Poems
Occasionally a poem comes together in the early hours of the morning when babies and their breastfeeding mothers are awake to nature's gentle repose.
Occasionally a poem comes together in the early hours of the morning when babies and their breastfeeding mothers are awake to nature's gentle repose.
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THE WE OF US If I quantify you with measuring eyes, I won't know how to see you. If I categorise you with linear thoughts, I won't know how to hear you. If I define you with point-blank logic, I won't know how to feel you. So may we chance the idiosyncratic sea of the me, you and we? MUD WATER rises up as purest droplets. Colours paint the air, yet leave no trace. Cups drain their water, then fill with sunlight. Hearts empty their love, joyous and free. AUTUMN'S DESIRE is not for tender green, but for the embrace of warm, flame-lit lustre. Fruits ripen and burst open, trees gradually undress, beds of leaves rise then fall. Winter comes. |
OUT OF NOWHERE we enter this somewhere unclothed with nothing to expose or obscure. Breathing bodies, living our dreams and reflections, we swim through the space looking for home. WHERE IS THE ENTRANCE TO THIS TEMPLE? I see no door. Yet behold this gilded splendour all around!. Tears of relief flow from these eyes. This coruscating stillness! RAPTURE Whose embrace liquesces this heart? Whose lips speak these silent words? Whose sunshine warms? Whose moonlight cools? To rest in silver light, then rise in golden glow. Treasure has come without forecast Yet nobody has come looking for it. |
ON LOVE
When tears trickle from your eyes
and drip through your cracks,
I will soak up the water
and water our long grass green
when neon flames burst through your chest
and seek air in your holes,
i will eat up the fire
and breathe our smoky air clean
when monochrome thoughts fly through your head
and roost in your gaps,
I will wash up the grey
and colour our opal view serene.
When tears trickle from your eyes
and drip through your cracks,
I will soak up the water
and water our long grass green
when neon flames burst through your chest
and seek air in your holes,
i will eat up the fire
and breathe our smoky air clean
when monochrome thoughts fly through your head
and roost in your gaps,
I will wash up the grey
and colour our opal view serene.
THANK YOU
for your skill when practicing your art;
for sometimes closing your eyes
for swinging in your chair
for listening to the spoken and sensing the unspoken
for your gift of mind that constructs and deconstructs
for the warm embrace of your hands
for your beautiful heart that fills the space in the room you share with others.
for your skill when practicing your art;
for sometimes closing your eyes
for swinging in your chair
for listening to the spoken and sensing the unspoken
for your gift of mind that constructs and deconstructs
for the warm embrace of your hands
for your beautiful heart that fills the space in the room you share with others.
EVERYDAY POEM
Dear FD
Your floor is off the hook
for eating my aural unexotica.
Later, the smoky coloured earring leapt out of my bra,
and tumbled through the air.
With a cheap tink and cheeky glint,
it landed gracelessly on the floor
Both earrings are back together again.
That things can reappear nonchalantly,
as if only playing at being apart
is, I suppose, just one of those things.
Dear FD
Your floor is off the hook
for eating my aural unexotica.
Later, the smoky coloured earring leapt out of my bra,
and tumbled through the air.
With a cheap tink and cheeky glint,
it landed gracelessly on the floor
Both earrings are back together again.
That things can reappear nonchalantly,
as if only playing at being apart
is, I suppose, just one of those things.
HEART'S WORDS
Wrapped up in me is you.
As we dwell in airy emptiness
seagulls fly through the sky of our insides,
their feathers caress the space where once a thousand thoughts
came to play.
I look at you
as you feel me with your heart’s eyes
and hear the silent song that never ends.
No skin can pretend
to keep apart what's always one.
LEONARD COHEN
Charisma is not normally what I go for
but you're the master of simplicity,
with your music and poetry
and golden voice that's shaped my soul.
Your heart has met mine
in those secret places
so many thousand times
Wrapped up in me is you.
As we dwell in airy emptiness
seagulls fly through the sky of our insides,
their feathers caress the space where once a thousand thoughts
came to play.
I look at you
as you feel me with your heart’s eyes
and hear the silent song that never ends.
No skin can pretend
to keep apart what's always one.
LEONARD COHEN
Charisma is not normally what I go for
but you're the master of simplicity,
with your music and poetry
and golden voice that's shaped my soul.
Your heart has met mine
in those secret places
so many thousand times
ROBOTS GIVING THERAPY TO HUMANS
Fuck my personal language of experience
if it conflicts with your didactic formulations.
Instead lure me with convincing statistics
and codify my misguided wonder,
then discount my dreams with corrected correlations
and implant suggested outcomes.
In the spirit of Improving Access to Psychological Therapies
shall we pretend that we are robots?
THE MAN WHO MISTOOK HIS DOG FOR A DOG
Inhaling - two hollow baby lungs drawing from a limitless void,
one void filling two voids,
no gaps,
no waving thoughts,
just panoramic, inside-out, breathable landscape.
Exhaling - simultaneously tonguing the cavernous space within his toothless mouth,
sensing collapsing structures,
sinous shapes,
droplets of vapour escaping,
while sound wrapped itself around, penetrating and engulfing everything from within.
Gradually he worked out he could affect the outer world by mouthing different tasting sounds.
By the time he was a grown man, most of what came out seemed to make sense
(to him at least),
but to his ragged eared, timeworn dog, all of it was burble.
It had always been this way.
Life was a daily grind. Eighteen years of burble. No gaps
except during laryngitis, heartbreak and redundancy. Those were highlights.
The dog would watch the vapour escaping
as the cascade of words emptied themselves into crooks and curves,
forcing the scenery to echo with his master’s countless comments.
The dog tried to draw the man’s attention away from burble,
appealing that he partake in the enjoyment of nature, affection and naps,
not to mention simple pleasures like tossing multi-coloured biscuits for mid-air scoffing.
How could he get through to his master?
He’d conveyed everything he knew about life, yet still the burble conquered every atom.
The dog ate one last green biscuit and stretched out his fading body against the background of burble.
Motionless, inhaling the void - rasping.
Exhaling the void – rattling. Then finally a gap followed by nothing.
All at once the burble stopped. The scenery let out a relieved sigh
as the man fell silent and watched his dog disappear into the void.
Inhaling - two hollow baby lungs drawing from a limitless void,
one void filling two voids,
no gaps,
no waving thoughts,
just panoramic, inside-out, breathable landscape.
Exhaling - simultaneously tonguing the cavernous space within his toothless mouth,
sensing collapsing structures,
sinous shapes,
droplets of vapour escaping,
while sound wrapped itself around, penetrating and engulfing everything from within.
Gradually he worked out he could affect the outer world by mouthing different tasting sounds.
By the time he was a grown man, most of what came out seemed to make sense
(to him at least),
but to his ragged eared, timeworn dog, all of it was burble.
It had always been this way.
Life was a daily grind. Eighteen years of burble. No gaps
except during laryngitis, heartbreak and redundancy. Those were highlights.
The dog would watch the vapour escaping
as the cascade of words emptied themselves into crooks and curves,
forcing the scenery to echo with his master’s countless comments.
The dog tried to draw the man’s attention away from burble,
appealing that he partake in the enjoyment of nature, affection and naps,
not to mention simple pleasures like tossing multi-coloured biscuits for mid-air scoffing.
How could he get through to his master?
He’d conveyed everything he knew about life, yet still the burble conquered every atom.
The dog ate one last green biscuit and stretched out his fading body against the background of burble.
Motionless, inhaling the void - rasping.
Exhaling the void – rattling. Then finally a gap followed by nothing.
All at once the burble stopped. The scenery let out a relieved sigh
as the man fell silent and watched his dog disappear into the void.
A TOTNES TALE
Eyes shut tight
vehicle lights flooded his head and
beamed brightly as they used his head as a turning circle.
Wrapping a bandanna around his eyes wouldn't have done anything because the buses were driving through his head.
Passengers complained about the lack of room inside it, blaming the cuts.
Friday nights claimed almost every millimetre of cranial space
putting pressure on the vestibular, auditory and facial nerves.
The only ventilation was the auditory canal
providing the eustachian tubes were not flooded.
Vibrating windows. Their condensation
dripped inside his head, forming rivulets that disappeared down his poorly lit throat.
Upright positions were the only way to avoid floods
especially on the late, winter afternoon routes
or when dank dogs were being transported home.
Sounds drowned out other sounds.
An aural amalgam featured examples of onomatopoeia - the mumble of voices, poof sounds of bubble-gum popping against the chugger sounds of bus engines.
The pitch, tonality, loudness, constancy, duration and whether sounds began suddenly or gradually were all things he had the luxury of studying, whether he liked it or not.
He was the only person he knew who was affected by this service
leading to his ventral visual pathways being used by South Devon’s buses.
He couldn't remember signing a contract allowing them to use his head.
The company’s Customer Complaints had long since terminated correspondence with him after he submitted a request for a free bus pass as part of a proposed out-of-court settlement.
Having an amygdala with its olfactory receptors was a mixed blessing.
The smell of kebabs made him fantasise about inducing anosmia.
If he could have asked one of the passengers (ideally one with a medical background) to block the receptors with an object, he would have,
but he was unable to communicate with them.
One late evening on the extended X19 service to Totnes
a passenger was telling another passenger that actually no one has a head,
that having a head is all in the mind.
But if that were the case, where was the mind?
Surely if there was no head to contain it, it could accidentally fall out.
Perplexing curiosity took him over.
It seemed ridiculous to question the actuality of his head
Surely buses driving through his head was proof enough that it existed,
but as the buses terminated for the night, the question remained.
What on Earth were those passengers referring to?
Breakfast coincided with several replacement bus services traversing the slip roads of his pineal gland. This unannounced geographical digression was unprecedented.
Eventually by mid-morning the heavy volume of buses navigating the narrow channels took its toll on his circadian rhythms.
Sleep suddenly pushed him off his chair, causing the X297 bus to tumble into the River Dart
The next thing he knew was that he was no longer in his kitchen.
Looking around he wasn't sure if he’d managed to avoid falling through the tiny crack in his head.
He then noticed slippery looking traffic signs flapping on dusky pink, wavy stalks:
It was signage pertaining to his brain’s four lobes alongside their corresponding bus route numbers.
The words were in Latin - “Occipital”, “Parietal”, “Temporal” and “Frontal”.
He was definitely inside his own head.
Elementary electrons, algorithmic atoms and networking neurons orchestrated a mosaic pattern of signals with sentient panache, enlivening coagulated grey matter.
All preconceived ideas about what it might be like to step inside it were outshone
and yet it was the mundane sights which absorbed him the most.
He spotted the nippy new X29 and X34 followed by the bumbling old X19.
He had set aside a unique fondness for the X19 to Totnes.
Time and time again he’d been intrigued by its unusual breed of passenger.
Not being able to be heard by them left him frustrated
and at times questioning his own sanity.
In all the years Devon Buses had been using his head, he had not been a passenger himself.
He refused to give them any of his money in case they used it to fund other unethical activities.
Subsequently as the X19 pulled up next to him, dilemma confronted him.
Should he adhere to principles or follow curiosity?
His pocket contained enough money for one ride. The decision was made.
It seemed strange to be stepping onto a bus that was inside his own head.
He parted with his coins then purposely made his way to sit next to a particular man.
Mutual looks of recognition proceeded the man’s words,
“Strictly speaking, you haven’t got a head.’’
Even though he’d already heard him utter these words, they suddenly had more impact.
Without warning there was a stunning feeling of being hit by an invisible wave of something.
He couldn’t say what it was because he’d never experienced anything so immense.
Questions seemed to occur simultaneously:
Who am I? Where is my head? Is it even my head? Is anything what I think it is?
What if there is no mind? What if I seep out of thought? Where will I be?
Instantly he realised that his entire stock of beliefs about life were just fables to fit schema.
What had been an habitual state of attempted comprehension was losing its footing.
In domino fashion, thought was collapsing along the miniature terrains of every pathway,
vanishing beyond the cranial cavity into
an ultimate, limitless presence.
Out of an immaculate sense of stillness came the realisation that he and this presence were not separate things. Notions of otherness and difference disappeared like old farts.
Such absence, yet such presence. Such suchness.
What might have seemed like an uncomfortable paradox
was existence playing the eternal role of benevolent prankster.
In the next moment his eyes blinked.
Colours and shapes looked like a table and chairs.
The experience of a body gently evoked a sense of relief and ease.
Meanwhile, not a single chugger from a bus engine, not one syllable uttered by any voice and not a ripple of thought. The only thing that stirred was his freshly made tea.
Eyes shut tight
vehicle lights flooded his head and
beamed brightly as they used his head as a turning circle.
Wrapping a bandanna around his eyes wouldn't have done anything because the buses were driving through his head.
Passengers complained about the lack of room inside it, blaming the cuts.
Friday nights claimed almost every millimetre of cranial space
putting pressure on the vestibular, auditory and facial nerves.
The only ventilation was the auditory canal
providing the eustachian tubes were not flooded.
Vibrating windows. Their condensation
dripped inside his head, forming rivulets that disappeared down his poorly lit throat.
Upright positions were the only way to avoid floods
especially on the late, winter afternoon routes
or when dank dogs were being transported home.
Sounds drowned out other sounds.
An aural amalgam featured examples of onomatopoeia - the mumble of voices, poof sounds of bubble-gum popping against the chugger sounds of bus engines.
The pitch, tonality, loudness, constancy, duration and whether sounds began suddenly or gradually were all things he had the luxury of studying, whether he liked it or not.
He was the only person he knew who was affected by this service
leading to his ventral visual pathways being used by South Devon’s buses.
He couldn't remember signing a contract allowing them to use his head.
The company’s Customer Complaints had long since terminated correspondence with him after he submitted a request for a free bus pass as part of a proposed out-of-court settlement.
Having an amygdala with its olfactory receptors was a mixed blessing.
The smell of kebabs made him fantasise about inducing anosmia.
If he could have asked one of the passengers (ideally one with a medical background) to block the receptors with an object, he would have,
but he was unable to communicate with them.
One late evening on the extended X19 service to Totnes
a passenger was telling another passenger that actually no one has a head,
that having a head is all in the mind.
But if that were the case, where was the mind?
Surely if there was no head to contain it, it could accidentally fall out.
Perplexing curiosity took him over.
It seemed ridiculous to question the actuality of his head
Surely buses driving through his head was proof enough that it existed,
but as the buses terminated for the night, the question remained.
What on Earth were those passengers referring to?
Breakfast coincided with several replacement bus services traversing the slip roads of his pineal gland. This unannounced geographical digression was unprecedented.
Eventually by mid-morning the heavy volume of buses navigating the narrow channels took its toll on his circadian rhythms.
Sleep suddenly pushed him off his chair, causing the X297 bus to tumble into the River Dart
The next thing he knew was that he was no longer in his kitchen.
Looking around he wasn't sure if he’d managed to avoid falling through the tiny crack in his head.
He then noticed slippery looking traffic signs flapping on dusky pink, wavy stalks:
It was signage pertaining to his brain’s four lobes alongside their corresponding bus route numbers.
The words were in Latin - “Occipital”, “Parietal”, “Temporal” and “Frontal”.
He was definitely inside his own head.
Elementary electrons, algorithmic atoms and networking neurons orchestrated a mosaic pattern of signals with sentient panache, enlivening coagulated grey matter.
All preconceived ideas about what it might be like to step inside it were outshone
and yet it was the mundane sights which absorbed him the most.
He spotted the nippy new X29 and X34 followed by the bumbling old X19.
He had set aside a unique fondness for the X19 to Totnes.
Time and time again he’d been intrigued by its unusual breed of passenger.
Not being able to be heard by them left him frustrated
and at times questioning his own sanity.
In all the years Devon Buses had been using his head, he had not been a passenger himself.
He refused to give them any of his money in case they used it to fund other unethical activities.
Subsequently as the X19 pulled up next to him, dilemma confronted him.
Should he adhere to principles or follow curiosity?
His pocket contained enough money for one ride. The decision was made.
It seemed strange to be stepping onto a bus that was inside his own head.
He parted with his coins then purposely made his way to sit next to a particular man.
Mutual looks of recognition proceeded the man’s words,
“Strictly speaking, you haven’t got a head.’’
Even though he’d already heard him utter these words, they suddenly had more impact.
Without warning there was a stunning feeling of being hit by an invisible wave of something.
He couldn’t say what it was because he’d never experienced anything so immense.
Questions seemed to occur simultaneously:
Who am I? Where is my head? Is it even my head? Is anything what I think it is?
What if there is no mind? What if I seep out of thought? Where will I be?
Instantly he realised that his entire stock of beliefs about life were just fables to fit schema.
What had been an habitual state of attempted comprehension was losing its footing.
In domino fashion, thought was collapsing along the miniature terrains of every pathway,
vanishing beyond the cranial cavity into
an ultimate, limitless presence.
Out of an immaculate sense of stillness came the realisation that he and this presence were not separate things. Notions of otherness and difference disappeared like old farts.
Such absence, yet such presence. Such suchness.
What might have seemed like an uncomfortable paradox
was existence playing the eternal role of benevolent prankster.
In the next moment his eyes blinked.
Colours and shapes looked like a table and chairs.
The experience of a body gently evoked a sense of relief and ease.
Meanwhile, not a single chugger from a bus engine, not one syllable uttered by any voice and not a ripple of thought. The only thing that stirred was his freshly made tea.
The most disastrous thing about peace is there's nothing left to talk about.
