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Posts Tagged ‘roads’

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ROAD TO MAESMYNIS

These roads
Climbing back through time,
The golden oaks shading golden valleys
And a luminous cold blue in the cold sky.

Hard frost first thing, has gone.
The air lifts above freezing for a while.
In scattered farms the dogs bark as we pass.
The ruined church roofed in yew and box.

It will go nowhere, but end at a gate,
It will give the same view as memory does,
Changing things depending on what catches the eye.
This road says come and go, come but go.

And the sheep in the woods chew and stare.
Not far from the town, but slipped in time,
It curls and narrows, gives views and withholds views.

It remains in the passing sunlight of the mind,
Becoming something else: a map, a philosophy,
A litany of older names, the past holding steady,
Clothing memories in new skin.

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From our door
The river we see
Is named ‘river’.
The mountain on the horizon
Is ‘mountain’.
But the woods,
The woods,
Are named from whispers,
And the farms
From grief and joy.

Belonging
Is not a gift
Nor a right.
It lives in an open heart
Free from reasons
And excuses.

The old stag oak
Now wears a crown of gold,
The ash and alder wear
Empty sky.

All roads arrow straight,
But for their bends.
All hills are green
From a certain distance.

The rivers run full
After a night’s rain
And the sun is stretched
And etched with rainbows.

There is not a promise
That it cannot be forgotten.
There is not a day
That cannot be glorious.

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Fragments from a Long Road

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In the blue shadows:
White bindweed moons.
Indescribable fragrance,
This August, summer air.

How the hills
Swell with rain,
Rise pale and loiter
At the edge of sight.

Chicory, wide-eyed
by the roadside,
Ragged blue
as the windy sky.

Even through these warm still days,
The scot’s pines, ever singing
Of storms and roaring seas.

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KEY SIX
(Sheaval, Barra)

To bring us home safe
She waits upon the hillside.
To bring us home safe –
Old roads straight worn
From loch to lochan.

The cry of seagulls
From the land
Lost in mists.

Bell.
Chalice.
Cloud.
Watcher.

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Four pieces from early this morning, ancestral mutters: sky crowns and words from the Anglo-Saxon.

SIGNIFICATOR

The whispers of the stars of dawn,
Rooted in deep paths, seated mind.
Mind that seeks names only,
Seeks genealogies, plumbs down fathoms,
The pitch of rightness.
To themselves they whisper,
Remembering the weave and twist of gold,
The movers in the shadows,
The movers of twilight,
The flickering torchlight,
The muffled, shuffled feet of steady procession,
Of circular dance taking up positions,
Constellations of mirrored geometries
Winding up time before babes yawn,
Before the aches of morning stretch and sigh.
Before the biting cold, the stirring of embered dawn.
Before has passed.
Before has misted away.
The whispered eloquence of now,
A tranquil moment turned and knotted,
A place remembered on a silent road:
Signpost, crossed paths, significator.

—-

FIRE PRAYER

I kneel, cold water,
Before the fire to kindle,
A prayer for light and warmth:
Cold water, flying cloud.
For spark and roaring:
Cold wave, cold tide.
For return of belonging,
For reason to remain.

—-

WANDERER

The lament of the dispossessed –
The long diminishing curlew.
The urgent, soft cries of lovers –
Wild geese, wild geese.
The road is a way but not a home.
The footsteps of others, small consolation
When they have vanished to the horizon,
Gone on before, singing the old song.
Cloud-cloaked wanderer tasting salt.
His children, weighed metre,
The lilt of left and right.

ACHE

Raked by claws
(This wolf cold).
Blood stain tumbling
Clear watered pools:
These clouds of squall
In dawn skies.
World’s ribs sigh
And shiver –
The ache
Of onwards.

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CHÖD

There is no artifice to the morning,
No allegory, no metaphor.
It is a clear road, known,
Never before travelled:
A cold wind streams from the North,
A dissolving moon sliding slowly down.
My purpose for existing,
Maybe only to be a friend
Of this little cat (future Buddha)
And to offer comfort where I can,
Watching the light grow and spread.

A flood of fast despair boiling tragically,
The collapse of possibilities, the revealing of wounds.
A world that is not enough, cast away.
The wonderful gods we have chosen,
Radiant with omnipotence, turn out to be
Exaggerated parodies of our own neuroses,
Given all power and now driving sanctioned insanities,
Mitigating circumstances for all atrocities,
All excuses sinless and shining.

In a high field the ice winds
Flow around a young girl dancing,
Naked, spinning a drum.
She has no possession, nothing of value
That she has not given away.
Her breath, her flesh, her voice, given away,
Her dance, to feed the ever hungry,
To clothe the ever despairing,
The hungry ghosts and tragic gods,
The parasitic demons, the lost children,
The bright feathered ones.

Within a vessel of silence,
With words of silence,
With melodies of silence,
She gives it all away
Until she has everything and nothing.

Drum like a heart at the heart of reasons,
At the heart of reasons not to,
At the heart of simply no other options,
At the heart of no choice.
Giving it all away.
All the language, all the fabulations.
Here,
This is yours, this is yours,
Feed and be satisfied.

There are no paths here to this field,
Nor are there any roads that lead away.
A road is an excuse not to stay where you are.
No future has ever been laid down by a road:
They simply return us
To where we have already trodden –
Debris of an old campfire, burnt cans,
Strewn plastic, shredded in tatters on black branches,
Whiff of ordure and wet ashes.

Do not follow the ones that say follow,
The bright parasites, shining destroyers of choice.
Pioneers of novel disaster, slaves to habit,
Recycled, irrefutible logics.
Step off the road, just step off the road.
If it is a new destination you seek,
Step off the road.
Return to the silent grasses, wordless whispers,
Mycelial clusters of small symbiosis
That feed the hungry ghosts
The roots and white fingers of dirt and dark.
Step off the bright road
That heads for war,
The bright road to a bright future.
Step off, sink down, be silent.
Refuse to be moved by impatient passions,
Goaded by entrepreneurs of stolen honesty.
Give away all the excuses that tell the reason why not,
Feed them to the subtle beasts.
Open to the cold north air, itself of itself.

A hollow, ringing emptiness:
Words that are of less value
Than last autumn’s torn, sliding, burnt brown leaves.
Heard only by those already listening,
Maps to those already on that path,
Validation of shared insanities.
Chanted the chanted spells,
To wake the world with word and song.

I shall sink to silence,
Sink to silence
Where the spinning drum
Calls the hungry demons,
Who, satisfied will turn flakes of laughter,
Sink to earth and dissolve.
A word to silence,
A thought to breath,
A soul to the winds,
The cold north winds.

Chöd is the Tibetan Buddhist/Bon practice of offering oneself as sustenance to all beings, a stripping away of owned existence, owned energy, owned thoughts, owned beliefs. This piece emerged from a pre-dawn slushing of phrases and ideas. It started as one thing but changed in the focusing upon it to something else. Machig Labdron is a popular figure, portrayed as a naked young woman with long, flowing hair, chöd drum in hand, dancing. She was an influential yogini.

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