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Sunday, 4 September 2011

A Pilgrim Prayer of Dedication

confused

the clock strikes eight

I affect nothing there is no life purpose
knowing this is freedom
breath - silence - stillness

pulled and plucked
I sing the mellow
and the last rayed days
of autumn fading light days
I sing the cold comfort
and the last days
of long winter’s chilled days
I sing the urge
and the first days
of welcomed spring’s rising sap days
I sing the warm freedom
and the endless memoried days
of long summer days

I sing to the earth, wind and sun
the dust and the rain
and my song is this:
I cannot pray
words fail
they cannot take the strain
shoddy tools
outdated, outmoded
long ago created
no longer fit for purpose
logic has betrayed me
settling for mediocrity
in the face of change
while just outside the doors
there is more, much more
always was
always will be
world without end
Amen!

Friday, 2 September 2011

500 words

What kind of a thing is a question?

Weather
calm cool collected
dry
white cloud
sun threatening

Visitation
samples of paper and cloth through the typewriter and then select destinations
I learned that from the debacle at Wysing.
Artists need the validation for their work from filling forms in.
Kurt Schwitters' barn… hmmm…
‘real’ artists don’t apply for arts council grants they just do
here I go again
I’ll be telling myself soon that
‘real’ writers are born and publishers
flock to their door
hmmm…

Back to the plot…
several test pieces…
that’s it
like the allotment
keep at it
futile attempts
punching above my weight
get back in the ring
dispel the myth
become the myth
theologise mythological philosophising
nice and simple
easy does it
laying traps for acoustics
the old ones are the best
see the caretaker about it
over dramatise
underestimate
lights!
camera!
acton!

A monastery garden potting shed.

It’s raining - a gentle misty rain, the sort that will soak a man in half an hour.

WG: Do what is possible
M: Not what I can’t do
WG: Less what you can’t do more what can’t be done
M: But can’t everything be done or attempted or striven for or at least stabbed at isn’t that what life is?
WG: Waste of time all of it.
M: Here in this garden do we not both contend against something? Isn’t there a natural order waiting to reclaim our efforts, returning all to a necessary resolution? To an extent we are just doing work for the sake of it. If the order should close and the ground be levelled our efforts will all have been in vain. I cannot believe that what we do here isn’t something. I work for the glory of God, discovering the transcendent in the immanent, encouraging growth and beauty, establishing order from chaos.
WG: Doing what can be done, it’s all nonsense other than that. Reasons have no validity outside language.
M: How does anything have validity outside language?
WG: You pray don’t you?
M: Do you say my prayer has validity?
WG: Would that make it valid?
M: I say that it has.
WG: Then for you it has.
M: And for you?
WG: My interest lies not in your self-validation, no, rather in the validation of your validation. For example the processes by which you self-determine verification, how do you know what you know is valid? How do you use the word valid in your process? How is your nature nurtured, your understanding of nature watered, given the right conditions? What comparison is there of the seed to the plant?
M: When I water the seed it grows by the grace of God. When I pray I water the seed of my intention hoping that I provide the right conditions the rest is up to God. In the end it’s all up to God.

Silence

M: The rain has stopped.
WG: Let us pray.

Later…
Forgive me for falling into your trap said the rabbit to the hunter

Thursday, 1 September 2011

not more room...

I need a clean sweep
only a clean sweep will afford the opportunity…
I will make a clean sweep and move the bed and use the wall….
as in Dundalk
as in everywhere
the wall is my salvation
the bare walled room
rank with the stench of history
beneath the whitened gallery wall
feeble attempts at naming the unamable
living somewhere outside myself.
no distance at all
trapped by the mirror in the cage of language
parrot watching
cat stroking
toyed with
as in a bell jar
suffocating
sterility.