Posts tagged ‘belief’

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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09/07/2013

Three Hares Linked

 

Across the steppe and mountain plain,

The hare came tumbling, carved on rock.

They spoke no language, gave no sign:

They simply were the three as one.

 

Along the silk route, scratched on wheels,

The traders pondered what they meant,

And made up tales and sang them songs:

The hare were lovers, mystics, gods

 

And on a distant, ice-cliffed, shore

The hare at last could make their peace.

They found a place of fragile walls,

Which faced the sea and all its storms.

 

The three were one, their journey long,

Together: water, stone and sun.

 

 

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.

 

 

03/05/2013

The Almas

 

The Altai nomads sleep in skins,

And lay hot stones on melting snow.

We know the envy of their souls:

For generations we have watched.

 

Our altars pile from mound to moon,

To seasons of the thousand lives.

We touch horizons deep within:

Beyond the heart, beyond our time.

 

Beneath the grasslands work our roots.

Our feet kiss feet with mirror men.

We feed the sap of spirit pines.

We leave our skins on jagged rocks.

 

We raise our voices in the still:

The Altai nomads fade as dew.

 

 

30/01/2013

Solaris

 

Above these tides of dreams and life,

Where birth is but a breath from death,

And all the fears you thought you’d fled,

Can gather round to smooth your brow.

 

Above them – can we say above? –

They flow, they ooze, they doubt, they prove,

A conscious flood of yesterdays.

What made you strong – that quivered lip?

 

That toy you held, because because you knew

It couldn’t last? You gripped it tight.

The love you held as if they’d leave

A note for you, and nothing more?

 

The tides keep rising from your past:

On each remembered kiss there’s blood.

 

response to the films and novel “Solaris”.

19/01/2013

The Carpenter’s Oak

 

Beneath the patina of oak,

The sap of ages weighs the worth

Of prayers and hopes, of rights and wrongs,

Without the curse of falling leaves.

 

The carver and the carved are found

United in this judge’s bench.

In every cut are questions marked:

Belief and doubt are scratched the same.

 

And where the rational preaches calm

The oak will stretch a hanging rope.

Its shadow falls on certainty:

The measured minds will lose their voice,

 

Beneath the words the oak spreads roots.

Behind the incantations: fear.

 

 

(poem inspired by various stories of M.R. James)

10/11/2012

The New House

 

The corridors were made of speech,

So loud you could not hear their words,

But everything they said made sense:

They’d heard this life and spoke of death.

 

The grandest hall revealed its gifts:

It filled its floor with corn and gold;

Its mirrors split and reeled its light;

Its tables full; its serpents sleek.

 

The garden took you to its core.

It played its role, it played its year,

It sang its birds and wheeled its moths,

Then in its torchlight danced its night.

 

And when at last you ate and drank,

You were renewed, you gave up thanks.