Posts tagged literature

Silver – Walter de la Mare

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Dedicated to Arna, the wonderful Silver Poet, who’s first poetry book is available.  Arna is a beautiful poet and superb artist.  I feel very lucky to have Arna in this blogsphere and multi-dimesional mystery –

“I deeply love and believe we are not a multitude at all, but one massive beast of pure conscious awareness.” The Silver Poet

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Gitanjali – Rabindranath Tagore

I had the pleasure of visiting Hay on Wye in Mid Wales last weekend. A charming place full of second hand book shops. Whilst taking in the poetry section of one of the characterful little book caves, I came across a copy of Gitanjali by Rabindarth Tagore, originally printed in 1921 by Macmillan and Co, St Martins Street, London. How could I resist?

67

Thou art the sky and thou art the nest
as well.
O thou beautiful, there in the nest it
is thy love that encloses the soul with
colours and sounds and odours.
There comes the morning with the
golden basket in her right hand bearing
the wreath of beauty, silently to crown
the earth.
And there comes the evening over
the lonely meadows deserted by herds,
through trackless paths, carrying cool
draughts of peace in her golden pitcher
from the western ocean of rest.
But there, where spreads the infinite
sky for the soul to take her flight in,
reigns the stainless white radiance.
There is no day nor night, nor form nor
colour, and never, never a word.

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Love is Life – Leo Tolstoy

“Love is life.

All, everything that I understand,

I understand only because I love.

Everything is, everything exists,

only because I love.

Everything is united by it alone.

Love is God, and to die means that I,

a particle of love, shall return to the general

and eternal source.”

Leo Tolstoy

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Short Order Grilling

Feral freight boxes on the midnight boundary;
Bugles and epaulets sink like sugar in the rain,
Heart beast flutters, roads signs and bullet holes
Pass the time.

Honey is love and the city a concrete hive,
Worker bees low and not humble
But words burn deeper than the Stanley knife tease,
When mixed with vim, a cocktail of forces
In the maverick rows of green bottled minds.

Creations heals a miden of scar tissues and knotted intentions,
Something amiss breeds hope unrequited and delectable;
Acid rain erodes the detritus and coaxes the
Grotesques asphalt to appease the soles.

Honoured ghosts you are beatific in the marble forest creeks,
Speak now for our virtues are brackish and needy,
Our Gods left us diseased on the short order grill
Where all immigrant flesh is broiled
And desensitized and tranquilized.

We are presented as a cripple
Beneath the flashing bulbs of bucolic banality.

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A Child with Dusty Feet

Deep in the mind there are oceans of empty peace,

Beyond the mind the universe is blissful and whole,

 

Within the body our senses are the merest dawning of experience,

In consciousness we are in flight and tracing the astral vapours,

 

In love we are the divine incarnate entwined in a colourful game,

On rocks we rest and stare into sheer nothing in adulation,

 

Enraptured by the wilderness fold, we are lost to the elements,

Our fate is sealed, there is one road to a glorious departure,

 

Where we may tread as a child with dusty feet, still trusting.

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Moss Banks and Fading Heather

Summers Coming!

Summers Coming!

This poem is a gift to all those still living through winter, summer is ever on the way!x

The steaming moss banks and fading heather,
The land gently sloping away;
The call of sky larks hung in morning splendour
Breaking through the new day haze.

The lightening greens of summer promise,
The aching wait for the first fair day;
The coming of the heat wave and ice creams,
The loosening of our island ways.

The startled sheep as trains pass by,
Smoke clouds cloak holiday makers and sighs,
The people clutching hold of valleys,
Carving paradise into the hills.

The quietening of the countryside,
The wind is seldom raised to a breeze;
The snoozing in meadows and riverbanks,
The laughter over a picnic tea.

The dark water marks of winter recede,
The light comes pouring through;
Stride emboldened over dip and dale,
Deep in forests along new found trails.

There is a palpable ease
When the trees sway listless under brightened leaves;
There is a sense of inner peace
When the sun kisses our milky skins.

There is a rising of our dreams
As we are ironing this crease,
Where nature is a friend not foe
And each life a legend to behold.

May we harvest the essence of these times,
Store its energy as precious seeds inside;
Mark this very day as the tidal reverse,
A chorus springing straight from the heart.

We are arm in arm enraptured
By these early summer chapters,
Devoid of precious, sullied fears,
At this blessed time of year.

P1070363

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Live It

Live it loud,
Live it free,
Live it opposed to the powers that be…….

Live it in love,
Live it in sorrow,
Live it because there is no tomorrow……..

Live it in words,
Live it in song,
Live it your way, but not for long…….

Live it to enjoy,
Live it with style,
Live it with passion and well worn smiles………

Live it alone,
Live it in groups,
Live it embraced in the quest for truth………

Live it to dream,
Live it to dance,
Live it like this is your very first chance……

Live it resist,
Live it relax,
Live it in moments not tied to the past………….

Live it in celebration,
Live it in doubt,
Live it still curious, open and proud………

Live it, live it, live it………

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All Tomorrow’s Parties

I
Give me a thick coat to keep out the howling winds;
From those eyes, blood drained hate, mortal rust never
Sleeps alone.

Melancholia knew a boy blindsided,
I’d never seen the needle of death coming,
Skipped misery as a flaw.

How strange that happy words won’t turn the
Dissolving soul.

Young dreams now darker in the corner, bodies revolving
Towards the earth and heavens.

II
The way I remember your bed, may it never change.
In that morning light when I was not grey or tinned.
Potential, in skins; in the darkest blue of night
(the ecstatic fizz)
I still find you shining and fraying, twisted at the summit,
Drowned in concoctions of beauty and sacral liquid.

Step out with me on the feathered roads,
Spreading like nerves endings into the flesh of continents,
Where the winds map our backs and whip our necks into shape;
Dancing hair and minds invoke true love games tied in writhing knots.

Weave blankets over sinning dark rivers of doubt that flush the belly
Of freedom and potential; a familiar seasick feeling en masse.
Driftwood, our damned and splintered edges,
Finds soft lake lands beneath zero, shores of smoothed vermillion stones,
Wear this weariness like fur, easing away to hibernation.

The open road is no place for a closed book.

III
How long has this ghost lived here?
The heroes overseas with their own abstract endings to burden,
Hang on the free-winged as the horizon erupts like angry volcanoes.
The road is dug shallow, we reach for real but feelings soon fade
And muddy.

Excuses for religions blot ages and revolutions topple paper idols
Whilst the culprits lie low with serpentine illness;
Smoking balls of wool, laps lined with golden tweed
And seditious cocktails of hatred.

Never found a hometown, never settle down,
Never laid down rocks or rules, never cared for those odds;

The silhouetted condor picks at stars, tears through constellations,
Across the railroad track and I’m one way headed, no back ward steps.

Toothpicks and broken glass by the lazy stones not expecting
To find a penny in the mire or hands to hold.

IV
Back in our bed, I lay with your wholeness, wrapped up against icy climes;
36 and still young, just tender. Dreaming up names on the crumbling walls
Where rats raid our sleep.

Still nothing done, no words remain, no meaning-less
Than before, no scam that elegant, no ruse unique.
Alcohol still makes me burn and ruminate.

I hear the rain lashing down, renewing Turkish soil and the roses of the garden,
Tearing the dead leaves from the gutters, falling on the wolves of the forest,
Etching natural mandalas across the wilderness plains.

Show it to me again in dawn’s first blush, perfection breaks the hallowed canopies
Of the smoking village elders.

V
Maybe I’ll start wearing hats, take a vow of some sort;
Turn the grist in the internal grind, draw the white line engrained
Too far in timelessness;
Trace these migratory routes over rolls of red tape and wire fences,
To surely witness the making of an angel without crimson needles,
Dripping mania.

You can’t read about Picasso, take one snowflake at a time.

VI
When it’s your time you won’t feel the pain and your father will fall
Silently on one knee. Freedom falls beyond deaths shadows,
Where young hearts forever roam imperious.

Old sun, richer; sweet morning quality of being,
I’m drifting still in melted mind puddle.
No thoughts in my cave, buried alive by mundanity,
This material mutiny must be crushed.

Pictures behind closed eyes tell me more,
First real talk with my inner child, first time I loved there.
There’s fighting to be done, a war at our door,
No peace to be found until the last doubt fades
And the oak groves reclaim this island paradise;

A green revival trickles steady, drawn from the truth seams,
Scrawled jagged, ancestral, blackened minerals of fossilised wisdom.

For upstairs, wild mountain; in all tomorrows parties freedom comes,
In perfumed silence over purple heather clutches,
No one can live right steeped in senses.

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Caught in Bliss

Old Town Bikaner, Rajasthan - January '15

Old Town Bikaner, Rajasthan, India – January ’15

The layout of my life seems creased,

When the universe breathes

I release.

The twisting rhyme and song of the

Wandering Celtic minstrel

Is what loosens my ties and leads me

Deeper.

The look in the eye of the lonely desert guru

Leaves me captivated and bereft of reasons to ignore

The call

And shirk my weary self.

The battle lines are drawn in sand caught up

In a peace profound

And falling face down into bliss seems the only way

To land.

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Shelter from the Storm

Rose Valley, Cappadocia, Turkey, 15/11/14

Rose Valley, Cappadocia, Turkey, 15/11/14

My heart is sung out,
But to where does honesty carry
The buoyant caste.

Metallic clouds ring the sky
With grey,
Circle my stilling mind
With a heavy halo.

Lightning strikes the village pond;
Lashing black striation
Of awesome calm and power,
Baby frogs take cover
Beneath the blades of quivering grass.

The fields sway in controlled ways,
The well rehearsed bird song unfolds;
The reason we are reaching out
Only to return to centre.

All things that flip and flow
Off centre,
Balance redressed when gaze
Turns back;
To the source of heart and soul,
The primal clicking of some things
Unseen; some more,
Without cause or measure.

Where once we rested
Naked in the dark,
Small bells tied to our ankles
In a cascading melody of calm.

Drops of storm rain cleanse
The silver mirror,
Slipping on over surfaces; snagged on
Rougher edges,
Lost in the engravings of the
Ceremonial plate.

Cappadocia, Turkey 15/11/14

Cappadocia, Turkey 15/11/14

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