Posts Tagged ‘vision’


Owl-headed, lithe, folded,
Shock thundered voice:
Scythe words,
Harrow words,
Fine-limbed spells.
Fingertipped, a weaving sined spin,
A cast out dance.

Sunlit surge in blue, fat sky.
A thousand green tongues
Treasures rain,
Brushed light on lips.

Arched span a wing across.
Star chased, a trembled cascade.
Breathed dust, the burst
Before thought, bubbled,
Swirled, bowed.

Lean in, lean close.
A criss-crossed hum,
A bee jewelled drone
Truth stitched.

Skull bowl brain meal.
Glistening viscera
Steam slithered open.
All, all revealed.

My voice, a lute, a cuckoo.
A call distanced
By the fathoms of spring.


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Subliminal words for “Death and the Maiden”

I will remember the smell of lilac
The white lilac, the purple lilac
And your voice
Dark and velvet
Rich with desire….

in starlit gardens
Light, fast steps.
The whispers
Are not from warm lips,
Shadows lean closer….

Folded memories,
Tracked, haunted,
Silent wings

Here she is
A budding, a blossoming,
A spring dawn, a summer dawn
Perfumed with sunlight
Alone, unconcerned, self-radiant.

A point, a pause,
A reason to slow time,
Slow space,
To cease pointlessness,
To hold still
Orbiting her gentle
Graceful gravity.

The clattering mists congeal.
I gather to myself
A memory of flesh,
An ache of bone,
A throb of sinew.
Reclothed and sublimated,
My fingertips yearn
( the push of, swirl of,
Flesh, a feast of remembering and forgetting).
Forgetting myself
Utter a sound of life,
Silk whisper, birdsong,
A thrush or blackbird
Sated on cloud and green rain,
A bundled heart,

A swan’s bones
Are as light as air,
As hollow as her sky-stretched voice.

It is the porcelain skull
Of winter, translucent
With hunger, decorated
With ice feathers.
Faultless, perfect ruthless frost.
All remorse stripped of flesh,
All bitterness spent.
All waters hollowed,
All sound rested.
A linearity, a sped arrow,
Targeted, released,
Quivering at its mark.

Stipule and stamen
We are petelled fragrant,
Purely, demurely lascivious.
Our love is perfumed,
Botanical. Wrapped
And layered, lipped
And tattered edge,
We protrude demurely
Into the world,
An impossible biology.


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Morning sun.
Lambs and ewes.

In the shadows
Where frost dissolves:
Cool moved airs,
A glistening reflection.

A movement,
A stillness:

The space where thought
Had been.

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Our tall hats, sky scraping, cloud stirring,
Raking, forming, our tall hats.

Our black hats, cliff-crag dark,
Storm dark, night full.
Our black hats.

Given by the lords of years,
These moving towers, rocking.
These watchtowers,
These habitations of watchers.
Given us.

Watchers, sky-full of silence.
Hawk-bright shaded eyes,
Biding behind dark brows,
We bide,
Dark browed.

We need not hands to raise against.
Need not fingers to point.
Nor voice to accuse,
Nor clever, subtle speech,
No invective.

Poise, presence,
Inscrutibility fledged beneath
The stern circle of dark rim.
Tall hats, dark hats, bestowing gravity,
Beacons of authority.

Rock dreaming,
Injected, a bolus of catastrophe.
We, the chorus,
Mocking your wriggled evacuations.
We shall never, as you will, now
Pass distraught, hand-wringing,
Rote excuse for skin.

We shall never squirm nor flutter,
Racing thither on dismal errand,
Bending brightness to aggrandise vapour,
Bending sense, roping goodness,
Making slave-chains to chafe the free.
Oh, we see clear.
We see your oily wishes,
Your sly agreements.
How you stain the day.
How you stain.

Our tall hats
Shall follow your ways.
Watch us on the heights.
Watch us circle dark valleys.
Unencumbered vigilence,
Patient for judgement,

May your tiny,
Malevolent souls,
Naked and revealed,
May your rights
Recycle to the innocent.
May the wheeling carrion birds
Revolve and clamour
Til you no more sully
This earth, this sky.
May you relinquish your folly
Before it plagues and howls,
Extirpating your breathing memory.


Born from a recounted dream of handless beings guarding the clifftops from the perennial parastic politicians who wore tall black top hats. Reminded me of the crags of the Preseli hills, the watchers of Easter Island, the tall astronomically accurate solid gold hats of the Neolithic,
Of the cairns and tombstones of the quiet places, of the attentive wariness of those without voice…….

the image is from an Iron Age Celtic coin that seems to show a storm or mountain deity

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sideways drift
long bones curve

surprising silk,
always surprising

sideways drift

dream eyelid smile
opening pale, lucent

slip slow
foam falling

one drop
viscous, sweet

night falling in
acres: time blankets

enfolding white
silent gasp, always,

ever is
slightly vanishing

hidden, certain,

spine line

inward curve,
coved, curled

combed, covered,

sigh breathing

snow cold
melting, settling,


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It is not is
It is not was
And neither
Is it will be.
A thrum throughout.
Wrapped, webbed, unstruck.
Root note casting out
Harmonic creation
That we are.
One chord excluding nothing;
One name with all sounds;
All faces, all gestures,
All wonderings,
All worlds.
Whatever sound you choose,
That is it.
Whatever name,
That is it.
Whatever explanation,
That is it.
Whatever denial,
That is it.
Her tongue
Wrapped around your tongue.
Her eyes
Through your mirrored eyes.
Of no form,
With no preference,
An orifice of taste,
A groan of delight.

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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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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.

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Moon Dust.

The moon –

Your footprints
In dust
Lasted longer
Than the dust
You borrowed,

Now scattered,
Now scattered.

Through the mirror:

Another moon,


( in memoriam, Neil Armstrong)


( On the day Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon, died I wrote a few words in remembrance. At the same time I was reminded of a poem I wrote a long time ago about three carved wooden masks of the American NorthWest Coast – Haida or Tlingit, I think. One of the Moon, one of the Sun, one that was called “Just Returned from Heaven”. Such a feeling of loss, of gain, of confusion of exaltation, of the impossibility of explaining, of the impossibility of sharing, was perfectly expressed there. The expression on the face of all those who have seen the unseen and returned…)

Returned From Heaven


Returned from heaven,
Face awhirl in changing jade.

Red runs under skin,
Not blood but power.

Between black brows
Is what he knows:
The wings of the hawk of heaven
And where his eyes look.

The eye on the world
Is an unseeing arc.
The keyhole eye
Knows what moves beneath.

The eye that sees
Is the eye of the hawk of heaven
Upon the broad brow.

The ears are shut in silence:
The mouth, falling slight –
Intake of northern air
Without knowing.


Moon is as it feels:
Cool forehead upon yellow wood –
A broad light that spreads
The red thread smile,
Looking down,
Broad with vision.


Sun mask:
Wild with heat,
His hair of rays and weaving.
Eyes: black-rimmed with looking fierce,
Forehead: white with knowing.


Returned from heaven,
Between sun and moon,
Stripped of all.

The power runs
fast and sanguine
On the blue jade cheeks.

No guide but the broad moon,
No guardian but the sun’s sharp beak.

Knows nothing but
The wings on his brow.
Hears nothing from his shut ears.
Speaks nothing from his open mourh.

Lost in what has been –
Just returned from heaven.


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