Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, Autumn, landscape, nature, Poetry, stormy weather, trees, Wales, wind on November 17, 2020| 4 Comments »
THE TREES
.
the trees have
become skeletons now,
.
this year’s flesh
stripped off by storms.
.
we are becoming the dead
And breathe
that spice perfume
Of cold and
mulch and sleep.
.
the wind lifts the skirts
of the morning.
.
we see nothing there
except clattering bones.
.
all our neat
and sensible power
evaporates.
.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Autumn, change, landscape, Poetry, seasons, Wales, wind on December 11, 2019| Leave a Comment »
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.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged landscape, Mynyddoedd Cambrian Mountains, Poetry, storm, Wales, weather, wind on March 20, 2019| 3 Comments »
STORM PASSING
Sway , as wind makes the grasses.
Here then there (but silence in the soil still).
It, breathing, roars. Tears away what breath there is.
It, moving, alights and passes through all, a sudden thing.
It, breathing, shudders the solid, twists each sound.
The singing fires dance free and the slope of wings as sharp as scythes.
Sedge, winter dry, rattles with a serpent’s hiss.
On tip-toe we scramble homewards, whipped eyes watering.
Such a small thing, this flush of weather. Half a day
Flooded with impecable instants of translucent uncertainty.
And we, made small again and frail by ineffable, invisible airs.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Cambrian Mountains, Poetry, stormy day, Wales, wind, winter still on March 8, 2019| Leave a Comment »
STORM PASSING
Sway , as wind makes the grasses.
Here then there (but silence in the soil still).
It, breathing, roars. Tears away what breath there is.
It, moving, alights and passes through all, a sudden thing.
It, breathing, shudders the solid, twists each sound.
The singing fires dance free and the slope of wings as sharp as scythes.
Sedge, winter dry, rattles with a serpent’s hiss.
On tip-toe we scramble homewards, whipped eyes watering.
Such a small thing this flush of weather. Half a day
Flooded with impecable instants of translucent uncertainty.
And we, made small again and frail by ineffable, invisible airs.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged alap, Autumn, dhrupad, forests, landscape photography, Poetry, river, Wales, wind on November 21, 2018| 3 Comments »
DHRUPAD 19 (this soil)
Through miles of forest a river wind whispers:
The songs of the living and the dead that they have learned from each other.
There is nothing less than this, there is nothing greater:
This sullen holy soil.
Slow river wind whispers
This sullen holy soil
Sustains us
The hills have dreamed wings and flown away.
In worlds of mist what sustains us now but hope and waiting?
Hiraeth – the dream of what never was and that always has been.
This sullen, holy soil.
This moment, as close to perfection as it is possible to be.
Belonging with nowhere to go, nothing needed, nothing missed.
Home, rested and whole.
This sullen, holy soil.
It weaves and weaves
winds about and strings thread shudders the miles
miles miles of wood and forest pulls gently the surface
the hearts the songs shuddered shuddered soft as bells soft as
as silk bells slipping away away to night valleys slipping down and away
a smooth silk whispering sigh along the long miles all gathered in the spiral here of space and now.
The shh shh of the last breaths of all things
and the first breath quiet
quite the first breaths small tentative but growing growing and pouring
into the world’s bowl. The world’s bowl empty and full resounding resounding the seasons’ reach the soil the soil the layered blanketing dreaming soil.
Slow so it moves so,
slow it moves, slow and low it sounds flow
low flow through it ought it ought reach out reach in through all sliver things flick and swing
rhythm of rock and rime weed water and waste
stretching out out rough roughcast hewn high and heavenwards
threaded the stars path thread the suns light thread the moon as it passes here and here the waters edge the glister spark cold and dancing light.
A day unclothed unclothed and silent
gone on the old paths beyond beyond the point of point and edge
bliss burdened lip silent
bliss stretched out sightless and white holy white formed and vast vast comforted
nothing nothing vast hills of nothing
memorise that word that word what was that word?
Yes yes it was is wordless
heart filled bowl sky empty word yearning still still ever
for ever still a day word a dawn word a starfilled night word a river rush whisper word a world word a world word a world
here this this word now now now word hissing the silence long miles word word feather soft and silk stretched smoothed arched word.
This this speaks the soil.
This how now is says the soil.
Sound full fall found soil. This now, here.
This sullen holy soil.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, bibliomancy, context, experimentation, Haiku-ish, I Ching, interpretation, jutraposition, landscape photography, meaning, oracles, perception, Poetry, rain, storm, Wales, wind on September 11, 2017| 1 Comment »
Book of Changes
I
Wind river
Ocean airs
Clouds race
Birds watch
From shelter
With anchor feet.
Sounds stretched thin.
“The Creative is heaven.
It is round, it is the prince,
The father, jade, metal, cold, ice;
It is deep red, a good horse, a lean horse,
A wild horse, tree fruit.”
II
News from far off
Sorrow and treachery.
Collecting radish seeds
As they ripen
Between the rains.
“The great prince issues commands
Founds estates, vests families with fiefs.
Inferior people should not be employed.”
III
Dawn already in the east.
Rain in the west.
We wait for news, and names.
The kettle bubbles.
“The well. The town may be changed,
But the well cannot be changed.
It neither increases nor decreases.
They come and go and draw from the well.
If one gets down almost to the water
And the rope does not go all the way,
Or the jug breaks, it brings misfortune.”
IV
Standing still,
All the flock, backs turned
To the wind.
When the storm is over
The grass shall taste sweeter.
“Innocence. Supreme success.
Perseverance furthers.
If someone is not as he should be,
He has misfortune,
And it does not further him
To undertake anything.”
—
I recently picked up a copy of Richard Wilhelm’s “I Ching or book of changes”. I had it many years ago, and though it is probably not the best translation, it carries a certain, stately grandeur in its language. This morning, in stormy weather, I decided to see what happened combining a few short verses I had written with random selections from the book. Meaningless and meaningful. Everything becomes oracular. Juxtaposition revealing the mysteries of the mundane.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged balance, birds, eye, falconry, falcons, feather, Freedom, hawks, lift, owls, photography, Poetry, wind on August 23, 2017| 4 Comments »
LESSON
That little owls
Smell like
Old tea towels.
That barn owls’ wings
Smell of the pages
Of old books.
The weight
Of the night
And the folded green
Of light.
The balance
Of hunger,
And the return
To earth.
Pinion and
Orange eye.
A changing wind,
And the heft
Of an eagle’s claw.
Eight miles
Of sight
In a few ounces,
And a life
Of floating
Between.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Abergwesyn, ambience, Cambrian Mountains, landscape photography, mountains, Poetry, time, Wales, wind on November 8, 2014| 3 Comments »
Aeons of fast skies
Have worn smooth these hills.
Chosen colours have rubbed in,
Silence folded into sound.
These lacing waters,
These rock dark ribs.
A breath of rain,
A consideration of leaves.
A subtle exchange,
A movement towards earth.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, cloud, early morning, full moon, Guru Purnima, July, landscape, light, moon, Poetry, wind on July 13, 2014| 2 Comments »
Too many references to ‘super moon’, only one I saw to Guru Purnima, which is this full moon in July dedicated to all our teachers.
FAST SMOKE (Guru Purnima)
Through a fast smoke of cloud
This golden moon, full as it can be,
Wrapped with light and golden,
Arcs out of sight,
Golden in a golden morning.
From its vastness it has seen the sun,
Seen the day, breathed in light,
Exhaled in fullness.
Absorbed, we are absolved of necessity,
Filled up with ample goodness.
No need to know. Nothing obscured.
Nothing beyond reach.
Enfolded radiant, as this moon.
—
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged ambience, art, Autumn, awareness, being, coming on Samhain., drawing, holographic fugue, landscape, mind, mirror, morning, muse music, pen and inkish, Poetry, proof of life, reflection, stormclouds, wind on October 27, 2013| 5 Comments »
NO QUESTION
This is it:
The reflection
Of your being.
This room,
Quiet,
morning bright.
This window,
Filtering sound,
Slowing light,
Holding colours.
This view:
Veils of sun and rain,
Small birds blustered by.
Something special
In its commitment to itself.
But unremarked, unremarkable.
This patterning of storm cloud:
Unimaginable, dissipating,
Casual omnipotence.
This sequence of days:
Rosary of heartbeats,
Rosary of tears.
A meditation on dreaming
And waking.
—
Seeded by other’s autumnal self-reflections, particularly Masqua’s Art…..
simonhlilly 