Morning
Meditation, inspired by Chogyam Trungpa
The beauty flowers in each moment.
Crystal vases chime with the wind.
Reasons to be alive
stack up
like totem poles
in a forest clearing.
There are no rules
and yet
there must be an anchor.
Otherwise we float
like paper lanterns
into boundless space.
Swimming through cold water,
wading through thick mud,
fragrant smoke all around
to confuse the senses.
We read
from the old libraries
and
from the faces of rocks.
In their wrinkles
they tell of a time
pre-history, pre-shoes,
when men's footsteps
were quieter
than horses' hooves.
And women rained from the sky.
That time was like any other time,
in that,
it was passing.
There was a golden light
and it shone through feathers
from heaven.
And there was no tightening
only a free and easy loosening -
an exhalation
that was warm and long
and lasted throughout the night,
traveled down years.
Writing on paper
is the same
as writing on stone.
The fire only dances
around.
Every night
I dream fierce realities.
I lead a double life
just like us all.
Anxiety,
with Sheep Outside
Bleating onwards. When will they relax.
Oh to be sheep, to be torn backwards. To be laid down and sacrificed
on to stone walls. I sacrifice time, bury beneath it all. Everything
so far out of reach – I can not touch it, I tell you, I can not
touch it. What I can afford, what I can not. I am overheated, the
sweat on my brow smells like old ideas. An insect inside me – and
if the rain patters – lovelily, softly, lily pad – oh but the
gargantuan yawning mouth of a chimpanzee! I was born cold, born
somewhere with stone. Always like this – relax, relax, relax your
body...always like this...always like this...Bleats like cries.
Sunshine packed up in the clouds. Always like this, cross-legged and
free. Always floating, and one person has long hair, and you cringe
at the sight of a unicorn and – begin here, begin, a good day, a
good day, things always change, just rely on the constant change and
bury deep, bury deep. The heart of an ox, how it bleeds, and whisper
goodbye, whisper goodbye, to that one who sheared you, who shaved the
wool from your warm, bleating back.
Still
Life
Sunflowers beam in their earthen jar.
The afternoon melts and charms.
Situations, sticky and imperfect.
To taste strong coffee is a pleasure.
To pursue pleasure is a trap.
Hot milk.
Empty house.
Rustling of the seasons.
Cold air, breathing mist.
Pans on the stove,
melting pools of butter.
The house ticks.
It is not warm.
I
grant you this illusion
We can
smell the artifice and yet – how it reminds us of our grandmother's
baking, that warm smell, madeleines, welsh cakes, bara brith with
cold butter, slate tiles on the floor, rising steam from the kettle –
earthenware, red cold knuckles, faint smell of cow shit always in the
air, to remind us that there is no such thing as sterility – what
is this move away from shit and guts? That is life, is it not? That
is the whole messy complication – the shit storm, the production.
Nails grow after death. Scratch the surface and create melanoma.
Cancerous, ugly, crumbling like seaside fudge, sea salt rocks crushed
and snorted, fizzing up the brain canals – little fish, sailing up
arteries, pirates of diabetes. From the lava, lumpy like bad gravy,
come the faces of Guernica, tortured and stylised and surreal, all
rising and battered like masks discarded after Halloween.
Knowledge
I want you – to
tell me – what ribbons to wear. I want you – to tell me – what
flowers are there, do they blossom with fervour, in unison, do they
grow?
I assure you, I'm
floating on dust, whirring around like a freak in a trance.
Incessant tapping
and the crows caw like a crying wolf. Going mad with the very fabric
of existence – thick denim, cow hide, rough sack.
Beyond me, a storm
over red walls – The Red Castle – those freezing walls, so
stately.
The sound of trumpets and gypsies and war.
The sound of trumpets and gypsies and war.
To be inspired is
not to gain. To lose, to lose, to suffer is to gain.
Waiting for a
phone call, a buzz, a glimmer. All muscles standing to attention, and
the stomach, yearning, and the heart, confused, being as it is,
strange and alone, ears pricked up eternally, anticipating the soft
murmur of love in all directions, melting backwards with a Disney
princess sigh.
Unborn child
unaware of its fate, clasped to the hook at the end of a clothes
hanger.
I see gold
flashes, I part ways with no regrets.
Yonder, horizon,
beckon, startle.
The rumble and
jungle, the juice and the fibre.
Through thick
bracken and tall trees eyes wait for me, to say, you are more than
this, you are a torrent, and never should you work to death, never
should you feel as though you're working. You will always have
enough. Foresight is irrelevant, it's trust you should harness, and
in that intricate trust lies a stream of warm rosewater, bubbling and
fragrant, just for you. And the truth is that you were born and you
exist and you are in this exquisite masterpiece moment and writing
brings you here and there are no calamities, no explosions, just the
lovely soft knowledge that there is nothing else but white knuckles,
a pen, tired eyes, birds, distraction, the rich texture of trees,
uncertainty, white buildings, the jangle of plates.
The – knowledge.
The flight away from it.
The – knowledge.
The ascension, the fall.
The spirit,
gliding, with the face of a mask.
I found out there was only love
An accordion on the
streets of a cold city.
Women; true
versions of rainy day saints.
Gods hung in
churches like dripping coats.
If only we could
hold water in our humble palms
alas
it seeps through
and drips.
Camouflage
I land on soft ground
and here
the earth eats me up.
I am dazzled by the moon
and its empty breath
upon my heart,
the flapping of wings,
the beat.
...
I travel on air and
nuance
breathe and sink
like a lung
or a night-blooming
flower
opening up to a
moonlit sky
(that is my sun).
I shine in
darkness,
I am happy with
glints,
exploring the
shadows
barely perceived
when it is bright.
5th October, 1991
I was never witness
to my parents love.
It exists for me
only
in the jacket of a
book,
my father's
handwriting
wishing my mother a
happy birthday
with shy sincerity
a year before I was
born.
I witness their
love
through
reconstructions
inevitably marred
by the blundering
years that followed,
and other marriages
-
to people
and fates.
An Ode
As rain falls
soft and light as a
harp
and church bells
clang
in a strange
hallucination of sound
I look up to the
ceiling, the sky,
and bow down to my
chest, my heart,
letting life course
through me
knowing that I feel
love -
not ownership
longevity
or the promise of
its return,
but the kernel,
the sensation of
life,
and I let it flow
like a stream,
gushing, tinkling,
so that all my
pores perspire
with its perfume.
