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Posts Tagged ‘seasons’

CUCKOOS

Cuckoos in the woods by Llwyngweision

Where the bluebells are almost, almost.

And curlews have been heard again by Cefngast.

The world teeters on the brink of this and that,

As it has always been.

A moment of sunlight,

A morning of rain.

The blackcap and the blackbird,

Their music amongst the pines and gravestones,

Recalling, recalling, forgetting, forgetting.

Annabelle is to open up the chapel

For one who searches names of a lost family.

Sunlight will warm the dust there,

The chill bones of God smiling at the sound of voices.

She knows the names and stories

Of a hundred years, almost.

When she is gone it will all be scattered in the winds, most likely,

And fall in flakes like the carved names of holy ground,

Illegible and smudged in pools of slow pale lichen.

The past scooped out and swept away –

The grinning smooth rocks when the rivers here lies low

In their dark green scars.

Hold it all lightly, then.

The mornings come and go.

A squabble of sparrows,

One slow bee meanders under the windowsill.

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MAY MORNING ROAD

I shall set before me this road,

Laid out across the misty cool morning.

I shall set it to wander between

What I know and what the world knows.

The light that pushes through the stretched hopes

Stretches green and upwards

Where the clouds melt and thin

To impossible blue.

I shall tie this road here

And let it wander between it all.

Gods would fight an eternity to be here.

They would gather murmuring like bees

To be fed on this transient translucence.

It moves lightly, this road, with nowhere to go.

It revolves around its own curiosity,

A certain lightness, familiar but untrodden.

It tastes a certain way, delicate between the cuckoos.

It will go a distance

Before it finds

It has not moved at all.

Admittance to the centre of all things.

It shimmers with breath,

This May morning road.

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STONE AGE

Snow clouds drift below moon and stars.

The river roars its long distance.

.

What can can we do

But breathe in the warm smoke of fires

And huddle down into the skins of animals?

.

In this way

We become the world’s eyes

In long winter.

.

Hunters of stories

In the mists.

Recounters of the long herds

And the cunning wings.

.

Sustained by the strong life of others.

So we may sing their praises

And with our hands

Shape amber and jet

And flint and bone.

.

Beneath the one tree of starlight

And dancing, rising sparks.

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VIEW

Hokusai would appreciate the view:

Garth Bank rising like a sleepy Fuji

Framed by those leaning pines

And the placid, silent sky.

He would have changed nothing,

But chosen the lines for beauty

And the colours calm and dun as the day.

A landscape without pearls,

Though edged by snow hills.

One by one we lose our weight,

Floating upwards to eternity.

The two rivers whisper it

In their deep and hidden ways.

I catch the scent of planed hinoki.

Last day of January.

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RISING, RETURNING

Rising through mist and rust and gold.

The rain coming and going and the oaks holding on.

History repeating itself, as it always does,

And the eternal poets weeping and laughing

In their sunlit words.

We shall reach home soon, as we always do,

Until the very last time when time shall slow and stop,

And the oaks, only, will be holding on then

In rust and gold and sunlit drifts.

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RAAG MEGH

find the

slow rituals

that absorb time and space.

.

there is

no hurry,

words vanish, yet

last forever, somehow.

.

the green, warm rains

as soothing as music, fill

the breathing valley.

.

one step

is all it takes

to start a dance

no-one has seen before.

.

we will, for sure,

be swept up in

sadness and joy.

.

we will, for sure,

be persuaded that beauty

is just not enough.

.

slow air pushes

the thin rope of smoke

to and fro by the window.

veils of rain hide the hills.

.

it is green and cool and lovely,

the trees say.

look at our slow dance,

they say.

.

and let go

their tired leaves.

Raag megh is a pentatonic raag (raga) played during the rainy season, but because of its cooling, calming influence is also played at any time and circumstance. i used it as the name of this poem as it seemed to fit its atmosphere and mood. Check out raag megh on youtube, especially those by ustad rashid khan, pandit jasraj and kushal dass.

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Tumbling

TUMBLING

My heart rests lightly

on this wind.

It dips and bobs

and lets go

tumbling in the passing light

rolling off the gradients

of the seasons.

Fragments of rainbows come and go

piercing time with beauty

– a reminder.

The leaves too, dance and let go,

and green slides off the hills

to settle in sheltered places.

Bracken turns quick gold

then long reds.

Air spiced with things losing names

becoming something else,

becoming earth.

The willows dance,

the poplars dance all silver,

the birches, gilded.

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Tumbles

TUMBLES

The year tumbles fast now

towards its closing.

Dragon’s breath swathes the hill

In the middle of the morning,

and the grasses lie damp and lank all day.

The sun is distracted, its thoughts elsewhere.

The rivers race through the night with the rumbling stars.

Our moon flicks its light

from dim to sharp to dim.

Days of storm follow days of cold still calm.

Growth stutters and halts,

the trees reach for their golds and browns.

Plans compress or are abandoned.

What is not done, now can wait.

The fires are lit in dark mornings now.

The fires are all lit.

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Larches

The way colours remain long into the grey autumn.

The way the hanging cones resemble syllables

Lingering on the tongue’s tip,

Or kanji haiku brushed carefully careless.

The way these larches let go and dance

On pale cooling hills.

The way images blur and smudge but remain themselves:

Brushstrokes of careless, magnified light.

An autumn aesthetic: nostalgic patterns floating.

Delicacy and decay: look close and the world

Disappears into light.

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DHRUPAD 22 (empty)

Empty,

emptied the skies,

unwoven by soaring diving swallows suddenly not there

suddenly silent as the still silvered edged trees,

dusted time-dusted, picked out in the

more slanted light suddenly now.

The clouds pouring in now pouring in the winds.

Still warm the sun still warm

though the nights grow cool now.

The days are set,

the days are settled,

they nestle down on quietened fields

in the quiet ripening

fields where the slow pheasants pause

and pick and move on.

There will be the

wheeling words of red kites soon and buzzards soon

their own spells their own

summoning autumn songs

high in the blue and dazzling dazzling heights of

tumbled skies

and the grain nodding heavy

and the hazels winking

and the ash

trees longing to let go,

to let go.

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