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Sunday, 28 August 2011

50 word story...

There is a garden from where I start my pilgrimage.
Nearby two lovers meet by a bridge over a brook.
They share words of poetry from the psalms
it is 662
it is 1765
it is 1916
Creating language for them all
seeking meaning
weaving words with
the butcher’s knife.

Saturday, 27 August 2011

evening came...

and morning came...
the next day.

Bro. Ramon’s Diary…

Early spring 1926

awakening to the sound of the blackbirds pinking, today was another of those good to be alive days. The powder blue sky and the silence of the new day crisply sheeted about me
attention to detail now, slowly does it
breathing in as a first breath
breathing out as a first breath
eyes closed
aware of the rise and fall
aware of the ups and downs
aware of the rhythm of the universe
unaware of the universe
unaware of location or position
horizontal or vertical
but ready to make a stab at it.


The first assault:
ten thousand
headed by the strongest most fearful of the bunch
related to hamsters
some bears
or crows to the rescue
round and round
self-torture on the wheel
racked and ruined
ten thousand behind them
a million behind them
so many beady eyed gulls craving attention.

Aware of the breathing
it must be me
or some other
passing off a decent impression
breath in
some of them enter but make no impression
though there are many, the resolve is stronger.
Making a sound now
which cannot be made into a word
but it is like the breath of god
as it strains to forgive the sin against the holy ghost
and will not be stopped
they fall to rise again
the battle is on.

They are held in place by the breath of god
and stalemate ensues
for the day.
What passes for sanity
keeps me upright rising from the bed
seeing what is made
unsure of it's status checking its pulse
weak beyond belief
rootless and adrift
on a tide of barren seas
seeking something
but wouldn't know what if it was tripped over
onward Sancho!
there is more to life than this ephemera.

Seeds to be sown and weeding to be done after office…

after resting

when I think on my time in the workhouse it seems but a small thing and more a self-inflicted punishment when in truth my spirit was freer then than now and though the physical chains of poverty are removed from my circumstance the tenure of their composition has fitted me well for my life outside the walls…












Sunday, 21 August 2011

Lost in translation...

sound
speech
communication…
communion
common union
of one mind
consensual
brainwashed
duped
fooled
having the wool pulled over ones eyes
masked
hidden
quiet
silence

Weather
sunny
dry
warm
clear
summer back again
struggling to let go
not wanting to die
but realising its time is past
its time is over
time for autumn now to take hold
brown and rustle russet leaves underfoot
crisp husks of shed skin
summer creeping
crawling into autumn
newness






Sunday, 7 August 2011

Wittgenstein's Garden...

I got a packet of seeds today
free with a gardening magazine
Trying to work out the relationships of identity and meaning and role-in-world of the seed and the packet confusion set in, necessarily - of course, as a matter of course.
The packet contains written instructions, images and seeds.
Oh, the possibility of losing my reason has occurred
don't you worry,
but Beckett the gardener stuffs the packet in his pocket mumbling something about poking them sometime in the lousy old earth, but I doubt both his sincerity and his confidence.
Sometimes I think he's a bit past it these days but he's been a faithful retainer all these years.
Anyway, besides the point, down to it
work to be done
close the gap count the selfish books which, homeless, have taken seemingly perpetual residence upon and amid the creaking and groanings of my home,
floor and shelf.
Perhaps, like Beckett, they have worn my pockets thin
becoming small change dripping out of my trouser legs
(some transitory temporality winks in the corner of my imagination
scuttling off down the temporal lobe)
now we have him boys
in broad daylight too!
He's out of the garden now
in the computer
keep him here
out of the pen and the ink
the flow
the journal rich in becoming
and discovery...
it's too late now...
the moment passes like black
intricate silken lace
over the shoulder of memory.
Later...

Saturday, 6 August 2011

Endgame approaching - mind the gap...



…wagging their tales behind them.

If you want to tame a horse; put it in a bigger field.

…then, at his lowest ebb he dreamed of the market square in his hometown and a box of gold buried there…

or if you wish, ‘a man had two sons’…

either way
anyway,

sitting in this grey room of dry mists
between sleep and wakefulness
what stories come to feed at this water-hole?