Posts tagged ‘being’

20/10/2013

There is (No Like)

 

The thoughts are drops which form and roll,

Are watched a while like birds or breath,

Like everything that they are not.

Within themselves there is no “like”.

 

To journey and become again.

To be a thought amongst the thoughts.

To pass beyond all hope and loss.

To be the emptiness of thought.

 

When nothing is the world, there is

In golden light, in umber night,

In waveforms scattered out: there is

No space but space, no time but time.

 

There is a thought which rolls and forms:

A single drop of all there is.

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going journey.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

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14/07/2013

6am, Sunday

 

A flickering of morning wings;

A wire buzz of starling flocks;

A distant dog which echoes hills:

Vibrations of another day.

 

A tyre drone and clunking gears;

A martin pulling songs from mist;

Allotment cockerels blaring dust:

My eyes are shut, I feel the sounds.

 

The Sunday papers brought by van;

The jackdaws of a hundred eaves;

The voices raised some streets away:

Each sound has found its space in me.

 

The air is shimmering with life:

Despairing, yearning, joyous life.

 

 

07/07/2013

Hare

 

Those eyes, which take the souls and run

From hedge to far and vanished hedge,

Can pierce right through the skin of time,

And see its luminescent depths.

 

With unmatched speed and dancing heart,

A spirit dreamer, cast from minds,

Runs out across the plains and moors.

It runs not “to”, it runs “because”.

 

They watch us with our weighted gait:

Our feet, our arms, our thoughts in clay.

So slow, we live within a day:

A single, monstrous, leaden day.

 

They watch us with those eyes of light,

Those eyes which see beyond our sight.

 

 

23/06/2013

Peripheral Vision (Turrell Light)

 

The dark absorbs all sense of self.

A draining whole, negating space.

I stand and stare, alone and small,

A mind as lost as light itself.

 

There is no movement, nothing drifts,

The echoes of the first and last.

As flux eternal overwhelms,

The grip on truth disintegrates.

 

On truth: on what was built as such.

These fragments dazzled by our words,

These hopes and histories which choke.

That truth, that fraud, collapses in.

 

And I am left: a tiny thing,

A light in light, a flame in flames.

 

 

23/06/2013

Rothko Room

 

A London bright with April crowds,

With bridges arching north to south,

And skies a Hockney kind of blue:

A day for hitching heads to clouds.

 

We never really meant to stop,

There was no choice: we wandered in

And stop. We did. In charcoal grey,

And claret rich as Thames and Fleet.

 

The sound was drowned, and heartbeats slowed.

The room was emptied just for us.

I heard you breathing, knew the pulse

Of blood had found its perfect rate.

 

Outside the room a London boomed.

Inside we merged, surrounded, gripped.