Posts Tagged ‘polarity’

Viscum album (mistletoe)

From the druid vision it creeps through neural caverns back to the arc of ancestral voices

In the dark lodge of backbrain, the spine tree, which, from there the roots of the tongue,

Fire it forwards boiled by breath in the cauldron of the mouth.

It emerges complete, an ejected god-form brilliantly swathed, a gold-pinned cloak.

A body of light this beast has become, from wild to wise, from wrathful to illumined.


From whence do we grow?

Not from the left leaf, nor the right leaf, but from the point in between.

We grow from the dividing point, from neither and from nor,

Balanced and hefted the spear of green life thrusts deep into the dark secret of the world

And becomes born.


So thus, mould the dark to ferment the light.

The dark muscle fires the star blood.

The poison well, the poison cauldron,

That is the only place to distil wisdom.

As the youth ejaculates deep into the warm folded love of his girl,

As the tongue searches each grunt and scream for music and rhyme,

The light will not come forth because it has goodness.

It must have fuel to burn: some dark slick greasy remains,

The blubber and wrack of melted lives,

The dancing skeleton god breaking bones and sucking marrow.


He is not a druid who knows not this.

He is not a man of skill who does not refine the ore of remembering,

Who does not balance the two ways and find the third and only way

Through pain and despair to a steady roaring bright flame of light.

This is the third and last piece based on the image below, which is from a Celtic coin. The words were explorations to find meaning for the strange and powerful imagery. In this part, the resemblance of the motif coming out of the mouth to those that appear in other coin designs suggest it might be a form of mistletoe, or at least, the sacred tree of which mistletoe might be an archetype.

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Rock throat

slaked sung.

Water song

white til

mirror still.

River light licks

slick grey rock.

Cotton grass

nods spun

iron red pools

Raven crags,

stern chapels,

catch last light,

song sent

down cools

river throat,

Spin then

whorled, a thread

white song.

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(two ghosts in blue mirror).

a spontaneity of words by Simon Lilly and Jessica Ryan. This began when I commented on a picture Jessica published alongside her blog just before Christmas. http://soveryvery.wordpress.com.
It turned out quite nicely, I think, so here it is:

That image is what?
Ordinary, unspectacular, mute,
but made something perfect
by colour,detail and the art of looking.
Ambience Radiating Truth,
a little art.

The light, the air,
the moment.
A conspiracy for
rather than against me.
Maybe art is just that –
a conspiracy for.

A pattern infiltrated
and worn upon oneself,
a brief belonging.

All too brief.
And we gasp.
And we grasp after
the flickering perfection
of the pattern, seen.

Seen is eaten by heart,
head not withstood
(though best ignored
or humoured with thin smiles).
Seen is been seen,
marked by all, included, amongst.
We are twill, tweed, embroidered,
embroiled regardless of high or low regard.
Our guard is dropped,
melting into the passionless is.

Seen and consumed,
heart’s regard (less more high low)
is consummated.
Our guard,
an empty collection of warp and weft,
never understood the story of orange and blue.

A tunnelling path
carved through flickering time,
framed roads, named, unnamed,
tasted with hesitant tongue, delighted ear.
Pulsed, a walking rhythm,
a posy of moments, empty and full.
Shall we walk together down the long evenings,
birdsong and laughter,
or fear the empty bridge,
the shallowed gold pit?

A pocket full.
Ignore the hard edges
pretending the end.
The pellucid vibrancy spills out,
centers the path tickling the birdsong’s laugh
off of our tongues.
And so we shall.
What else to do with bursting moments
but walk the gloaming?

The gloomy gloaming
of the joker tomb.
Mock serious and smirking.
It cannot hold a moment longer,
bursting with radiate light.
We can afford generosity,
shedding skins, attaining orbits.
Starlit, wandering,
trying out new names with new lips,
forgetting, laughing at footprints:
leaf litter on an autumn path.

Lost once, lost twice,
a cliff of thought,
a tunnelled, mysterious evening.
Mapled flutter,
mapled collapse, mapled incense.
Hesitant even,
hastened steps, a whispered wind,
a small bowl of sorrow,
a small bowl of delight.

I’ve dreamed of a third bowl,
wobbling on its edge.

Its sound is round,
debating gravity and stillness.
A heart or notion, a simple holding,
a significator, the dreamer mirrored dream,
a season, a map, a world of half light and half dark,
a long whispered vowel.

A calling between consonants.
Aggravating the spin,
hand to hand among the maple trim.
The cartography of my heart,
studied in your grin,
the sugar portending a notion of splendor
made dormant.
The punctuation pauses,
cupped, before the sound begins.

A sweet sound.
A sweet silence.
That path between, slyly negotiated:
a low sigh.

The rustle of the blood’s report.
The mirrored blush shies cheek
and dropping leaf.
Is this the place
where it all starts?

polarity door2

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Shortest of days
Exquisite punctuation.

The golden egg
Hatching new time.

Birth-waters reflect still,
Cold blue skies.

Mist in the mountains,
Mist in the valleys.

Those that can,

All others expire,

Returning from the edges
To the centre.




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Flakes of falling flame, fragments, figments….


I shall walk in the cool green morning
A roof of grey light and white horizons
Amongst the skylark’s and the blackbird’s song
Unfettered, unrequired, unopposed, unnoticed.
The deep throb of honey bees,
The pointed tang of balsam poplar,
Each blade of grass, a cloak of life.
Silent moist, echoing air
Vaporous bliss,
Honey-tongued May.


My mind-
Slow shifting greys,
Pearlescent light.

My tongue-
A flame of green leaf
Tasting filtered sunlight.

My heart-
Ullulating balm,
The blackbird’s river.

As it is.


Always though,

The night of pain,
Biting, back-brain
Sting of writhing pain.

Somewhere though,

The acid smell of cordite,
The skin prickle of rage,
The leaden drunkenness of hatred.

And somewhere,

Proud innocents,
We offer
A gift for Krishna,
A gift for Allah –
A scattering of plutonium:

Our gift
To the Universe.


The Old Man,
Rocking from side to side
On his ox cart,
Leaves from the Western Gate.

This time,
No-one notices……


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