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Another star poem:

NIGHT PATTERNS

Looking tonight
It was a child’s game,
A peasant’s carpet.

Patterns of light
Stuck on the slow swing
Of the sky’s bowl.
Refusing to flee farther
Than over the rooftops,
Beyond the field.

Try as I might
They adhere to old
Cosmologies:
Telling stories,
Whispering names,
Herding seasons.

Yet
One spark from a star
Lodged fast in my soul.
A splinter of light,
Lost tombed in my eye.
Quick burin of night
Engraving my brain.

As I lie now
Echoes sift
The skull’s dome.

Suspended
From a million threads
I turn slowly, slowly,
About a still Pole
Whose name is mine.

————-

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Followed by another night poem:

NIGHT RAIN, SUMMER RAIN

Ripening moon
Warming breath

Through race of wind
Sharp scent of stars

Rain-grass taste
Blue supper

Black towers
On whistling wheels
Wing, scud
Trundle
Timewards.

With their first lick
Our Lady’s sides shiver

Embraced in shouts
She melts and fades

As night rains
So silk fish leap,
Flash and ripple
On the water’s face

But She swings
Like silver
Wings
Like silver bell
Around the dark dome

Rings
Sings
Shakes light
Sinks shrouded

———

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Followed by two poems of waking:

HUNG AS A HAWK

Hung
As a hawk
On the cross-beams
Of tick-tock

Spliced
By light
With the blackbird’s
River

A slim wedge
Pricks this
Bubble bright
All-swirl

The riddle orb
Cascades.

The shadow flock
Leave whispers:
Pool worlds
Flash and floating
High and dry

Leavings
Purchased with oceans-
This blanket demesne
Whose senses
Night’s scythe
Dismembered

Strewn grains
They sprout
Strong cauldron

Tinker tailor
Whets and sews
Resurrection

Nerve and sunbeam
Weld the spark
To Jolly Roger’s
Skull and bones

Ahoy!
The Last Trump!
The Seven Citied Isle!

The five floodgates
Open.

R.I.P
Drowned
In daylight.

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THE SHELL’S SONG

So long lost,
Save what is saved
For the brave wave’s winnowing.

Cast on the drift,
Drowned in the deep oh,
Drawn down in sleep,
Slip the fathoms,
The far fathoms fine.

Tumble slow in motion,
Heels over head,
And leave to care
The coves and caves,
The sloping sand
Losing time in tides:
Each beach that speaks
The long waves reach.

Breathe green for aye
The deeps
No eye
Has seen.

Sink in seven seas:
The eighth ocean
Where fishes kiss
These fingertips-
The slow shoals
Of sweet dream.

Where stars fish
The deep green dream of hue,
The skein of scale,
Glimmer shimmer of tail.

The sigh
And sough of sea
Within the shell’s siren ear.

Sigh and sough,
Sigh and sough.

Now
Fish the sea’s eye
And rise on tide’s wings.

The wind-washed world
Calls the length of leagues
To the seaweed tangle
Of your thought.

Bleached shell
Rolls a line to and fro
And rising,
Floating,
Sleep ebbs away.

Eyes closed:
The shingle sounds
Of day.

——–

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NIGHT PATTERNS

I had forgotten completely about this work, which I had worked on during an Artist’s Residency in Lincolnshire. It is one of several that I conceived. Only one ever got performed – too metaphysical for most Arts Council’s tastes, I expect.

Here they are presented on the theatre stage of your own mind, no need for tickets, no need for polite applause.

Not quite film, not quite poetry, not quite “Under Milk Wood” ! A sketchbook of a journey through a landscape……..

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Night Patterns – Fragments of a proposed performance.

These are the names they suffer.
Name and form.
Foam from the distance,
Light eaten by hungry eyes.
Light locked in the memory of cells,
That recall the first time
They grew from the glimmering dark.

[Followed by names and translations of constellations and stars whilst body outlines are transferred onto the floor]

The woman in chains
Sadalsud
The flying eagle
Thyterion
The sign
Heniochus
Nekkar
The hunting dogs
The scorching
Al kalb al mutakaddim
Gredi
Schedir
Caph
Cih
The serpent bitten
Mira Ceti
The pair of compasses
Zaurak
Rana
Beld
Enif
…….

“Whose eyes are these?
These cold eyes.
These flickering eyes.
What names are theirs?
In what designs do they fall?
These cold fires.
These flickering fires.

What are their names
And what are their designs?”

We know them by our own fires.
We name them from our own names.
We shape them to our own designs.

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‘Men and creatures were more alike then than now. Our fathers were black, like the caves they came from; their skins were cold and scaly like those of mud creatures; their eyes were goggled like the owl’s; their ears were like those of cave bats; their feet were webbed like those of walkers in wet and soft places; they had tails, long or short, as they were old or young. Men crouched as they walked, or crawled along on the ground like lizards. They feared to walk straight, but crawled as before time they had in their cave worlds, that they might not stumble or fall in the uncertain light……..”

(Zuni creation myth, New Mexico)

“Earth Doctor saw that when the sun and moon were not in the sky, all was in inky darkness. So he sang a magic song, and took some water into his mouth and blew it into the sky, in a spray, to make little stars. Then he took his magic crystal and broke it into pieces and threw them into the sky, to make the larger stars. Next he took his walking stick and placed ashes on the end of it. Then he drew it across the sky to form the Milky Way. So Earth Doctor made all the stars.”

(Pima peoples, Arizona)

A Persian munuscript of the 14th century: “The Book of Fixed Stars”, shows two versions of each constellation: one as seen from the Earth, and one as they would appear to someone looking down on them……..

“By their powers
They traversed the whole world,
Measuring the ancient divisions,
Unmeasured.
They restricted all existent beings
To their proper forms;
They distributed in many directions
Light amongst the people.”

(Rig Veda, Mandala X. 11. 14)

[Walking barefoot along a pathway or border of chalk powder: leaving black footprints. Then walking on to a black path, leaving white footprints.]

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Echoes in the skull’s dome
Sift and shape.
We dream at the cavern’s mouth
Still.
(In the deeps, the horned one chants).
Looking out
At flickering shadows,
Dumbstruck with thoughts
We cannot utter.

“Stroking the thighs of Night”

The border. The point between. Grey dawn.

It is late October in the hours before dawn
When the night is all corridors and roofless rooms.
When darkness is milky grey and moving with echoes.
When the wind in the dry leaves might be rain.
When the rain might be crackling flame.
When the whining of dogs might be the crying of children.
When the creatures with no shape move
Along the lines between spaces.

There is a figure in the centre sitting.
The arms extending, holding two rods
Down towards the ground.
There is a figure standing
On one leg between two poles.
There is a figure moving slowly
Along a marked-out path.
There is a tightrope walker.

The mariner’s card.
The flower of distance.
The astrolabe of thought.

Whence these movements of mind?
Walking the shore – neither land nor sea.
Waking nor dreaming.

To consider one possesses thoughts
Is erroneous.

The mariner’s card –
The hunt,
The transformation,
The accidental illumination.

“Not Quite and Only Just”

Waking before dawn, 24th October. The image of a seated figure, holding out as extensions of arms, two long white poles. The sound of the night – rain or wind on the dying leaves; the echoes of a dog or a person shouting…..

[Most movement will involve these two poles, which are the same height or taller, than the performer.
The tightrope.
A figure-of-eight, or a circle is walked, with one pole turning around the other. One stationary, one moving.]

From where do these images emerge?
Who thinks our thoughts?
Why have meaning attached to action?

Action free from explanation.

The line of thought. Ariandne’s thread. Bells, echoes, repeats, repeats. Siva and Ganesh. Time and Space. Doorways.
Justify actions with thoughts, reasons for actions. Categorize, plot, file.
A relationship of patterns.
One electron moving through all dimensions creating everything.
Walking a line on the shore between waking and dreaming.
Random thought or didactic progressions.
Terra incognita.
Fear of the dark, fear of empty spaces.
The filling in of names and dates.
The movements and positions are visual – mapmaking pins and string..

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I am trying to put sounds,
Words, to the movement.
Why?
Why not silence?
(Cage’s silence in his music – no silence).

Cause and effect.
To describe each action as it occurs.

“Where the moon is now?
At this moment.”

Cause and effect.

“I want you to watch as I watch.
I want you to watch
Because I cannot watch.
You think therefore I am.
You watch therefore I move.
The observer and the observed.
The thought, the act of thinking, the thinker….”

A pattern drawn out in the dust:
Memorised to allow passage through,
Despite the witch who continually tries
To erase it………

Bowls with mirrors and lights,
Skins broken reflecting on the face.
Narration of Cerridwen and Taliesin.
Transformation of thought,
The line of thought,
Awen.

Pouring torn paper, reflecting silver
Into bowls of light.
Ritual emptying and filling.
Long Man of Wilmington,
Surveyor,
Discriminator of Two Points.
Tracing the pattern, memory,
The way beyond the stagnant hills.
Uncovering,
The revealing of power,
The footprint,
The pattern.

“Not Quite and Only Just”

[A black background, white figures. Drapery. Covered and revealed. Pouring bowls. Spinning, shifting lights. From an empty space to a full space. Wheels. Movement of the spheres. Scientific facts. Mythological fact. Symbolic fact. Fictional fact.]

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Walking barefoot,
The pattern drawn in the dust.
Delineate, explain, comment….

The woman in chains,
The serpent bitten.

The exact position
Of the moon,
Right Now.

—————

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Balance Point ( songs for an equinox)

Fading words on fragile pages.
Autumn winds blew old, very old words into my mind again.
I think some of these pieces, which I wrote over thirty years ago, stand up well. But it is hard for me to tell.
They are like long-forgotten, well-thumbed photographs – difficult to look at objectively through the associated memories and emotions they evoke.

Still it is a nice thing to press them, like fallen leaves, between fresh white pages, letting them float across other’s sight for a moment or two……

——-
I

Corner of the Year.

(its voice is the essence of the crow – its name is its sound, it can be heard even when it cannot be seen….)

The crow’s call
Across the golden morning.

In my mind
Summer ends.

The fire
The leaf’s fall.
The fire
The world’s edge.
The fire.

It was the crow’s cry
Turned the sky
To autumn.

On the bridge
The corner of the year.
On the bridge
The salmon are leaping.
On the bridge
The fire has fallen.

The crow leans
Into distant blue.

I stand at my high place:
The battle of dawn.
Banner-black cloud pinion
Where cold light falters.

The old fire sinks
To the deeps beneath.

But deep
in the call
Of the dove
on my window

Is where summer
Has hidden.

———-

II

Mind. Moon. Circle.

(An offering for zen poet, Ryokan)

First,
Deep blue.
Then
The deepest of blues.

Silver
That lightens
And darkens
To shape and shadow.

From out of the woods
He steps in silence.
Standing still
With no thought.
Breathing the earth
Through his heels.

There is a closeness behind,
As of dreaming trees,
But it is the past
With no memory.

I was going to meet
Old man Ryokan,
Gazing together,
The glimmering cup of sake…..

One robe is the sky.
One bowl is the moon.

And perhaps
A word or two:
A haiku with the first line
“though we must part..”
Never finished out loud.

A white dancer,
A blue stage.

There is music
But no one watches.

Having forgotten themselves
Which is the moon?
Which is the lake?

Pale lips
The moment
Before speech.

No words.

There is silver.
There is deep blue,
And the deepest
Of blues.

There are no words
And no end.

——–

III

Corvus corone corone

( for those who love the freedom-loving crow)

Spooncrack
Across blue ether’s egg,
This black winged voice.

A rag of will
That pits the wind.
Bone and barb
To carry hunger’s beak,
Jangling
On the gibbett air.
Moulded sharp
Upon the squall.

Cinder of night
Strewn upon
Day’s garden.
Fall of ash
From star’s devouring.
Jester
With a cursing tongue.

What god is his
Whose bright eye hallows?
That marks the quick-drift,
Cross-tide of seasons?

What fist
That clenched the flux
Of elements,
Drove the spring
Tight bound
Around this heart?

Praise Him
Whose passion
Light exalts.
Him whose thought
Delights
In shadow.

———

IV

The Silent Centre, or: The Night’s Road

( this was written when I was working in a studio in rural Lincolnshire for a year. I was working a lot with stars, star names and patterns, the evocative stratigraphy of history and folklore…….)

The silent centre where the slow Pole turns
Winds and ravels in the breath of minutes.

From the root of the spine
To the branching sight
It pulls upwards an arc of thought
Spanning clear into the glimmerimg dark.

Long are the miles of Time.
Long the carts wheel that studded road.
Heel and toe the tongue considers
To mark each stepping place.

Mirae, Arcturus, Menkar, Rigel
Deneb, Vega, Scheat, Enif.

We need and must go
To the edge of the wind’s roaring.
We need and must go
To the shore where all seas still.
We need and must meet
The house at the road’s crossing,
And rest not but pass on.

Long is the road,
The road that the stars look upon.
And it is a fragile holding:
The hold of name and number.
If ever we should forget, oh
If ever we should forget the stepping place,
And careless let slip the line of sight,
Careless let fall the weight of thought
And the heart’s salt tide
Not rule the night.

Then whence and where would lose the circuit’s end.
Lost one by one, the wheels should cease,
And lost, the lights would dim and shiver.
The names of Man, the Spirit measure
Would curl and grey
Forbidding dawn forever.

But where eyes turn
The name shall find them,
And footsteps trace
And tracks recover.
Where edge meets edge
The hope discloses
The constant spark
Forbidding night forever.

We need and must go
To the edge of the wind’s roaring.
We need and must go
To the shore where all seas still.
We need and must meet
The house at the road’s crossing
And rest not but pass on.

Mirae, Arcturus, Menkar, Rigel
Deneb, Vega, Scheat, Enif.

———–

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Fires within the world – summer’s ending.

I

Bank the fires
Hum the lullabye
End the world’s work
Weave a breath of dream.
Tree shadows on the wall
Watching the flicker of eyelids.
Who is awake?
Who is dreaming?

————

II

The fast, turning wheel
Of the northern year:
warm honey summer air
Sunk now
Deep within the nested chambers
Of swelling berries.

Still
Golden days.
But more insistent now:
The filigree of stars
That thin the silence.

Shadows lengthen,
Edges turn pale:
Fragile are the hours,
Well-wrought
The gathering in.

The sutras of Time:
A balm,
Most beautiful elegy.

Never weep
The drained cup:
The wheel of the year
Is the beat
Of your heart.

——-

III

No moon
This Lammas Eve,
But all along the path:
Bindweed,
Yarrow
And silver mugwort.

——-

IV

( upon the increased beuracratisation of personal choice, living, breathing, eating, dying, thinking, choosing……)

A drift of angels:
All smiles,
Cudgels behind their backs.
“Do what we say –
message from an Almighty –
or creation will crack.”

Thugs of theocracy,
Regulators of vocabulary,
Rhetoric of righteousness,
Statistics of placation:

A bad smell
Rebranded.

Hoodwinked,
The viral notions
Quietly take charge –

We succumb to apathy,
A belief in benificent power.

“This is all for your own good,
Protection
you cannot afford to ignore,
Advice
You will be ill-advised to question…..”

———–

V

(upon a sudden plague of idiots with circular stupidity…)

And I shall not smile
To keep you merry-
You who go round
In the same ruts endlessly,
Congratulating yourselves
For the new views,
The progress made.

Deeper and deeper
In muddy mire,
With tawdry mawkish ballads –
Hymns to mediocrity,
Platitudes that destroy
The truth of language…..

——–

VI

“Blessed be.”

All summer
I have been dreaming –
Up to no good,
Saving up time.

An ocean of words
Ebbing and flo-ing
Just beyond reach.
A roar of voices,
A hiss of whispers.

Dabbling my fingers
In shallow, warm waters,
Bemused by sunlight,
Waiting for a signal,
A start,
A point to begin.

Upon a lake
That is not a lake
There is a boat
That is not a boat.

Not doing,
But being.

———–

VII

Fragile:

If you try
To grasp reality
It is crushed
Beyond recognition.

Just wait
With hand outstretched
And beauty
Will alight,
For no reason –
Only because
it can.

——–

VIII

The spice of death
Is on the air:
Reddening brambles,
Crisping, fading bracken.

Edges turn brittle.

Earth and grasses turn damp.
Damp seeps
Into the bones of things,
Like darkness
Eating the edges of daylight….

————

IX

And then,

One calm,

Blue

Evening

We realise:

The swallows

Have all gone!

Silence descends

With the blossoming

Of autumn stars.

————-

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Here are some flashing, slippery shoals of words trawled from scrawled diaries. They come from the same period, around 2007, but are in my mind as we have just returned from a teaching trip to Japan. The world has moved on: media feeding on juicier, more ephemeral pastures, people tired of the same terror, the same politics. But there, they live with invisible threats of death, unknown forces foisted, though accepted, by those whose microscopic arrogance allows the possibility of endless rot to infest all future histories. Plutonium is not an “acceptible risk”…….

Spells are songs that sink below the surface to the deepest tides of Mind. If nothing else they bring strength and succour. The only thing we may possibly, ultimately control is our own orientation, our own perspective. Hope is a self-replicating energy. Language is its vehicle. Please use these words if you need to raise your energy integrity.

As usual, most of the charms and spells flow from the English and British traditions of pagan Celt and Anglo-Saxon. They flow from the bardic perception of the weaving of words is equivalent to the weaving of worlds. Resonance that leaps off one tongue into listening, nodding minds. Resonant because it carries the echoes of numberless generations of ancestors and forebears….

MELTING OF OBSTACLES

I

Listen the way is
Cold. It burns, in
darkness, the treasure
Hid in secret.

Advice to act according
To Nature’s law.
Revealed to memory,
Secrets.

Ask the way.
The unexpected
Can be seen, treasure
Revealed.

Hold steady,
Courage
Will bring completion.

Words (spells) and actions
Break down rigidities.
Fire brings light
To see what is yours (true treasure)
Can be uncovered.

II

Thorn to throne:
What hinders hides.
Hard turns haven, harbour,
Well-woven, wrought right.
The road ready,
Naught stays,
Sleek, slender, slides safely.

Before stands day’s door:
A way.
Sunlight’s splendour,
Storm’s silence.

Giant becomes stone
Stone becomes ice
Ice melts to water
Water sinks to earth
Seed stirs strong
Green shoot of life.

Snake sloughs skin.
River of sunlight:
Golden road
Glory road.
Sun’s shaft
Breaks cloud.

SHIELD

Song called shield.
Three times cast,
Three times it falls short:
No way through.
The song called shield
Is strong as rock,
Strong as air,
Strong as water,
Strong as fire,
Will not break
Will not shatter.
Shielding safe:
Strong shelter
Breath of life,
Never faltering.
Blood of life,
Never stilling.
Heart of life,
Never stilling.
Heart of life,
Strong and safe.
Singing the song called shield.
The earth is my witness,
Never shall it fail.

————

STAR PROTECTORS

From here our souls reach out
From here our spirits reach out
From here our hands reach out
From here our voices reach out.
We are the star protectors
Present within the smallest dust of life,
In the moment of dissolution,
In the second of creation,
In the breath between breathing
Regardless of time
Regardless of space
The well of light
Sustains all
Look up
Look in
Look out
Insistent dwellers of forever,
From here we begin.

——–

CHARM FOR IMMANENCE

Words
No words
Thoughts
No thoughts
Breathing in
Breathing out.
Stars, songs,
Memories, feelings.
Not choosing
But life flows through me.
Not choosing
But power flows through me.
Not choosing
I am sustained.
Not choosing
But all dissonances
Fall away.
Not choosing
But falling into harmony.
Not choosing
Not moving
Not deciding
Not thinking
Not speaking.
Breathing time,
Breathing light,
Breathing stars.

——-

NOVEMBER SONG

Sky is blind eyes
Earth is cold bones
Night birds
Night birds
Cold wind crumples leaves.

——-

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Buried for thousands of years, poisonous suns below the ground. What logic determines the acceptibility of detritus that will kill generations and remain longer than even the memory of all our past civilisations? What arrogant genes have promulgated, what insouciance in the face of such terrible stupidity? No wonder the sages shrugged and remained silent, no wonder Lailokan and Merlin raved in the forests – what is learned at great cost ignored, what is gained forgotten or ridiculed.

Apologies for another bardic rant. Out of the news, out of mind, the people of Japan again silently suffering from the arrogant stupidity of “experts”. The tsunami of radiation will not retreat like the wave of water; it will not stop at national boundaries; it will not dissappear in a little while; it will not get better; it is a breath that carries everywhere, that keeps on as close to forever as we cqn conceive. (There is some hope on the fringes of science for remedies, unexplained, ridiculed, misunderstood ideas and technolgies: the ghosts of Tesla and Brown screaming unheard from the unfashionable beyond). I do not give up hope for viable solutions, but it is hard to imagine the tsunami of motivation needed to shift the vast inertia generated by a handful of complacent super-rich who seem to have their hands down the knickers of our ‘leaders’. THis satire is for them…..

Dance of Death
Danse macabre…
woodblock print, wordless,
unerring.

Breugal, Durer, Gya,
Marvell, Donne, Tallis, Byrd,
dear sad Dowland,
the generations of
beauty borne from the midden –

As ever,
the food of the world,
the forgotten,
lost in dirt, unnoticed.

A curl of boxwood
by the sharp burin made.
Passion and despair
carved, the only posterity
in ink and paper
as flesh fals off the bone
in the oven of years,
stripped of all softness
of all flesh.
Yet the heart of compassion remains –
a bitter laugh sweetened with tears
for the lost forever.

Here a bishop led by the nose,
bony fingers clack,
a castenet of dry laughter,
a leer of inevitability

Here a velvet lady,
snake-wrapped, bone-hard lover,
breathless, heartless,
gropes.
She, dreaming,
distant,
oblivious of inevitability,
of immanence…..

The same old justifications:
sharp swords and blunt logic…..

Marching locusts of the willing destroyers,
who have all been
promised forgiveness,
promised righteousness,
promised guiltless sin,
guileless depravity –
absolved of responsibility
by the eloquent poisoners,
the insane rhetoriticians
of respectability and honour….

Even the gods weary and die
after a thousand,
hundred thousand years…..

Earthquakes are no problem:
a shift of balance,
of perspective.
They come and they go,
readjustment, normal death.

Tsunami are no problem:
they come and go,
a breath in and a breath out,
sweeping clean a thousand memories,
leaving a tideline of grief.
Readjustment, normal death.

But now we, disbelieving in spirit,
disbelieve the power of the invisible:
our arguments faultless,
our safety margins appropriate,
our risks accaptible,
our doom inevitable…..

Setting a sun to burn for centuries
within the earth,
destroying universes to keep us warm.
Like gods, burning their children,
their children’s children,
warming their toes
on the withered hopes of the future.

Endless momento mori,
unasked for:
Suns of dying universes,
heavy as the depths of space –
heavier even,
a stain of arrogance
buried like a bone
“out of sight…”

A satire I place on the heads
of our stupid torturers,
dying gods
attempting to swamp
the sweet smell of rot
with attar and excuses…..

A satire I place on the eyes
of the shifty power-mongers,
the ones who forever
eat their offspring,
ignore the warnings,
doubt-free and glorious.
Dying gods
who believe it is all worthwhile,
a rosy future
no payment required
free credit…..

GAR.
I throw the spear of Odin
over your heads.
You are his.
Forever the fodder
of One Eye.
Sacrificed
manure,
food to all the jealous gods
who squabble
and rip the fabric of peace.
May his ravens,
ravening jaws of his wolves,
find your human heart
naked and open to the
laughter of the universe,
stripped of equations,
purged of clinical excellences,
the formulae of the demons of despair,
blown to dust,
the dust expunged of millenia of excuses,
naked, peerless, radiant, original.

A satire of the thunder of reality
I place on your tongue.
My bleached bones
and the fine white bleached bones
of our descendants, the white
soft, small skulls of our children,
the clacking bones, the tender bones-
they are my witness
they are my justification.
Eternal, adamantine bones,
invincible, patient,
relentless…….

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April notes

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April notes.

I

Leaves,

Tongues,

Unfurl to taste

The spring air.

A thousand dialects of green

Singing in the sunlight,

Floating on the breeze.

Whispering,

Rising,

Rustling.

II

Summer settles in.
Hedgerows all green at last:
Elm and ash awake, unfurl.

The first, fierce flash of flowering
Subdued and melted,
Satisfied and seeded;
Dandelions exhale upon
The warmed air.

Skylarks dissolve
Into the high blue,
Swallows sift
The thickening air.

Days
Expand and relax,
Warmth radiates
Into the evenings.

Spring saunters away,
Humming,
Stopping to smell
The blossoms of May –
Creamy tide of spice,
Her footsteps
Fast covered
And
Fading.

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Well,
I just started to put down a few ideas that have been floating around for a day or two and this came out! Its not supposed to be anything than a stream of notions and a seasoning of spleen.

A rant I suppose against the self-congratulatory busybody know -it- alls who have always plagued mankind with their cleverness.

A good argument is like a good wine – it doesn’t last for long before it begins to go off. Eloquence is not a sign of wisdom – its just a melody with a catchy tune that sticks in the brains of the listener. Wise words only indicate where wisdom once settled, not where it now dwells. History is the evolutionary struggle of stories. The past tells us what is going to happen next (again!). Language does constrain how the world is seen and understood……

Pythagoras and Empedocles were riddlers and poets, regarded as political and military assets, terrorists and subvertors of the State, depending on who was paying their bills at the time……

As soon as we learned to put our memories down on paper we began to forget the true tales of who we were and where we came from. Now we are relying on an invisible spirit world of waves and photons to keep all our memories and identities what shall we be in danger of losing?…..

Muttering like Issa, wandering like Wang Wei, Ranting like Blake… A roar of white noise…..A memorable fancy…

Demons of gravity, angels of disease.
The invisible
The unseen
As the hidden worlds of spirit.

A spell is
A song
With intention,
A formula for chemical
Reaction.

It pulls the invisible worlds
Of sound
Image and meaning,
Ciphers for understanding,
Weaving them
To urgent eloquence.

A new faith invents
A new vocabulary
Of damnation.

Truths become lies,
Angels become devils,
Natural becomes blasphemous.

In the construction of Christ-
Saviour of the Empire,
Slayer for Peace
(the peace of bureaucrats),
music and dance died.

To define the new as new,
The old is damned.

Song, dance, smiling, drumbeat –
The offering of exuberant energy
As a sacrifice to feed life,
Becomes anathema.
There can be no more priestesses
Wild with drums and wine and rattles
No more pipes in the fields,
No more whispered prayers
To the herbs of healing.

Authorised, sanitised, regulated
Prescribed,
This is now
That,

Now we have found it:
The one formula
Of existence,
The equation of righteous power,
The excuse we have been looking for
To topple the walls
To break the chains
And reforge them in
A bright- edged delineation
Of certainty.
A sanitary prison.

Such was ever the past,
Ever the present,
Ever the future.
The invisible spirit
Resolves under machines
Of magnification-
No more than worms
And waves,
Fields and flux,
Sparks and shadows.

Because the language of mathematics
Can be demonstrated at every level
Of Creation,
The Universe is based on
Mathematical structures. All simply
Equations, no need for souls,
No need for mystery.

yeah! Right!
Can anyone spot
An error of logic here?
When will the fierce laughs
Of ridicule wake these
Small creatures….

The arrogant fantasists
Dwelling in the temples
Of nuclear power,
The myopic academic
Backslappers,
Patronising intellects,
Waspish with jargon.
Doctors of dust and death:

Your stories are the stories
Of the old priests
New-dressed in pious fashion
For the amnesiac, somnolescent
Herd.

Your pronouncements:
Equal to the ravings
Of acid-tongued
Loathers of life,
Chastisers,
Dust mouthed prophets,
Desert thugs of dogma…….

Ancestral bacteria
Dwelling nonchalently
Along with us still.
Unconcerned
With our new definition,
With pushed boundaries,
With enlightened approaches,
With educated guesses.

Warming their hands,
Blooming, flowering
A cultured approach to living.

And beyond them
Their own ghosts,
Wisps of virus,
Memory of hunger,
Longing to remain.

Beyond them,
Small whispers of death,
Prions
Insistent angel messengers….

The old sages,
Disruputable, shaggy browed,
Retired civil-servants,
Disgusted, tired, exasperated,
Leaving the towns
For the silent mountains-
They saw
The return of the swallows,
The lascivious tongues
Gulping in green light on
Every branch,

Ten thousand things
Collapsing to dust
And reforming on the
Warm breezes of Spring.

They spoke in riddles
In song
In poetry
In the truth of paradox,
In the light, sparkle-eyed humour
Of the clear souled.

There was a beginning
There was a beginning of a beginning
There was an anteriority
Of the beginning before the beginning.
There was an anteriority
Before that anteriority……

This is not a new song
This is not a new song
This is not a new song.

This is an old song
With new words
And a new tune.

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This is not haiku

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THIS IS NOT HAIKU

I saw a post about a haiku competition, wasn’t particularly interested ( mainly because the example they gave I thought was flaccid and rather cliched). But then all last night……..

For those who don’t recall, haiku is a form of short poem from Japan that has a normal form of three lines of 5, then 7, then 5 syllables. There are many rules and elements, which make haiku much more difficult than they would appear in translation (and why foreigners who try to write ‘haiku’ are treated to rather blank, but polite, stares!).

I have always been very fond of this form of poetry and will be waxing endlessly, but hopefully lyrically, on accompanying PAGES for those with the spare time to peruse….. (see: “This is not haiku- extended version”)

I

Counting syllables –
Not a good way to find sleep.
Haiku for Japan.

II

Haiku for Japan?
Falling onto pristine snow
One drop of red blood.

III

Still they make a sound:
Each tree in the cold forest,
Falling unnoticed.

IV

Faces of the dead
Crying in the deep mountains.
Drifts of white cherry.

V

How long shall they stay –
Footprints in the drying mud,
Now that you are gone?

VI

They are not haiku,
So carefully wrapped with skill –
These are our sorrows.

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Yew notes

If you are drowning in the depths of winter, if you find the dark days dismal, if you are wearied by the woes of the world, if you find that you have lost your direction, lost your spark – then place yourself next to the banked-up fire of the yew tree spirit. Its constant energy and life- force will warm you through and help restore your core strengths and inspir new growth.
Yew is the oldest of trees, eternal, ever-living, vibrant wirh dragon-life, a great restorer and a great healer. Anchor you energies in the eternal silence of the yew tree and learn to sing again.

” I am Yew
Slow breath of Eternity
Joyful and profound

I am Yew
Well of Time
Source of Life.”

SONG OF THE YEW TEACHER

This is the song
Of the Yew Teacher,
The spiral snake,
The dragon healer.
Strong song and silent teacher.

Before the dawn
Before the first day
I knew the sun’s name
As it called me forth.

Pollen
Heavy,yellow
On the wind.

Red apple,
Sweet heart of death.

Green tongues and
life-blood fire.

Patient roaring,
Passion turning:

“come not with your mind
Nor your chatter.
Drown in me
Die in me
Join the centre:

The hub, the wheel,
The word,
The laughter.
The fire inside,
Concealed, concealing.

Wood and weather,
Warm and winter.

In my shadow,
Dance,
Dissolve.”

Past the sitting one who sees
Past the root into the chamber
Where the watchers weave and gather
Where the dragon’s breath is potent
Where the silver wheel is woven
Where the time is marked and measured
Where the space is held and hallowed

Where the land is named
And numbered.

” I am fire
And I am water.

I am earth
And I am ether”

This is the heart of Time,
The heart of matter,

The drum of centuries
The door
The silence…..

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