Posts Tagged ‘thought’


All the mountains have walked away.
The hills, stirred themselves and flown.
Nothing remains but clouds and mist.

Rivers fall straight from heaven.
Forests, hushed and silent now, listen.
Distance is the well of Time.

I sit without words, empty,
(Though words themselves
Are hollow flocks).
They graze and move on,
Ineluctable patterns,
A partial view of constellations:
Midnight cloud.

It is a virtue to forget,
To remember and to forget oneself.
A virtue to see what is without compare.

Unremarked, glory passes
As sun and storm on a Spring day.
Jewelled with light the bare branches,
Silver and dark the upland roads.

The sky laughs at the invention of morning,
Rises up as mountains return
Refeshed and glistening,
World without end.

Read Full Post »

FRAGMENT (from Book Of Voices)

These tides, these stratigraphies,
These meridians,
Slightly, gently shifting
(boats on a small tide, moored lightly,
Testing their freedom, anchored
In hierarchies, in distance, from
Sane land).

A certain dance of veils,
A somewhat dramatic covering
And uncovering of chance meetings.
Automatic script (as if any thought
Were planned in any way),
Knee jerk eruptions of things
To put language to, a cauldron
Bubbling up – eye of, gizzard of,
Toe of, brain of…

Always one step away
From dream,
A small distraction
And the doors open wide.
These demons, these angels
Made from our shadows
(Following us humming,
Like bees to each
Nectared crevice)…

Read Full Post »



Wonderful wonderful
how easy a cat will purr
how easy a flower will open
and scatter
how easy a smile
how easy a hand
how easy a good word
leads the way
becoming a vast flock
of joyous song and seeing.

Word to word
invisible tugged ties,
chains golden from tongue to ear,
a ripple of bells, a chime, tinkled river,
mind stream quenching thirst,
a million million reflections
showing nothing much of anything,
just how it is.

In the deepest oceans
Are the bones of all
That have ever lived.
A sediment free of sentiment,
World shaping pressure
Of was-ness turning into is-ness.

Dressed ghosts, borrowed rags.
Why so hungry always? Why so?
As if bereft. As if supported.
As if punishment. As if reward.
As if a test.
Interpret this.
Pain and beauty.
Edges, boundaries, limits.
A dance to slow music.
If we can be but elegant, somehow,
so the universe turns toward us
(as we turn toward its ever open eyes),
weave a new way, gentle, strong,
accepting, melting, acquiescing.
Grace, it would be.
Perhaps reason enough.

Heat haze.
A shimmering road.
All the colours shifting towards evening.
A sharp sound rumbles into deep distance.
An elucidation of edges.
A smudge of vast moments.
Thought storm, tranquil dreaming.
Your voice (somehow) in my head (somehow).
Via the heart of things,
we ricochet amazed
through crystalline spheres.

A tissue of lives.
Connective, connected surfaces.
A fine tracing of whorls and ridges,
Whispering alphabets
Attempting an understanding,
Perhaps a cataloging,
An exposition of position.
A thin, sky thin, elucidation
A slender, tender hinting thing.
Not quite dream, not quite wish,
Nor remembering, nor forgetting.
This placental sustaining,
Held suspended,
Amniotic day,
Bridged away from pain.

Else we slip unseen,
Or so we conceive it,
Mouthing wept whys
Into blank cold nights.

Read Full Post »

On long tides
The rivers rest.

Longer than
Long moments
Of memory.

Swaying words
Swinging between meanings.

Lost days
Remembered and forgotten,
Sweet details, seasons.

Read Full Post »


Small islands that float in the sifting blue:
Prayers, memories, wishes once hoped for.

Clear bounded, unto themselves,
Harvesting thin birdsong
And tumps of long grasses singing.

Fragments of heaven remaining,
Never lifted, never fallen.
Salt-washed, self-rooted.
Rock black and rock red
And the twist of serpentine,
The healed scar of whited quartz.

A skirl of wind,
An ululation of gulls.
Warmth in the lee
Of the byre,
The soft scent of hay.

A hymn, a verse each is.
Inhabited by angels,
Their messages forgot,
Dreaming to the sound
Of long tides.

Read Full Post »



As if holiness
Were a subtraction
They would have us
Feign goodness,
These bullies of belief.

Tracks of sparks in pathways of desire,
This darkened room, these walls and doors,
Appearing, disappearing.

A space to move in, a sudden halt.
Sparks and glimmer in the dark,
Sparks on roads, these gods, these equations.

This electric touch, this love glow
A scatter of sparks.
This blackbird in the morning,
This dull thud of bombs,
A scattering of sparks.

Sound and light
Sprayed along roads
Falling golden.
Configuring this dream.



continuing the themes on the nature of thought, the real, the truth, the seen, the unseen the creation of matter and the creation of meaning,

Read Full Post »


The lamp is lit.
I would return to some calm
But here they come, first a whisp, then wraiths, now raucous echoing gamboling up from the buzz and chink of that wild banquet below. These beeezes: where do they gather their names and faces, become recognised, familiar? Back around what corner do these thoughts cease to be words, and what do they then become?
Sharp and edged,
Glinting bright,
Defined and cherished,
Tools of tongue and eye.
Who and how have they been refined, clothed, acquired status? Language clothes thought, but it is not thought. Simply three noticed feelings: attraction, repulsion, indifference, (atomic and galactic habits, too), the sum of them all. Feelings are what? Pulses of light and reaction along cellular lanes, a dance in a ring, unwatched at twilight. Goblin market, a tumble of shadows.
A web spun
By a spider world
To catch and hold fragments
Of itself.
I am food. I am food. I am food.
I am eater. I am eater. I am eater.
Precocious, petulant they are. Give them no attention! Primadonnas, show-offs. The more you react the more they will play up. Tinnitus, endless ringing, blood and heartbeat, breath, bone. The motor running, only the motor running. A drift of exhaust in the cold, frosty morning.
Underwater streams,
Deeper than worms,
Darker than pleasure.
An instant of dreaming,
A startled crowd of starlings
Take shape, wheeling away.
This river, were it to stop. This wind, were it to cease. And whence did it arise?
Coming over the hill’s smooth crest:
A green forest of birdsong
Spread draped in shaded valley.
Dive in, become lost, cooled and tongue-tied,
Dappled, aimless.

Read Full Post »


A ROAR OF VOICE ( edge of apparition)

Here it is
Here it is again
The ocean’s rush and roar
A world voicing, praising,
Cursing, keening
An endlessness of salt,
Sweet and bitter.

Rushing in from the single
Blue link to forever,
Illusory horizon, false edge.

They rush in:
Exalting waves,
Then comes the gravel undertow
Pulling ribboned grief back,
The harsh grain and the smooth grain
Rolling endless in the noise of it.
The augmentation, the echoing roar.
Endless is the diminishing,
The withdrawal of hope
Dissipating memory
Negating victory,
The slop,
The soaking away.

A cold white voice
Bleak on air
Hunger of the gull.
I croak and roar
A black god low on the face
Of the deep,
Cormorant shadow silent
Skimming rise and fall
Voice of centuries
My food
My food.

The endlessness of it,
Remorseless the repetition.
There is a vision, a dream
Of rockpools crystal still,
Small jewels rock held, safe.
Bashed, swept up in a new tide
Tumbled and forgotten
Whispers, wraiths, sand-casts
The thin water’s return,
Small waters to a foam bed.

Upon my ears, my breath,
My blood, a voice
In perpetuity,
A bubbled spume, a seed,
A generation.
Its name:
The ocean, the sea,
Is remembering.
Its name
Is forgetting.

A sand of salt, skin salt
Eyes salt, pulled and pummelled
A sway of green weed
Locked to rock
Dreaming silver shoals
And an opening of sound,

Meaning found
No one yet has built on such,
An ocean where lasting is long,
A dreaming forever.
For coral cities are sand,
Mountains, ground.

Sift heart water
Harmless as light
Polishing, melting
Wearing away with song.
Oceanic dreamings
Oceanic wakings.
With noise


( ocean roar: one’s own mind audience, even if quiet, the world’s onrushing rumble bears down.
Never between, never shore-locked, never apart from, swept tumbling, hiss and thud, white noise.
Waveform, signs, sines, spirals. A word in your shell-like……)


Read Full Post »

Atom – Heart – Mother
(Third object of transcendence).

Dark moon.
There is nothing to measure
The passing or staying of time.

A pewter plate, leaden glow heaviness
Is upon me,
Upon which ants crawl –
An incessant hunt
For meaning’s addictive
sweet crumbs.

No silver sickle,
No thin cold sharp edge to sever
Glutinous swags of thought.

Tedious, this circularity,
This inability to dive
Beyond the debris.

No owls,
No bats outside.
All opposition slain
To the blundering flight of our own
Monochromatic, monotheistic,
Magnificently naive self-appointment
As pinnacle and paragon.
The Mysteries and miracles,
Only annoying flies bouncing off
Dirty panes of glass.
The backroom boys of nightmare,
Gagged and emasculated
Now that we load
The silver bullets of rationality.
Stallions and nightmares, wild kelpies
That would drag us screaming
Below the dark, still, loch waters,
Consigned to flickering square screens.
Insanity banished,
The moths of eternity
Shattered, spiralling torches,
The quenchless fire of plutonium:
Endless yuga
Of sudden and slow, bright death.

Dark moon.
Nothing to see here.
Stars hidden
Awaiting Great Time,
O Mother of Darkness.

Clouds part a clearing,
A darker nothing beyond grey nothing.
A pause.

Travel down peripheral paths, abandoned, webbed, forgotten.
Away from the echoing vestibules and cavities trawling feckless thought.
Rooted through the feet, an anchoring of sober light.
With breath,
A river of acquiescence
Gravitates down
To our hidden heart,

A silver sewing,
A phosphorescent bond,
An electric blue tang
Of diving clarity.
An exhalation in the centre of stillness,
Stratigraphies of forgiveness,
Of forgetting, of remembering.

New wings spread
Flexed wide, descending
Upon the winds
Of interior light.
A song bursts upwards
That is a dance.

The three ways, the three channels,
The three poisons,
Become one tree
Vast and sheltering,
at once seed and fruit.
Branching senses interweave,
A galactic arch.
Subatomic tendrils reach sustenance,
abundance, belonging
And are cherished.

Sleep and the Sleeper
A moon in shadow
A silver tree ringing with light
A forest of stars.
Bitterness, a blessing
That wakes and warns.

Read Full Post »


Three days now the sky
Has been a rushing river of airs.
Caught in its roar
The bright moon day by day dissolves.
Now a thin cold lip,
An edge of ice fast melting.

Here’s a line, here’s an image,
Bold and clear, easy to recall,
Easy to frame.
But gone and shattered,
A leaping fish, up and shining;
A crystal hung in the sun
Never the same patterns of spinning colour;
A stream, a burble of tumbling,
One melody caught but then lost,
A fugue of endless forgettings.

So, the points, the main points,
Quickly before they slide, again, away.
What and where is the wind when it is not blowing?
What and how is a river when it is not flowing?
What and why is the mind when it is not full of words?
How can we say anything is certain
When we fail even to remember
Our passionate dreams from the fading dark of dawn?

Nothing seems fixed in the buffeting swirl of mind’s river.
I am the possessor of the sight
Of a juggler with knives and doves
Enraptured, disbelieving, horrified.
But I is an eye
In a peacock’s tail,
A ripple and splash
Over a river’s wide shore.
My certainty, no more than that cloud,
Breathing and gone as it races southwards,
Seawards, forgotten on the horizon, no longer itself,
Melted, merged, a long sigh.

Hold here, hold here, anchored.
That is, perhaps,
To miss the point.
Consider this elegant and judicious thought!
Consider this cloud, this sparkle of light,
This aeolian harp. This sound
That comes and that goes
( in the forest is there even a roaring
With no ear to hear it?).
There is something,
But it seems nothing when held.
There seems something,
But it is only a dreaming of numbers and probabilities.
The wise having spoken,
The rabble clamour and grab those chiselled phrases
(lacking any memories of their own).

The wisdom of mankind:
A moon melting away into shade,
A wind rocking the rafters,
Shaking the valleyed woods,
Inchoate, a chord.
Hold, and it is lost, dismembered, forgotten.

The colours of the dawn: a sequence of shifts, no moments,
No savoured fragments. Only as the blink
Of an eye, an inability to keep
A distraction of impressions.
Mind, a movement of itself
Outward into itself,
A brash Mozart
Of improvised narcissism.
If you are not now looking at me
Then what am I?
Give me worth
Or I am less
Than dust
On the tongue.

Dissect and sever
Dream from sleep,
Sleep from waking,
Sense from feeling,
Real from fantasy.
Dam the air, dam the stream,
Divide the slow curves,
Tree shaded,
From the racing weir,
Rock shouting and white.

This moment of perfect sky,
Three woodpigeons buoyed and floating
Down to the small green field.
A rip of blue.
Two gulls distantly weaving.
Cloud shifting from grey to pink,
Teased out,
Carded fine and white
Through the teeth of the fast cold.

Recording moments:
A needle stuck
Repeating the same few bars, the
Same few, the same.
Or a rabble of squabbling voices,
A heckling audience,
Swaying faces in the dark.
A consensus of insanity
Taken to be, of course, sanity.

The sky is pearl and golden.
Three day’s wind
Has smoothed out the light,
Has rubbed the hills green and smooth,
Has dissolved the moon.
That is all.


Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: