouthful
Of minced meanings.
A rhythmic tumble, a murder of crows,
A wild macaw of seagulled callings,
A taste of death, sweet and dusty.
So falling a sound, so rising,
A breathless gander, a meander,
A vast river of undone spun
Spick and span trodden sound.
A rush, a relief, a rocket acceleration
Of howling words
Through one bright mind.
4
O Dylan, a dilation
A look you here
A gone-to-bed-at-noon,
A fluster of seed heads
Blown in breezes,
The drunken, dizzy delight
And a slow, slow, solidifying
Concretion of the weight
And want of seconds,
Rapid, rapid, the going and the coming
Of sparrows, the flutter of days
Between spark and darkness
Of death worm dark.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birdsong, church, dawn, landscape, light, May, nature, pigeon, Poetry, song, Sound, sparrows, spring, sunday on May 4, 2014| Leave a Comment »
SERMON
From his pulpit
On the top-most branch
The wood pigeon’s
Sonorous sermon
Drones, resounding,
Slow around.
Beneath him,
Hidden in back-pew bush
Disrespectful sparrows,
In their Sunday best browns and bibs,
Chatter and play,
Impious, but loved,
Regardless
Of the Most High.
—
LIGHT
An instant before birdsong.
Time returns with increments of colour.
Light is all there is:
Light frozen, light expanding.
We orbit meaning, voiceless
In wonder,
Witnesses to glory.
—-
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged angels, art, Beltane, birds, dawn, digital art, landscape, light, mandala, may day, morning, nature, Poetry, print, spring, summer on May 1, 2014| 2 Comments »
BELTANE DAWN
1
A thin thread: birdsong squeezed through,
Floods open: light, blue and still.
Time dances, each moment
A coming and a going.
A sound of slow wingbeats,
A calling of mating angels.
Souls tumbling together
In the undergrowth.
The vapours of summer:
Arising smiles.
The song grows stronger:
A limitless uncurling,
A gesture of compassion,
A mudra of offering up.
2
Still pillows:
The grey cloud
Furled, uncurled
A world greened.
Two slow crows,
Shadows mated,
North by north-east
Over the dew wet fields,
Over the singing wood.
Light pushed in
From subtle edges.
A moment of flowers,
Blossomed exhalation.
She stretches in sleep,
A sudden perfume.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged alap, April morning, April showers, Bhairavi, birdsongart, blackbirds, England, Haiku, Haiku-ish, Indian music, jor alap, landscape, morning, music, nature, photograhy, Poetry, raag, rain, Sound on April 27, 2014| Leave a Comment »
HAIKU : ALAP AND JOR ALAP
Raag Bhairavi
Alap of blackbirds
Rain cooling breeze.
—
Liquid air
Alap of blackbirds
Wind tampura.
—
Cloud blooms blackbird’s song
New green sways dances
Welcome rains welcome breezes
Mind tongue tastes cool day
Touch settled on clear moments.
—
(Classical Indian music is arranged in developmental sections. First, is a slow alap where the notes of the scale (raga, raag) are explored in relation to the pakad or thematic melody of the piece. Next comes a jor alap, which is slightly more structured with a rhythmic percussive accompaniment on the chikari strings ( akin to strumming on the guitar combined with a lead melody picked out).
Raag Bhairavi is one of my favorites. I believe it is a morning raag, but has a rather haunting and melancholy pakad with a lovely descent of notes.)
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ancestors, ancestral bones, art, art history, celtic art, dreaming, druid art, iconography, Iron Age, listening to the voices, memory, pen and ink, Poetry, shamanic, shamanic dreaming, visions on April 27, 2014| 2 Comments »
SNAKE SPIRAL TORC
We slide spiraling
Ferociously nonchalant
Eyes on fire, laughing.
The tumble of sun on sun
The silk whisper, pale moonlight
Equations piled up,
The footprints marking time,
Precise dancers through space.
A knot upon hillsides,
A marching shadow in the valley.
Enchained to the motion,
Slave of raw power, sudden beauty.
This is our sign.
That we dance the dance
Between dusk and dawn
According to the paths before us.
A continuation of my sporadic project to re-introduce Iron Age Celtic imagery and world-view into the world art vocabulary and other grandiose schemes…..
—
simonhlilly 
Conversations with Invisible Friends 13
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ., art, comments, conciouosness, conversations, fragments, landscape, nature, Poetry on May 2, 2014| 4 Comments »
WINGS
Looking over the hills,
Low cloud,
Dusk after rain.
I would wish you
All wings,
My friends.
—
SOUND CHAMBER
This voice born from caves
This voice shaping emptiness
This voice, the flavour of silences.
—
CUP
This vessel of poetry
Always lucid, empty
Til held and warmed
By palms, tipped
Towards lips,
An exchange of breath..
—
TICK
There is no time
In the worlds of spirit,
Nor in the worlds of matter.
Only in the mind of Man
Does the click and tick
Of moments
Signify a neurotic cauldron
To oblivion or eternity.
—
HAVEN
This mind, timeless, anchored
Rocks, sways, on word tides.
Gull-wind senses roam and wheel
Searching food.
The patterns of love
And belonging
In rippled reflections.
Harboured, havened, home.
—
SLIGHT
Sweet violet
White and nodding,
Rising in damp westerlies.
Prophets with blazing heads roar by
Raving,
Not hearing, not caring.
—
SEMIOTICS
Nice, nice, nice!
(Triple nice denotes favour of the gods),
a vapour aromatic, bitter,
Rising from certain, approved of,
Sacrifice.
One who knows his place
And knows it might
Be nowhere particular,
Except the particularity
Of cloud chambers
And the silent
Expansion of a supernova
(Inexplicably given
Nomenclature
Of someone’ wife).
The only object
Is its name.
Three moving lines.
Hence the wise man
Remains silent
Watching the return
Of swallows.
No blame.
—
IN THE MACHINE
Love the depths!
What computers really dream,
what they say to each other,
not just oh and one,
but a cosmology of dark spaces,
exploding stars….
—
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