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Sunday, 23 September 2012

Regain Paradise in 18 minutes 45 seconds

The Value of Knowing
knowing

that I know
and that I know I know

it does no harm
hearing
again
to hear
again

to know I know how I know
and knew
I knew

so
now
I know the know I knew
and
the value of knowing

nothing
[keep up the good work]

*Critical thinkers will, of course, be considering the danger of a single story consisting of insistence upon multiple stories.


Good luck with that one.



Thursday, 6 September 2012

Easier now

Chopping
discovering
burdens can be lain down
only release the either or
wisdom.

Wednesday, 29 August 2012

Boxed in

fallen
the day is done
the party is over
hard work takes us over again
waken!



once was a man
fell foul of the crows
tending his sheep
flinging stones
he forgot his place
on the page
while asleep
they pecked out his eyes
blind and worse unseeing
stumbling through the field of boxes
story of his own making
fretfully seeking ways out
which led inward

Friday, 24 August 2012

The Danger of Formula

after
breaking the bowl
looking at scenery
smell the scent of the new mown hay
bravely

comely
wearing a smile
covering modesty
ask for nothing I’ll give you all
darling

even
long running road
tales told by idiots
heard by fools who sit on their hands
fearless

going
fed up by day
plagued by the nightmarish
retreating to caverns by night
hopeless

inking
plate and paper
black and white pressed tightly
giving taking making edges
joyful

kitchen
paper hanging
where does the money go
follow the nightingale’s calling
lament

mourning
wondering why
knowing well the reasons
the mind knows but the heart keeps score
nowhere

open
always be free
never close the doors tight
leave light a little space to come
prayerful

quiet
nearly there now
hush fleet little voices
scurry away daylight coming
running

startled
caught in light
fear is bred in darkness
away and be gone said the moon
tomorrow

unseen
they follow me
pointing to healing light
leading my footsteps to freedom
verily!

wonder
what is to come
hoping it fortunate
trusting it to the hand of god
x-ray

yonder
blue sky of home
forgotten memory
fragments of hopefulness carry
zoned

Monday, 6 August 2012

neglected

the weeds, so called
grow and grow
along with everything else
time to redress the balance
stand a bit closer to the earth
soon enough to
join it
but not today



upside down

who knows
no one knows
nothing to know
who says
all says
what says
everything
who hears
all who have ears
hear this
nothing to hear
here
so there there
not now when
again and again
think loops
no escape
then suddenly
‘pop’
goose out of bottle
now we know

sometimes
things are ok
reversely apportioned
in the nick of time all is well
again

Catalogue

Borges' catalogue of catalogues
Russell’s paradox
the barber
the librarian
which librarian sets out to catalogue a library and then angsts about whether to include it or not -
the philosophical librarian of course
but then the philosophical librarian
would hardly embark on such a task
learning early in the day
that there were far more things to be occupying time with
like the notion of time
the notion of notioning
in oceans of space and time
etc.

Chorus:
stop
so do
i
period
end
fin


vertical towers
hexagonal
infinite mirrors
Spiegel Im Spiegel
mirror in mirror
in mirror mirror
boxes in boxes
box in box
boxes in boxes
worlds within worlds
russian dolls
infinite series (implied)
on and on
etc. etc.

Chorus:
stop
so do
i
period
end
fin


round and round
carry on carrying on
endless cycle
ring cycle
Borodin
Wagner
Hitler
Auschwitz
liver and lights
Sisyphus Prometheus Tantalus and more…
tales of transformation
Part and running down to slow and stop
because it has to eventually

Chorus:
stop
so do
i
period
end
fin


stream of consciousness
ocean of dreams
infinite connections
established coordinates
deep memorology
morphology
shapeshifting
shamanic journey
Jung
Freud
consciously or not
raw sate
Texas
beefed up
American dream
economic nightmare
buried alive
Kill Bill
kiddo

Chorus:
stop
so do
i
period
end
fin


You put the phone down
no you
no you
you first
no you
see you then
bye
have you gone
now
(laughs)
you first
(both laugh)
no you…

death comes like this
it’s no joke
no one laughs
really
without
the tears run down your face
in the end
finally

Chorus:
stop
so do
i
period
end
fin

Friday, 20 July 2012

Tuesday comes locating itself easily between Monday and Wednesday

a thought
just a thought Robert,
it’s coming up to the time
when you are usually thinking about making a book of this journal
the autumn/ winter
crow laughs
autumn/ winter
as if they are things
like beaks and claws
levering and pincering time
into large chunks of carrion
memory
trapped and located in dreams of what
can you remember last nights
no

well look at last years and see I it rings a bell…
and I am gifted with a Stop Press quotation
which speaks of wisdom and private fibres of being
and I think about context and weaving
and weaving a life on the loom
or

Ariadne gifting me a ball of thread and a sword…
to slay the minotaur and ten abandon her on the island of Naxos to be discovered by Dionysus
some say the god told me to leave her on the island
at any rate she chose to hang herself
then he chose to find her in hades and take her to olympus
earning her the status of the gods…
well that’s how wiki has it…
me -

I think
she took him by the hand
and led him to the edge of the world
look down
look down and see the world which you have created
look up and see the world to which you go
he looked up and down and saw no difference
he said so
she smiled
closing their eyes
they noted that no world existed and Berkley was right
worryingly
the others never learned either
lumping on in some ungainly
almost
undignified way toward death
with no thought to cats or dogs
trees or soil
anyway


another day dawned
and eyes opened again
this time upon a plateau
a grassy mound
free from Freud
but not from Jung
this opportunity wasn’t to be missed
grasping the opportunity
with some handiness
they ran across the bridge together
he assured
her afraid
that the curtain
would not hold
and the other worlds would break through with them
and shards of glassy material
which once were woven into the fabric of life
would need the expert touch of a seamstress
no longer available
skills lost in the mists
of time and money well spent
on the ball of thread
and the sword
clasping time in space
they slowed
consolidated
met the king
opened the door
walked the path through the landscape of each others souls
criss crossing
miss matching
jigsawing
putting together patterns
in a fruitful way now after all the business with
sex and drugs and rock and roll
weaving the threads of being together
looming
wefting weaving wovenness
who know what words mean and what linked in a meaningful way means
who know what meaning means
who knows
who




Monday, 2 July 2012

wisdom in brokenness

folded
pages of gold
brightly burnished symbols
carry more than makers intent
meaning


one minute
the map is unfolded
the next steps
understood
relative positions established
moon-sun and tide aware
starry compass
needle points the way
over worn wooden stile
across mild mannered summer meadow
under birdsong punctuated skies of blue
the next minute
it is folded
another day’s muck-ravel
to untangle

Saturday, 16 June 2012

Southwell 2112




15 tales from 
Southwell Chapter House
2012




Dedication:
to the ones
who see something
who know something
and
who live what they see...


Narthex

i
She 
the one met learning
mis-placed
mis- matched even
lowly handmaiden
servant of the LORD
be it done unto me
according the word
as it was in the beginning
now and evermore
Amen.


ii
He the shy and cunning
twisted ties of home and away
wearing magical carpets
lightly 
outwardly bestowing
gifts of a lifetime
generously with measure
and pace.


iii
He the simple complex soul
generator
interpreter guide
open honest 
as the day is long and wearied
by the lack of recognition
satisfied by the accord
given by those who love him


Prebend

iv
He of the horses laugh
deep conviction
high opinion
loving longingly 
tearful eyes for the woman he lost
tearful soul for the mother he lost
he beat his harsh exterior 
planished his soul 
for love of knowing
in times of distress.

v
He the
gentle man
impressions on silk 
of a past so rich
transferred 
with gentle loving care
smooth as a sunset
light as a kiss
gestured lightly
with a loose grip.

vi
He the lost soul
fighting inner demons
ravaged by drink and 
eaten by self-hate
longing for mama
longing 
for the maggot in his soul
to be gone
feeding it constantly
encouraging its
growth.


Nave

vii
He
the first to separate light from dark
little less than the gods themselves
towering over their precociousness
in his humanity 
smashing their high towers
pulling them down to earth
anchoring them in the crumbs
of everyday
devising more and more stories
with which to discredit the storytellers
painting images in the mind
dishonouring the painters trade
Yes
he certainly put them in their place
with a certainty built on sand
as all certainty is.

viii
He
the godaware one
earnestly doing without
body or soul 
in the cause of truth
second place body
first placing mind
and dialogue above
all else
purposely misconstrued
forerunner of the Nazarene
he took the cup with gentle ease
slipping from their gaze 
into their unconscious.

ix
She 
the visionary
pierced with loves arrows
time and again
ecstatic love
blind to bodily passion
acquiescence personified
blinded by the light 
silenced by the sound
able only to harmonise
with the heavenly chord
timelessly
weaving vision with sound

x
He
of the mighty oak
deeply rooted in prosody
rhyme meter and song
sitting on the kings throne
dripping with connections to
the other-words
torn and twisted
learning the ways
to straighten and re twist
the cords of life
in all seasons
cloaked in feathers
of glistening gold
and silver
spry and light he flew
across the plains 

xi
He
the mighty ancient bear
proudly bumbling in and out 
of cave and well
in defence 
constantly questing
in his brown-blackness
camouflaged against reason
smashing down doors of ignorance
and logic
proudly wearing 
battle scars of the old days
smiling proudly 
couching me in his arms
enfolding love

xii
She
the flighty jet black crow
seeing high above
lands and seas of 
joyful discovery
hoping from foot to foot
dancing on the grave of logic
with her mother wit 
this bag of feathers
flies the arterial roads
of knowledge accrued
over the ages
and counts it all
as dust
pecking around 
for hidden crusts
and rain pools
in which to dip it


Choir

xiii
They
so many 
impossible to count
shouting after the first
me!
mine!
we!
ours!
listen…
grubbing around for crumbs
from the table
missing the point
missing the table
fighting and killing
for the right to claim 
a place at the table
there are empty chairs
look up 
look up!


Altar


xiv
They 
with trumpet blast
proclaim
in song and heavenly notation
the joy of live performance
the living song 
the living word
that stirs the orphic gland within
connecting
linking with filamental love
the lover to his soul
together they transcend
for seconds out of time
in spaces carved from 
life’s allotted span


Lady Chapel

xv
nearly
in silence
close by now
gently flowing streams
constructed cathedral leaves
about my head
laurel leaved
victorious
over death
no longer held captive
the manacle marks
slowly heal
cataract dimness
darkened eyes
perceive such a heavy 
light
lifted effortlessly
revealing the ford
the stream
the endless starry night
hear
my soul sing 
appropriate tribute
necessary half shekel
to the sky
baying at the moon
hard pressed 
now
fated to come to my knees
arms outstretched
freely returning 
the unasked for 
gift of life
so cruelly
bestowed
for my sanctification and salvation
from everlasting time
and for the sake of nothing
sounding foolish
like a gardener
outside the tomb
crying for his lost love.

Thursday, 10 May 2012

Alchemy

be careful not to turn the gold into lead
he said
by some strange alchemy
he said
gilded lilies
are no finer
for their veneer of explanation
he said.
“Are they real or plastic?”
she would say;
as if plastic wasn’t real
or reality wasn’t plastic
he said
quietly
in the darkness
before the dawn
he said
be careful not to turn the gold into lead
she whispered

Wednesday, 9 May 2012

50 words

stepping stones to nowhere
into the welcoming mist of uncertainty
already closing in
only three stones visible
father, son and holy ghost
turning to see am I on the first stone or the mainland
realising that
I am standing on the water
momentary clarity through the mist
I step forward

Monday, 23 April 2012

Wayland Seed-jars


sproutings
hearing bird song
proposal connections
anchoring the green woodpecker
index

anyway the day is grey the forecast is april-like
the signs are cool, clear, calm, dry, overcast
tiny-peeking-brightstar.

Position again unsettled
landscape barren yet fertile
well rotted compost
crumbly friable soil awaits
rain and seed
seeking new growth,
new species,
awaiting glimmer of explorer
collector
sunlight between finger-shadows
across the keyboard.

Standing on the high place witnessing
vast expanse,
inviting.
Hitching a ride on a cloudy idea
woven from a thousand dreamless nights
sleepily descending to earth with an unapologetic plop.
Wondering where for a second
unfolding memory
noting that the key seems to have slipped over the page.
Somehow it feels unnecessary to turn the page as the strangeness now has become familiar and an at-home-ness smiles unexpectedly from ear to ear. This newly unfolded life lays before me with ridges and furrows of expectation. Excitedly I scan the
land markers
waylanders
way-markers
slippage and sliding in meaning
vitrines of experience. 

Marked catalogued stored in some warehouse of indeterminate size and connection with the earth
the land
the dirt
the shiny glass lifts me up to the mummified remains of childhood
walking home across the brook in shoes
squelching home across fields
and fields
and fields
of the new-town
of awakening adolescence.
greened with the grass of journey,
warmed by the sun of the outdoor baths
hopening to the the love of otherness
falling in love with life and the joy of being in the world…
still connected by the musty odour of snuggling
closeness to the source
unknown at the time
but carried within the brain.

Sunday, 8 April 2012

plotland


a series of dialogues at the edges of the real world
discourse at the edge of reality
stories about journeys

re-enact-ment?

Calabrese 'Ramona'


as if to say
job done again
smiles and stories
children happy
flagging up against the void
torrid exchanges
amid winners and losers
all in the game an almost severed head
broken oar
carry stories across the seven waves
escaping into an uncertain future
from a flimsy past
come again
return to the garden
sit with the gardener
catch sight of the muse
ask the question for us Mary
which soever Mary you be...
hear the ringing bells
of future certainties
unfolding
awkwardly amid the
shrovetide ashen
hot cross buned
crucified
resurrected
one-who-could-not-be-held-by-Death
laughing in the breeze
dancing with the poor
rolling the stone
away from hardened hearts
opening the arteries
pointing at us
pointing at me
pointing at ME!
me up the tree
me on his knee...
what a performance.

Freedom of Information ACT

Calabrese 'Ramosa'
Record keeping is interesting isn't it?
I have just discovered that I should be more worried about "other crime" than robbery, burglary, violent crime, or vehicle crime, it came second only to Anti-Social Behaviour in my area.
This little reverie started when wondering about the number of cherry blossoms that fall each year and why no one keeps a check
or raindrops
teardrops
but cough drops
now there's a thing...
commodity
when cherry blossom becomes
worth something
and children are employed to
run around and pick them up
in paper sacks
and exchange them for pennies
then we'll know
then it will all be over
when tears are measured
in drops
or trickle length
then we'll be sorry
and pine for the days
when
we half noticed
the real world
touching our imagination
architecting soul
landscaping hope...
the devil is probably in the process
of keeping records
including
excluding
defining;
you know the way...
'correlation does not imply causation'
cum hoc ergo propter hoc...
ad infinitum.

Saturday, 31 March 2012

Nettles


The thing is I was happy with the nettle bed where it was
but then
I started lusting after a fruit cage
and then
in order to accommodate said fruit cage
it would be necessary to dig up the nettles
and then
someone said weed kill them
but I, being me decided not to
so today I have discovered
the thick matting which is the shallow rooted nettle...



fluttering and dancing in the breeze...
rhyzomic...
Deleuzic
rhythmic
inextricably linked
red and deeper
yellow

and now I have left a thousand plateaus
tiny shoots
to sprout
and grow in their places...









Wednesday, 29 February 2012

Doing something with the extra day

Fruitful Day
Today I planted 6 fruit trees in the allotment. When they celebrate their official first  birthday I hope to be looking forward to an autumn fruit fest. 2016 and I will be 67 years young.