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Posts Tagged ‘William Blake’

A CUCKOO IN THE NEST

A cuckoo see-saws in the sunny dregs of May.

All the fractured warriors, pale and bloodless,

Sink into the seed-filled soil.

The winners and losers are the ones

Who laid out these fine roads.

So we can trust no other paths

Through the oak deep woods and sun-warmed cliffs.

They have buried their gold here and there

Like dinosaur eggs, cold hope and useless,

Without the thrusting love of bees.

We shall walk among the dead and borrow their dreams.

Bred for an ostentatious perfection

The roses strangled by a sea of happy weeds.

Yet we take the rose for our badge:

The blowsy, failing, propped and preening dream

Of old men and fanatics, and fight the weeds together.

The cuckoo mocks the sunny morning.

Innocence supplanted by an unbuilt guile.

The world see-saws on precipitance.

The stars, at least, remain, untouched

By this busy arrogance of being.

How many times shall I sing the same song,

O, Enitharmon? Until the long grey rains

Wash all footsteps away?

Gronw, Gronw, that stone over your heart shall not save you.

It will be laid out: the failings of desire and the roads of gold.

It shall all be sundered by the returning soul,

The tides of people, a song of weeds.

Sweet smelling idiots, the tiered hierarchies of perfect moments.

We have longed for its return – the resonant, ephemeral cuckoo.

But now its constant echo palls. It is no bard, but pure politician.

It ousts the futures of others, counts away choices, one by one.

The roads that are reasonable, are inevitable.

You had the choice a long time ago, if you recall, to be a hero

Or to fall safely into those ruts of good and equitable habit.

We have been charmed down from the tree now,

Given a voice, and we must fill the role assigned us.

To heave the future from its nest, watch it crack

Against the stones, and pray for food to still sustain us.

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ANGEL FALLS, ELOQUENT

Dropped
They fracture,

Crumble,
Separate seconds
From stillness.

Meteor words
Burning fast

A lever
For omens,

Simply
The gravity

Of bodies
Too heavy
With burning heart.

Golden alphabets

Spilled
Tumbling
To flagged floor.

To carve
A sigh,
A cursive line.
(Improbable
Evolution as ever).

Descent into matter.
Dissonant mutter.
Disowned stutter.
A step
Hitched,
Syncopate.

Fabric of time
Glazed pattern
Wingbeat.

World
Whorled
Whirled.

Blake,
Startled awake
Mouths
Eyeless,
A ghost
Of muscle,
Vision sinew.

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INVISIBLE FRIENDS 6

Time for a new batch of scribbles inspired by other’s words here, webbed together catching jewelled flies, eating or storing them for colder, frosted mornings…

OBIT.

Terse words
for a long peal of time,
a good,
an only, place ,
for such as he to rest.

—-

GIFT

Even so,
beautiful writing,
a dove released,
vanishing into cloud.
Knowing emptiness is,
at least, knowing something.

ASANA

My tongue,
a bookmark,
syllabub syllables,
sutras,
plough with brows furrowed,
let us lotus,
pray pray away,
body buddy bodhi,
enlonged lungs,
a crack of knees
( not a new noise, yknow).
A sound stretching out.


CASTLE WALLS

The draw of ruins!
What is it?
The harsh past crumbled back,
mulch,
earth music…..

—-

GHOSTS, FLEAS, A MUSE.

We,
Ghosts
Of poetry,
Stumbling lines,
Echoed,
Staring far off:
The effort
To recall.

—-

HAY BALES

Wheels fallen off the sun wagon.
It falters and droops
towards a fall.

——

COMPOSITION, DECOMPOSITION

A dance in slightest sound:
first mind rolling mutters,
then quiets as pen flows scratching,
the silence between words,
a rush of voices.
Silence is not an absence of sound..

—-

THE GREAT WORK

Selecting or not selecting,
wearing a mask,
choosing a mask,
revealing, hiding.
Dipping in a toe,
how deep these black waters of self?
How fast,
how airlessly drown,
out of depth,
no one watching.

—-

AS WELL

As well as can be.
When we fray thin,
with time or weather,
it’s only a sign, perhaps,
to deepen roots
and not mind the storm winds,
nor the thoughts
circling laments in empty skies….

—-

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WARMING

(The ghost of William Blake conversing with
The ghost of Samuel Palmer, down by the apple
Orchard, perhaps)

Sunlight gathers heat.
Sparrows in the eaves
Flustered wings, feeding, fetching.

Small is the delight
That accumulates bliss, drop by drop.

The easy centuries
Of a cat’s sleeping breath.

It is a life of small moments,
A slow, steady filling:
Small moments noticed,
Not blessings to be prayed for,
Not dreams to be hollowed out from air,
Not glorious futures
Nor the wrinkled, cold hand of victory.

Upholding the fragile,
Precision of caring,
Peculiar coincidence,
Unexplainable connection.

No arrows of equations pinning certainty,
The sly, mad oracle of statistics,
Prophecies of bacterial bloom.
Summer storm
Here and gone..

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