Something Very Sweet Was Very Good In The 70s

Something very sweet was very good in the 70s,
Which the world has lost in its darkness and coolness.

Soul Train – what a name for a music-dance TV show!
Here’s to the one big single, ‘Sideshow’, of R&B soul vocal quintet

‘Blue Magic’ in the summer of 1974 – it rose to #1 on the R&B charts,
#8 on the Pop, overall the #19 song for the year as ranked by Billboard.

Blue Magic were also known for their synchronized choreography.
Visually oriented, they had several major television appearances.

So – question – If you think at all that the leading guy is too impossibly sweet!
Isn’t that answered by his ‘second voice’ that comes through in the end?

– – – – –

Song Reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TscxLlhMiig

 

The Rite of Passage Through the Unfurled World

(for Jessamine, and sourced from a visionary journey)

1. The Journey from the Cave

The front of the boat taps the rocks by the shoreline
As it dips to and fro on the most gentle of waves.
The underside of the wooden craft
Dances with the light reflected from the water
That also reflects from the walls of the surrounding cave.
In the distance the mouth of the cave
Is a dazzling flood of sunlight in contrast
To the deep black of the inner regions of the cave behind.
Only vaguely if you turned would you see
The lowermost steps of the winding stone staircase
From where you entered the cave to see what you would find.
And now before you is this vision,
The scrolled wooden prow of the sweetest of coracles,
The front covered over in painted tiles
And the open nest of the back of the hull
Surrounded by painted wooden petals like a crown.
The boat is wide and steady
As you clamber over the front and make your way to the back
Where on cushions and blankets you snuggle down.
With your weight like a pivot
The small vessel swings around,
The mouth of the cave is just wide enough
And the sunlight eats the boat like a long hot swallow.
Tall trees clash in many colours of green
As you blink your eyes fiercely in the expanding scene,
And behind playfully racing and overlapping waves
You and your coracle follow.
Twenty butterflies take flight from the banks of the river
And imitate your eyelids as in fright they deliver
Orange flashes of light above the cool blue of the water.
And with hands holding steady the smooth petalled sides of the boat
You look all around at the magnificent scenery
As you float to the sea my daughter.
 
2. Across the Sea

Entranced by this enchanting land,
With firm cushions below and a steadying hand,
It doesn’t surprise you to find that the boat expands
As the distance to the banks grows wider.
From the place where you sit she lengthens and deepens
And tall masts grow like odd trees
Til they’re furnished with pale sails to guide her.
The sides of the craft heave left and right and several sections extend
With long oars dropping down dipping into the blue.
So like a salamander sliding the whole ship comes alive
As she flexibly weaves her great length through the waves,
The oars digging in like toes as the wide open sea comes into view.
The crown of wooden petals that surround your living quarters
Have become burnished with gold and silver and brass and other metals.
They’re like pointed shields to protect the deck
Where you gaze with adoration on the horizon beyond
Where on the wide open sea sunlight settles.
Your sailing ship glides on an outgoing tide
And continues to creak and grow
Such that the sides lift high with overlapping plates
Like a dinosaur’s hide but jewelled and glowing.
The bow of the ship leads the way
And the other sections sway til the end like a tail follows the bending trail
Of this ship that seems to know where it’s going.
 
3. Arriving at the City

As this ship grows does too the wide-brimmed view
Of the curving horizon and banners of land
That recede on the edges of this world.
And in the distance you see the tall spires of the place
Called the Infinite City growing apace, til the points seem to fan
Like an opening hand with welcoming flags unfurled.
The wharves of the port are also like fingers of hands
Fanning into the water and past many points of land,
Where coloured lighthouses stand, your ship and you pass
Til you realize at last that this city covers miles of coastline.
The ship knows the way, and past balconies arrayed
Like overlapping scales of giant fish facing skyward
And other such fat towers of light,
It finally finds a curving berth and from its own wide girth
Throws ropes to be on its posts tied.
There are welcoming beings of light,
And as others arrive they hold their hands high in greeting
To nearly touch at their fingertips.
And when two meet in this way a sudden large Orb of light appears
Touching both their hands, and in ghostly images
Are seen all other’s waving hands too, a flickering solar-flaring sphere
Affirming the unity of their kinship.
As you step off the ship you see a large, long wheeled vehicle
With a huge enamelled eye rolling slowly
On its pivot at the front of the open-topped conveyance.
But this must be for dignitaries, as you feel to make your way
To the left along courtyards where great shafts of coloured light
Break through the tiles revealing that down
Below such ground are more infinite levels and layers.
 
4. Finding the Dancers

Between the many levels and connecting the overarching towers
Are curving bridges with elegant balustrades and lightposts.
As you walk over such a one it seems to notice your steps
And stretches and grows in infinite details,
That you suppose that, as with the beings of light,
Even the architectural elements itself are your kind hosts.
And other tall beings smile and greet you in silent ways
And the streets widen to meet you and in the multi-faceted alleyways
Doorways grow under arching doorways
And broad steps become terraces with changing colourful tiles.
Alongside a windowed wall on your right one such alleyway
Reveals the sight of a welcoming guardian standing to the left
Of a series of entranceways in various styles.
Perhaps the evening here comes in fast, for from the entrance
Comes such a blast of warm friendly sound and radiating light
That it seems natural for you to pass under the arches
And enter this place as though arrived at last.
The space opens up under canopies of light
With tall fluted columns stretching up beyond sight
And the sound is the music of dancing in pairs
And among friendly faces you are cast.
The men dance with the men, and the women with women,
But also there are many intimate couples lining the spaces
Between marbled columns in this ceremonial play.
All of the pairs have their hands stretched outward
And palms and arms touching and some with their heads,
Such that the overwhelming effect is you feel that the very air
Seems to say ‘I will find my partner’ in this way.
 
5. Journey to the Lake

Is that how you came to be walking the next morning
With this compelling awareness in your head –
That everything around you seems to be paired,
Your dreaming head cleared of all thoughts but this one?
Is that why you walk by the banks of a stream,
The sides a similar height and sheen of pastel rocks
Embedded in brown soil under mossy green grasses
And the arms of the trees dividing the soft light of the sun?
The air seems to fill with the trilling of birds
That spill from the branches in spiralling twos,
And even the daisies nod in pairs from clusters in the earth
By pebbles and rocks that coupled touch shoulders together.
A dawning awareness grows of how you chose to journey
To this land to seek out one here who’d understand
And who could show you where to find your partner –
Not man nor woman but inner companion, companion in any weather.
To find your inner companion, the ‘other’,
You must first find the ‘one’, the Queen of this land
Who lives far from the city in the hills of the countryside.
So you wander old roads past the croaking of toads
And the rustling of grasses and rushes and flaxes
And your mind now relaxes around the thought
That you have no idea where she might reside.
White mountains in the distance spread their arms and their fingers
And you look out for signs of the twoness of things.
Then round a bend you are suddenly met
With the magnificent scene of a lake
Reflecting perfectly the mountains above
And with the vision of this final ‘pairing’ you hear your heart sing.
 
6. Meeting the War Queen

On the side of the lake pale green trees reflect
Like a fringe around a collar of rocks and the earth rises up
In broad ramparts leading to a courtyard of stone.
Behind this is an irregular and angular doorway
Vast in its measure such that when you draw nearer
It is easy to see deep into the structure
To the golden War Queen seated on a throne.
In front of her a fountain is set low in a pool
Where a broad silver sword is laid in the water,
The image rippling rapidly spilling light in the room.
So that when you now enter
You can see spindled threads of light dancing on the tiled dome ceiling
Amid clouds of incense thick with perfume.
You follow the rich carpet that curves around the pool
And the Queen warmly greets you like you’ve always been expected
And tells you not to be dejected that there’s a war going on.
It’s true, she says, that we’re in a difficult phase
But there’s never been a day when the war wasn’t raging,
And the conclusion of battles is always foregone.
We always win as is the way of things,
So there’s always time for a feast and welcome celebration
Now that you’re here at the end of your quest.
And there will never ever be war in this place of the palace
Where I sit on my throne nor ever in this land out through the doorway
So please put your mind at rest.
 
7. Knowledge of the Other Worlds

Sitting on the soft circular carpet by the pool,
The Queen dines with you on a range of sweet treats
While her battle shield leans on the throne behind.
Looking around to the distant points of the room
You see several stairs leading down through openings in the floor
Like to far-lower doors full of dirt and grime.
And you know there’s a world through those thick wooden doors
Where the dark hills are surmounted
By thousands of crosses for those who have died in war.
But at this the Queen touches your shoulder and says that all such beings are One,
And though that they may pass they return again and again,
And for every one that dies as many more they are reborn.
We die freely, she says, to find we multiply,
And as related brothers and sisters we live again as many more.
And indeed many more different worlds there are too,
So we pass through experiences vast
Like the multiple arches in the Infinite City you explored.
For the swords we use are never abused
With the stain of dirt or blood because each warrior has their own
And it is kept shining bright with a special polish.
The weapon is only used in battle
To reflect the wondrous light-filled Orb of Oneness,
Such that by such sudden flash the opposing dark beings are transformed –
That’s the only reason the swords are flourished.
 
8. Meeting the Companion

And with that the War Queen hands you the broad silver sword
From the pool at the centre of the room and asks you to look up again
At the wide dome ceiling which has now changed its view.
The fountain has lowered to below the surface of the pool
And now it settles til still, and above your heads
Is a circle of light stretching flat and level, pale blue in hue.
Your task, says the Queen, is to keep this horizontal plane of light
Level with the natural power of your mind and will,
And to help you is a companion from my realm who will battle for you.
When you sail in your craft back to the furthest shore
You will pass by the giant trees of plenty,
So wait for a while til the fruits drop by themselves –
Like we, be patient to be given to.
Eat five golden fruit from these trees
Such that good fortune will take root
And your craft will grow strong wings to add flight to your flow.
When it takes to the skies remember your companion warrior’s cry
And passing over the mountain range below,
Remember millions of snowflakes multiplied make up the purest snow.
Like millions of leaves that make up a tree,
Where each leaf is unique like the partner you seek,
Your companion will battle for the One in our land.
And with that the Queen stood up and moved to a door
Hidden behind the golden throne,
And when she opened it up,
There was your companion and partner and warrior
Who reaches out now to take your hand.

Thanks, It’s A Pleasure To Be Here

I met a young man the other day, who
When he talked didn’t look once in your eye.
He had strange hand gestures as if to say
‘Can I show you over there, or to your
Seat’, his forearm stiff and level as though
A waiter complete with white hand towel, when
All we were talking of was at our feet,
The ginger plants and privet I had cleared.
 
His hand would scoop the air, and his eyes would
Follow, blinking with nervous energy.
A gentle man, my heart went out to him,
Hoping that I could touch with easy words
Warm enough to fill a hollow I sensed
In him, though wishing more I could simply
Give him a hug, or find those eyes to hold
In mine, and reassure him it was safe.
 
And later I pondered why I was so
Affected, and wondering what this man
Could see when his very presence was so
Unrested, his movements feints like he was
Refusing to believe he could just be
Here, and not somehow suggesting that by
Distracting my gaze, somewhere else was by
Far the better object of attention.
 
I know enough to know the battles I
Have won, and to admit that in this young
Man I saw in fact myself, my younger
One. In the general impression of
Memories, what stand out in colour are
The times alone, seedheads of tall grasses
That wave in the sun above my head as
I lay in happiness, sensing the earth.
 
It would seem a paradox otherwise
That interactions with most others were
Mostly a disguise, and the way many
Circumstances happened at random, the
Chance is, I’d surmise, that they were products
Of indirect words, quick furtive glances,
The memories blurred except for moments
When in bright flashes there was clear presence.
 
So when you say to me, ‘I’m glad you’ve come’:
‘Thanks, it’s a pleasure to be here’.
 
Society will wound us in varied
Ways. Over many years I’ve laid down more
Memories, interactive, full colour,
But what are the possibilities please?
I remember kayaking Waiheke
Island, hours on end with a longtime friend.
And we swam in winter on a remote
Rocky beach, crawling out onto the sand.
 
Naked around a driftwood fire I lost
The gift of speech. Atavistic urges
Surged in the meat of my frozen body,
And the fire and the pohutukawa
Trees breathed in me it seemed, and the full moon
Hung so clearly like a ball in the sky.
I felt like I was so fully here, or
At least, other times playing hide and seek.
 
So when you say to me, ‘I’m glad you’ve come’:
‘Thanks, it’s a pleasure to be here’.
 
‘Here’ is our galaxy of a thousand
Million star systems. ‘Here’ is why the Earth
Is a sphere, for no matter how far you
Can go away, really it just brings you
Back here. ‘Here’ is where our ancestors are,
For from the ‘here and now’, ‘there’ is then the
Hereafter, but even though ‘after’, we
Still remain here, never ‘taken’ by death.
 
Why is it so difficult to be here?
Is it because here is eternity
And infinity? What religions of
Doom have promised some celestial bliss,
‘Out of this world and into the next’, so
Never mind this, it’s just a short life, no
Gnosis, no deeper awareness, nothing
Like life’s journey with apotheosis.
 
There are many people who wait in queues
As they might be waiting for death: on pause,
Absent-minded, idling idly, nothing
Happening: except their life, rich around
Them, a story in signs and miracles
Mirroring, the flexibility by
Which if their awareness attended they
Might well abide in heavenly splendour.
 
How welcome it would seem not to be here,
To retreat into or out of this world,
Instead of marrying the eternal
Inner and outer, ensouling the world,
Considering the ‘suchness’ of ‘thisness’.
Discovering from synchronicities,
Sensory aliveness, intimacies,
And all manner of reciprocities,
 
Such that when I say to you, ‘I’m glad I’ve come’,
I can see it is your pleasure to be here.
 
 
6th July 2013

Death

One day we all gonna fly away
On the back of a large eagle sea serpent scorpion.
Waving goodbye
The sun setting on the evening star
Pyramids in the background
Fish in claws
This body
Lost of flesh
With a sceptre scythe
Sweeping away the sky
And on to a new day.

 

29-5-15

I Hear About These Ocean Planets

I hear about these ocean planets
Where water may be kilometres deep
Where don’t exist the coastlines of continents
No shoreline at all, no waves gently lapping on beaches.

No shirr and tumble on soft sand
No suck and tidal tug of broken shells
No constant fingering at the edges of estuary
Just the sphere of shimmering and surging and still sea.

I hear about the primordial forest
Where the air is unbroken by birdsong
No sudden liquid eruption or casual chirruping
Where the movement is only of beetles and dragonflies.

The flit and rustle and stir of wing
Humming and droning and murmuring
The swarm and coruscation of chitinous flight
But no cool cadence of evening song by a bird on a limb.

I hear of some meditations within
Attention drops below covering clouds
In the rare atmosphere the silent mind dwells
And extends all around until circumnavigation complete.

I hear from some forest far below
The walk and stirring of the Lord of life
When by a pool ripples up the one clear note
On resplendent wings I now fly to draw near the source.

2-9-2013

The Mosque on the Moon

1.
 
On the twenty-third of June in the year
Two thousand and thirteen, sudden motion
Was detected on the surface of the
Moon. By November ninth it was clear that
We were not alone and had not been lost
On the move. The mosque on the moon confirmed
All of that. We had just not been listening.
 
Glistening glint, the hint of light was what
Our telescopic eyes could see, but not
Microphonic, our ears were the problem.
The call had been made for millions of years.
We now know that the first movement was a
Momentary anomaly, a flick
Of a foot by a member of the faith.
 
But the heads had been touched to the prayer rugs
By the faithful many millennia.
The backs had been arched over eons of
Time. The marble colonnaded courtyard
Had been still, and the pigeons had roosted
On edges of the enclosure, and all
In grey and white shades were invisible.
 
So minarets had seemed like mountainous
Pillars on the edges of craters on
The surface of the moon. And the backs of
The worshipers like greyed-over moonrocks,
But more to the fact, when not expected,
The eyes of man had not been trained, and ears
Most certainly had been blocked many years.
 
– – – – – – –
2.
 
That first movement disturbed the prayer of time.
The birds were sent wheeling in unison.
Dozens of shapes swept like shifting saccades.
One in its wingshape seemed like the foreground,
Its wings angled upward like the crescent
Of the sphere, and the observer on Earth
Saw it was a sign, when the sound was heard.
 
Only he knew the sign came before sound.
For all others the sound filled the air, and
Ears everywhere knew the tune of the moon.
The muezzin was calling from the high
Minaret, from the roof of the world, as
The prophet of the seventh century
Had called for, and prophets before as well.
 
That the sound came with the sign was a great
Mystery. Only homo sapiens
Had been deaf to the call. In milky sea
The Earthship would list, lenses of ocean
Pulled by the tide, like two ears on the sphere
Of a mother’s round face, or two whites to
The sides of an iris, waters displaced.
 
In the mosque on the moon, no eyes had been
Turned to the blue and green jewel on the sea.
For the moon is the unborn sister of
Earth, the caul of its fortunes hiding from
Sight the footprints on Earth, til the turn of
Fate in ’69, a Yin-Yang of signs,
Left a footprint of man on its shoreline.
 
– – – – – – – –
3.
 
Wherefore forty-four years man’s eyes had been
Blinded when the eye of the moon had been
Opened. A mould was made of the mark of
Man, and placed in the mihrab built in the
Wall where the worshipers faced to pray to
The Source, to reinforce their one focus,
Knowing then that man could not hear at all.
 
All the creatures of Earth had always heard
The sound, the call to come to the prayer hall.
To the music of the spheres had their ears
All attended, to one hundred thousand
Million stars in an ocean of milk
One hundred thousand light years across in
A jug, crescent moon the lip of the spout.
 
The whales in their sounds in the singular
Water, ululations fluctuating
In the subsidence of tidal movements,
Knew the tune cast on the nighttime moonbeams.
And newborn foals too cocooned in their stalls
Felt reassured by the muezzin’s call,
And heard fully the extent of his song.
 
But for the humans who thought that the moon
Was a place, and not a portal or veil,
A speaker cone thrumming with the rhythm
Of space, a round music box wound with the
Thread of time, a skein of wool spooled on a
Bright bobbin in the mind, in memory
And imagination, analogy
And rhyme, the moon was indeed a dry place.
 
– – – – – –
4.
 
And so the moon was marked with man’s feet, a
Feat of literal comprehension, to
Knock on the dry wall of a deserted
Village in the heat of the desert, and
Not realize, that within the blank walls,
Had they arrived a little later, would
Be a welcome and water from the well.
 
Typical of the building traditions
Of the desert regions of the Earth, the
Mosque on the moon was featureless from the
Outside. The dust of the dunes covered
Man’s feet, mariners marooned on the moon,
lunatics lost from the loom, a balloon
That sailed off into space without a clue.
 
When the muezzin’s call was heard at first,
A madness entered the Earth, for the sound
Was merely a monotone, a drone just
Past mute, a low mellow toll of hollow
Bell, more a murmuring from a deep sleep,
Mutterings from the other half of the
Brain, a call ‘cross the corpus callosum.
 
Only the mystics heard the true sound, and
Communed with the mosque’s moguls and mullahs,
The imams and moolvis and African
Moors on their mosaic-paved paths on the
Moon. In the monastery of Mont St.
Michel, the monks there knew only too well
What it was like to be isolated.
 
– – – – – –
5.
 
In silences the monks meditated
In their cells like bivalve molluscs that strained
The sea of sound for meaning, til all was
Quiet and yet was heard the muezzin’s
Call as feeling, and a sense of inner
Movement, as though a mushroom were forming
Under the earth, and soon to be revealed.
 
The sadhus in the Himalayas were
Likewise occupied, as they rode the tide
Of sound from the meniscus of the moon
To full, and heard the pull like an oar through
The foam, like the spores in the loam, like a
Scythe as it sweeps through the field in the late
Afternoon, in their tympanum eardrums.
 
The artists and mooncalves and usual
Fools of society also grew still,
And stayed in their rooms and wound down to a
Pause, stowed in the shadows, and slowed to a
Crawl, and grew their antennae like moths in
The dark, and so heard all the goings-on
Relayed from the moon’s white radio disc.
 
In such ways for some the sickle moon sang
Like a venetian blind hung, turned from the
Sun. Or with curved blades bent flat, tuned to a
Varying degree such that that was the
Waxing and waning of feelings and sound,
Until moonlight was spilled on windowsills
Inside, and they walked and talked on the moon.
 
– – – – – –
6.
 
But those in the citadels of reason,
Shrouded in science and shored up against
Nature, only heard the tinnitus tone,
A ringing, an unanswered telephone
Reverberating in their craniums,
Machine-like titanium singeing
Nerve endings never sending along song.
 
Not for them was the white geranium
Of the moon blossomed in the woad blue sky,
But like a coin tossed, lost on dark pavement
Jealously possessed, a dollar, money,
Moolah, Moloch addressed, obsessed over
If it seemed that some other nation was
Mining on it with machines on the sly.
 
Or worse, if some alien entity
Had designs on the pride of the father,
And had thought they could take the dowry
Of the moon, and via the bride, spy on
The Earth, the groom of the moon and charge of
The paternalistic tribe of elders,
Monopolistic monarchs of Terra.
 
Training their telescopes further, they saw
Not a whit of the mosque, but straining with
Unbridled fervour, only saw more of
The feathers tempest-tossed, but witnessed as
A molecular disturbance, motion
Like snow in a blizzard of moondust so
They thought, not having eyes to see clearer.
 
– – – – – –
7.
 
With dry eyes and dry minds they saw moondust,
Like pockmarks on the Mona Lisa’s face.
They saw not the gaze of the mother-of-
Pearl-lustred sister of Earth, a goddess
Like she, twin at the birth but covered in
Night and unborn to the days of the Sun,
But festooned in her changes like moonstone.
 
They knew not the silvery spoon, dipped in
The soup bowl of sparkling sesame
Oil drops floating on dark miso soup,
The bleached wood wine cork bobbing on the sea
Under atmospheric mists amid waves
Of stellar cosmic rays, a pale doorknob
Opening to the landscape of nightfall.
 
They had not halved the feijoa moonfruit,
With the cool taste like the grapes from Bordeaux.
Or drunk lemonade in a tall glass in
The shade of a beach umbrella by a
Sparkling ocean. The moon is a shell
Caught in swollen swell of tidal motion,
Calciferous iridescent omen.
 
The milk teeth of the moon leave only a
Temporary bitemark on the passage
Of time. When full, her mouth is a moue of
Pout til the nipple is out again and
Fed, she sleeps once more, round belly growing
Smaller and turning into the blanket
Of night, grows hungry in her dreaming head.
 
– – – – – –
8.
 
Well, the merchants of enterprise chimed in,
And said expedition to the moon was
Timely, to determine the source of the
Sound. So with consummate skill they designed
A great vessel, a double-hulled schooner
Hung from a dirigible, an airship
Of technical splendour, Gondola One.
 
It set sail on the solar wind, ‘cross the
Swale of sky, like a coracle on the
Sea caulked watertight with oakum,
Anchor rope freed from the bollard of Earth,
From its mooring, and cast to the shivering
Stars, a glissade of light like the passage
Of past ships sailing the Straits of Dover.
 
Large lateen sails, slung fore and aft from the
Mastheads on loose-fitted booms, could accept
The solar wind on either side, and thus
With the voyage timed close to an eclipse,
The clipper spaceship tacked to and fro through
The tidal zone between the two planets,
A boat floating on the moat of the moon.
 
In its hubris it mimicked the moon phases,
With white robes of gossamer cobweb sails
billowing from sickle to albescent
Fullness, like the embroidered handkerchiefs
Of morris dancers flicked on the wind or,
Weighted with beads, placed over the rims of
Wooden milk pails pooled brimful with liquid.
 
– – – – – –
9.
 
Across the gulf of space, with the faint stars
Twinkling in their masses like milk sprinkled
On a bowl of black molasses, the bow
Of the zeppelin gondola ship sailed,
The long guyropes holding like a hand on
The pommel of a saddle steadying
Its course, the inky sea an ambling horse.
 
In the distance the moon loomed, murmuring
With the sound waves of the muezzin’s call
That emanated from craters deep in
The Sea of Serenity, formed over
Three thousand million years ago, by
Meteorites causing lava to flow,
Making the maria, the dark hollows.
 
Apollo never discovered the mosque.
Eleven landed on Tranquillity,
And Seventeen on Serenity, but
Even with this last mission, the result
Eventually on Earth, was that none
Heard much of anything, and never learned
That the moon was in truth a tambourine.
 
The moon was made out a monument of
Dust, a dowdy doppelgänger, a dry
Crust in a petri dish riddled with mould,
A millstone grinding the husks of science,
While the mass media relayed only
Talcum powder and dandruff to the young
And the old, and calcium for your bones.
 
– – – – – –
10.
 
As scientists pored over dry moon rocks
From the solar Apollo moon missions,
And telescoped into the empty eye
Sockets of the maria craters in
Porous skull bone of their own mongrel moon,
The Gondola One seafaring crew fell
Into orbit to circle la Luna.
 
And mutatis mutandis, the sound of
The shimmering, tremulous gong of the
Moon underwent a sea change, as a sine
Wave vibration lifted it into a
Modulating melodious music
And even an incantation, as the
Muezzin’s voice of the Muse was now heard.
 
The starship passed over the mountainous
Moonscape below, and the maria were
Arrayed like a montage of photos in
A row, the thickness between crust and the
Mantle of the moon, Mohorovičić
Discontinuity-like in thickness,
Thinnest where the ancient lava had flowed.
 
And it was as if the whole planet played
In a moderato tempo, with a
Mutable mellifluous melody
Swimming among the multiform moonrock
Like a meandering minnow below,
The moiré ripples of sound moistening
The moon’s dry atmosphere like monsoon rains.
 
– – – – – – –
11.
 
The Mandelbrot set of overlapping
Craters were mandalas of mantra, a
Plangent pattern of plate tectonics, a
Vibraphone or Moog synthesizer, a
Resonating drum kit of cymbals and
Symbols, like that of the surface of a
Pond suffused with syncopating raindrops.
 
The galleon gull of Gondola One
Sailed an elliptical path, over the
Artemesian satellite of Earth,
And felt the symphonious current
Reverberate in its hull, sharp-ridged keel,
Rudder and tiller, and wheel in the bridge,
And the magnetic coils of its turbines.
 
Now the albatross wings of its mainsails
Lifted the vessel to the height of the
Apocynthion, furthest point from the
Moon below, and over the edge of the
Curved horizon darkness grew, and thus swooped
Into deep dark lunar side, the diving
Almond mandorla vesica pisces.
 
A manhole cover slipped over the night,
The moon a dark bubble under sea, the
Monkshood wolfsbane octopus tentacle
Sucker surrounding and suffocating
Its prey, the sound now muffled suffering
Catacoustically, and crew onboard
In a form of forgetfulness trauma.
 
– – – – – –
12.
Cuticle of light, melt of butter on
Toast, a shoal of quick fishscales flashing in
Slant of sunbeam. A luminous hoop of
Lunisolar light tipped over the ship’s
Proscenium deck. And muffled bassoon
Turned mandolin, chimes and bodhrán again
In the flashbulb of the full melon moon.
 
Farinaceous host set in silver
Monstrance illuminated in a
Glass lunette, was raised by a priest dressed in
Black cassock, not moth-proofed such that the stars
Shone through. Rosary beads of nebulae
Glowed in curlicues, as the roaming craft
Of Gondola One reached its rendezvous.
 
Boosters flared, the windjammer’s momentum
Was moderated, and many miles the
Fair airship descended, til into a
Synchronous orbit it fell, above a
Floury flocculent ice-floe lagoon at
The edge of the Sea of Serenity,
Like flotsam floating above the seafloor.
 
Zoom lenses would see the mote in the eye,
Speck of metal, wood and muslin. Minute
Matchwood masts in a microgroove of space,
Zooplankton organisms in a vast
Watery waste, grains of pollen strewn by
The wind, while the Muslim muezzin’s call
Anchored them all, a harmonic harpoon.
 
– – – – – –
13.
 
Out in the boondocks of the galactic
Hinterland, the Gondola cosmonauts
On the observation deck scanned their eyes
Through the vacuum, looking for the source of
The euphonious sound – and the lustrous,
Gilded, turquoise and eggshell-blue tiles of
The golden mosque’s great onion dome answered.
 
The geometry and mosaics of
The iris of the dome were plumage of
Peacocks in opalescent polychrome
Arabesques of ornate decoration,
Calligraphic swirls and interlaced vines,
Fractal-like tendrils in elemental
Motifs with endless knot scrolling entwined.
 
The stationary crew fell into a
Swoon, realization rolling over them.
How jejune their mentation not to see
The moon was a convex mirror, onion
Dome pearl the microcosmic blue-green Earth,
And the calling, the reflected crying
For the moon of Earth’s inhabitants’ dreams.
 
The mosque on the moon has a cinnamon
Tree where all creatures go to pray, fed by
A gourd of water from Lourdes, memory,
Emotion, imagination, wonder,
Mystery and mood, liminal light and
Noosphere loosened in pungency, moon a
Corm storing water, fortune and story.
 
– – – – – –
 
 
© Tony French
 
Winter Solstice
Full Moon 2013

Outside The Window Snow Was Sailing Through The Sky

Outside the window snow was sailing through the sky.
The slope of the side of the mountain dissolved before the eye.
Clouds came crowding down while wind carried the flurries high.
The white surf washed against grey granite bulks til nothing there was dry.

And this was a scene in a dream.
Tinted window went from floor to past eye.
The scene was a scene in a dream.
Like on a screen of a world beyond I.

The strength of the mountain was like the slope of one shoulder.
The head was in the clouds above reach.
And the rolling snow caught by the wind was a spirit.
Waves of light pouring down and along a shining beach.

The height and the light and the cold and the cloud.
The flurry and the falling and the rolling and pouring.
So where was the heart as this weather made its way?
Where was the watcher inside in the foreground?

What company did he keep in warm room by the window?
Did the fire in the hearth tint the window and surrounds?
I remember the distraction of the beautiful scene.
The softness and the swirl and the whiteness and kindness.

The slope so smooth like some tilted horizon.
The slow-motion presence of this world beyond mine.
But I was listening to the words I was making in response.
Feeling utterly unable to trust in their labels.

What conjurations I could speak could compare with this beauty?
And it cried out for justice for at least one or two words.
Dissolving inside in the challenge of this beauty I spoke.
The words something ‘awareness’ and ‘consciousness’ too came out.

And a feeling inside multiplied just behind the words and within.
Not talking ‘about’ but being the very words that came forth.
‘Awareness’ and ‘consciousness’ filled the room like a wave.
A warm-coloured ocean radiating and carrying smiles.

And the eye for who I was in the dream expanded outward,
Becoming a circle of friends and the window and outside.

3-9-11

For Who Might See

You – did you know me when
I fell into the ageless well within?

And you – did you watch me while
I lingered before the flame
Of my Beloved’s smile?

Perhaps you – you saw me dance.
Did you taste the kiss of who
I touched in trance?

Maybe you – in your eyes I recall
A fleeting light:
A moon between clouds
On a stillborn night.

1997

Seasons Of The Soul

Life (unfortunately?) is not a linear progression of continual transcendence.
We loop-the-loop in periodic cycles whose zenith
Is the acquisition of higher consciousness given as grace or guidance,
And whose nadir is the sacrificial ordeal of the redemption of lower consciousness
And the gift of initiation.

A catalyst kicks it off, a season of the soul.
Looking back I can reflect ‘that was the period of my life when..’
How did that one begin? What started the wheel to spin?
We were on a roll, a spark ignited, something fired the imagination,
And we got caught on the rising tide, the movement of transformation.

The ‘New Age’ is largely a solar cult, fashioned from sunny California.
The sparkle of spiritual images from the commodity capital of Hollywood.
Bought in the marketplace we must make them our own,
Bringing image together with shadow to become real,
Find what is uniquely ours from all the ideas that appeal.

A calling turns us inward, beyond the public domain.
What got us kudos was not enough, the outward expression is flagging.
What was once professed we must now confess we know not where it came from.
And we ask in declining days of summer if we might humble ourselves to listen
and accept the lessons of the guiding ones.

Grace is the gift of those who have stopped seeking or struggling.
Outward confidence becomes the inner ability to confide in oneself.
Something nudges us from our certainty and calls into question
The mission we thought we were on.
Sweet season of touching the future self where it’s already all been done.

A crisis takes us full circumstance, opposite where we began.
We must enter the underworld embrace and allow an understanding.
Every aspect of ourselves wants to be accounted for and included.
The stretch in ourselves as we remind ourselves of the light while in the shadows.
It is the shamanic ordeal to use these tools for transformation.

And in that said period of your life, wasn’t there the determination,
To break several cycles of similar fate to gain an initiation?
The gift you receive becomes your service to see where others are caught.
What gold did you uncover? The rhythm and pulse of life discovered.
Seasons of the soul beyond which realization is sought.

 

~ Tony French 1998

 

 

Being Under and Down

Knew that sensation of being under and down
Shedding light skin rubbed smudged bunching dull edges
Infinitude left in the moment carries right right the way down
Inner thighs the bruised breath the head rests near the bevel
Undone beneath brow ridge the eye suns in the sundown
Cast arcs reaching far past the cave where heart gauges
Thumps fear beats the loudest the darkest is down

Prise prison til lengthen the sentence lies down
Narrow scent sent long long hallways serious sound
Check echoes of memory the trail follows the ground down
Shoulders relay it follows rolling train of the serpentine spine
Phantom arms yearn for knowledge from every ledge down
No hips hold such blood vesselled in delicate harbour
Sorrow shifts levels tails ripples in destinies down

Marrow and morrow and endless days laying down
Subterranean terrors near carefully sharpened sense
Eyes are streaming dreams in the darkened way down
Shutters of shadows flashing light waves listing in rhymes
Borrowed burrowed furrowed the body smoothes it down
The groove grows the road ploughs rows tossed in dust
Childhead turns in undertows mid time laid down
  
30 – 11 – 10