Wanting words that touch
That sound hollow when knocked
With your eyes on the page
Wanting to hear emptiness
Like the rush of spider’s web on the face
Crave the internal space
Open up like underwater
Knowing you are there on the mountain
Can’t see, can’t feel, can’t almost breathe
Wanting the heat to pass through
The pain believed relieved aglow
Incandescent even the sunset hue
No you, no me, laugh life let go
No words just touch
But open space an aftershock
A sky below above but touch
Wanting the unmistakeable truth
Arrived like insects homed after dark
Surrendered like light like a symphony played
Discovered like a cat asleep in the shade
But yes, not that, not anything made
A – ambition to jump over the fence
E – the horizontal effort of the event
I – the stile side-on over which I stride
O – over I go onto the other side
U – the bump as I land down again
14 – 4- 06
Thomas undertook a radical revision of his life.
His life he felt to be a fiction unread by most men.
By ‘most men’ he reckoned anyone unacquainted with strife.
With strife at his roots, is there anyone who could not understand,
Not understand more than a superficial gloss or first glance?
“First glances won’t tell a thing about me”, he declared.
He declared to himself a radical revision the only chance,
The only chance to be read where the level of fact was bared.
Was bared and naked of fictions the place where he’d see?
He’d see if the answer was to be found at the roots.
The roots were where no words could capture such truth.
Such truth was not the various versions of him it suits…
“It ‘suits’ of others, yes!” he said, “but not of me.
Of me they know so little. Deep at my core is pain.
Is pain and strife the ‘fact’ of my deep enquiry?
Deep enquiry then is at least a form of vision I gain.”
I gainsay you’ll guess the insight that occurred to Thomas.
To Thomas was given a gift when indeed he saw again.
A gain begotten when the light of awareness is on us.
On us the onus to clear the path of our life of the slain.
The slain are the dead-eyed men we see ourselves as,
Ourselves as lonely and unwitnessed by others at the core.
The core in truth has always possessed the light that it has.
It has been covered by a fear that it’s only ourselves that we saw.
We saw that without others loneliness seems to win.
To win new eyes to see we must give up one more view.
More view in fact that to see only ourselves here is to sin.
To sin is to see the ‘I’ and not become the ‘Eye’ that’s all of you.
Right, you got me off the mark fast and furious:
You bring to mind the word ‘canker’:
n. 1. An ulcerous sore of the mouth and lips:
That’s fine, by chance I have that at the moment:
Stress-related, embarrassing, but at least it’s not going to kill me.
n. 2. An area of dead or decaying tissue in a plant surrounded by healthy wood or bark.
That’s more like it. I always found that fascinating, that trees had dead parts next to live.
Are you then the canker of the human world, the dead we tolerate among the living?
No, you are worse, the dead that presumes to be alive,
The fool haunting our world not seeing the light.
n. 3 & 4. Any of several animal diseases attacking especially the ears of dogs and cats.
Any source of spreading corruption or debilitation.
Dogs and cats are sensitive creatures, their ears burn with your lies.
You are corruption, corrupt, bankrupt, broken to pieces, entropy,
Infesting others, investing others, wanting them to mirror your lie.
Cancer, the crab, crustacean, carapace over cephalothorax. Carcinoma, creeping ulcer.
Clutching with claws your hold on our lives, demon of material realms.
Malignant tumour caused by the abnormal division of cells, invading surrounding tissues.
Blind materiality. Carcinomatosis – n. the existence of carcinomas at many bodily sites.
Ah, but epiclesis – the call to the Holy Spirit to turn bread and wine into body and blood of Christ.
We will name you, Cancer. We will address you by all your names.
We will learn the words to hold our power against you.
Even if cancroid – adj. 1. similar to a cancer 2. similar to a crab – we will know you and see you.
Our call is life, of the living, to the Life Force, to consecrate again our daily bread of life.
The transubstantiation of the Eucharist is more a miracle than your self-making.
Take this bread and wine and make it known to us as human flesh in kinship with the divine.
Anull in us the pernicious notion that this body can mutate in darkness by its own.
From the ouroboric ovum of a single cell, to the birth of a baby with 20 million million cells,
And the universe of 50 million million cells in adulthood, we are the united light.
Lend us the language of metaphor – it is body and blood because we pray and say it is.
3 – 2 – 2007
Talk of things where one holds one’s breath.
Walls of citadels dusty with the desert’s wrath.
Face of fear, and death is stalking the streets.
I cover my heart now aware it is heaving red meat.
Night is swarming with locusts and lies.
All appearances wear a disguise.
In darkened doorway does my body give in,
Disappear in my chest and grow thin.
Eyelids shade like a camel’s wisdom.
I ride on the storm from my fabulous prison.
A troubled genii in a bottle’s throttled torment.
But the blood clutches the feet on the pavement.
The singular eye turns a gurney of gyres.
Golgotha is its claim and desire.
What witness am I that I’m caught in this web
While the light of the world rose into red?
The wash over me clears my mind of illusion.
Such imaginal memories seem not a delusion.
Wouldst my heart drip with red and the light lift my lungs.
Wouldst my breath give away and such speech light my tongue.
Cicadas buzzed as he wrote,
Listening to the music of Donovan.
The traffic up the hill sounded heavy.
And then the tape stopped playing the song,
Hissing with the cicadas and vrooming,
And clicking off, he could hear his baby breathing.
The traffic came down to the sound of waves,
Lapping and crashing on the coast.
And between the birds, he could hear these words
Bagpiper stands at the top of a hill,
And he’s calling to his clan:
I’ll find my art and perfect this craft,
Til I know the holy masculine.
And a poet prays til he falls silent,
And trusts his words again.
Then writes of things that touch his heart,
Til he knows the holy masculine.
And both alone they travel home,
To communities of other men.
To play their songs and share their words,
And embrace the holy masculine.
Fresias fade, withdraw their bloom
As though reversing time.
A smile she smiled at him now curls back
Toward herself in self-reflection, fades too.
She wants to crease the silence between them
Like a sheet of paper with no words.
Words get stuck in time.
Surely the arbitrary cannot be so arbitrary,
determined by chance or caprice?
Ancient bird of the Jurassic era,
The transmigration of the soul.
One actual, one abstract.
The half reptile, half bird, one of the earliest flying animals.
A creature living one hundred fifty million years ago,
A creature now dead, now extinct.
Ah, but did you ever really live for many millions of years?
A transitional form beween reptiles and birds.
Jawed teeth & a long lizard tail: feather & wing.
A form between demons & angels, a collage of concepts.
Etymology. From the Greek etumologia, ‘the word of the true or real’.
‘Archaeopteryx’. New Latin. ‘Ancient bird’.
We took pteryx from pterux from pteron, the Ancient Greek, up from Eden.
Pterux – ‘bird’, from pteron – ‘feather’, via ‘wing’.
Ah, but did you ever come from feather via wing?
I see the fossilized imprint of your body.
An encyclopaedia encircled, a cycle, a circle, a final stage for your breath.
A footprint on the path of time, your fossil wings visible as feathery lines.
Radiations from your spinal column.
And your feathers radiated out from these.
Ah, but was it ever that feathers grew first on your body?
Did you ever feel your skin feel like feathers, for the feathery very first time?
Feather to wing to bird. Flying as a finer degree of feeling. Metempsychosis.
The passing of a soul into another body or form of existence.
A physics of flying, a metaphysics of dying. Metaphor.
Ah, had you flown on the wing of the flow, thrown by the throw of the dice?
Words form into rhyme, their meanings divined from the signs.
Arbitrary existence & an A to XYZ of time.