Posts Tagged ‘song’


Pauses grow longer, a melancholy may soon creep in.
We cannot escape our own voices.
( “We rarely go out these days and visitors, though longed for,
are a great discomfort”).
It is a wild guilt that wants our words in other’s heads.
Always a nuisance and a pleasure
to be infected with poetry,
to admit the familiar voices, to see which one leads, this time, the hunt.
Gwyn ap Nydd collecting souls, the ghosts of words,
The white words, the vapoured words,
the haunted words – as poetry is.
‘White, Son of Mist’ – like the morning,
the first attempt at May, after a night of rain,
new in stillness and birdsong, mist on green land,
the ash trees still thinking about their coming fountains of flowers,
roots wriggled so deep in the past, and aching old.
The dunnock’s sweet descent.
It filters down as if spider webs
And gold dust – the flecks
Of memory and forgetting.
A city with loud inhabitants, unkind and strange.
A darkness punctuated with doors and reasons.
As if it didn’t matter, everything collapses.
The moment passes, the tongue gives up.
It cannot make the chords that the brain sings in,
Just one note at a time, syllable by.
There is something to be said for silence.
The way the mist in its own dreaming gravity
Slides along the slopes
And settles in the cwms.
The way it shifts space.
The way it delineates what is not itself.
With what would we fill these silences
Should all the voices stop?

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NIGHT RAIN (Book of Voices)

White noise, a rain of words
(All drops reflecting whole worlds),
But free from explanation, no discourse, no argument.

Indistinguishable millions falling through darkness
Only heard as they disintegrate, pool
And continue a life moving downwards.
A silent freefall ’til disillusioned by the solid,
Exulting, shattered, they shout.

Thought precedes language,
Orchestral is the soul.
A dance of demons and angels
Cross-dressing and interbreeding.

An heretical creation,
An unexpected evolution of many sorts,
Comes down as night rain.
Sound in darkness dancing.


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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,
Of the Most High.


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.


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Cloud rests, winged.
Feathered, these upland mists.
Green grey the day along
Swathed and shrouded hills.

The still, one prayer, arcs
The scooped valleys.
(Pitted the stones,

A bell, a peal:
A gathered fruitfulness,
A hymnal of sunlit days.
In sainted, beached ship,
Sails of praise turn tides.

We become indwelling,
The promise of rain,
The blackbird’s quiver-
Heart arrowed, liquid.



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How Still

How still
The lashes of your eyes
Searching words
How still

How long
The slow rise of your breath
Searching peace
How long

How fine
The enamelled morning
Blue, shadowed
How fine

How light
The dive of swallows
above buttercup shine
How light

How still, how long
How fine, how light,
This filigree life
Floating skywards

Well, a thanks to Marie Marshall, whose words this morning fed this little thing, sort of summing up the morning sun here, before the clouds pile up and wind carries in rain… ( if I can put in a link to the original I will, not that it’s difficult but I am all at sea with invisible machinery).


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How is it that some songs come to fill us, define us, sum it all up, whilst others do not hold any heart for us? This morning the lines rose up ( snow frazen on the roof, a still day, cold, settled), of themselves, dragging their constellated nets of memory and feeling.

Do we become shaped by them or do they so perfectly will what we are so as to become part of us, entirely? History and identity coming down to radio songs and the secret shared discoveries of this voice or that voice, this tune, these words, these crashing chords. A selection of identities by sound. Naked pathways, already becoming set, though still unnamed, an internal hollowing out of clay, a sculpting of attitudes, an adoption of stance and gesture, a constant attempt to find the heart of a secret name, a true name that can only be found on the tip of the tongue, the back of the brain, perhaps the soul, perhaps the first link, the line of memory: I am this. This I am.

The way we choose to lie in sleep. The ways we choose. A confederation of paradox, a constellation of time-worn sink-holes, (the familar caves echoing, passages dark and shadows distorting, amplifying trains of thought). This name we have, this shape, this song, so deeply owned it has absorbed, coloured, flavoured all else. They have become us because they were the same as us. Their dance, our dance. Their view, our view. It is not complicated. It is not important. ( the spider web at the window is important. The way the cloud layers pink then blue is important. The echoing crow calling from the ash tree is important).

This ripple of words, digging and sifting, this song, the chorus, this artfulness, is a spinning within silence. A constant attempt to turn and turn, to see one’s own back. Slapstick ( it’s behind you), and it will always be behind you, spine holding everything up, unseen, a coathanger for tomorrow.

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Dawn glides in silence,
around purring cats,
(quiet watching eyes
filling each room).

This house:
A pebble set against
A river of wind.

Two days ago
The sun splashed spring,
A bright relaxing,
Filled with birds.
Winter has returned
To gnaw our bones.

Still, light is growing
At either end of day,
Stretched, though, and pale,
But welcome.

I am become an interweaving
Of days and moments,
A halting song
Made poignant
By strange harmony,
An old song
With new words
And a new tune.

Filled with birds.
A pebble set
A river of time.

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