My pasts are buried in my poems

Sometimes, as home-grown new

potatoes, in the raised beds

shallow and easy to lift

Sometimes, as in my childhood

planted deep by the farmer

for his tractor driven machine to turn over

Sometimes, as with my mother’s parents

my grandparents, set rich in the earth

looking down the valley, from their coffins

Although not all my pasts are buried, not yet

Sometimes I write about them

in a tense which may suggest

That they no longer inhabit my life

Sometimes I am more celebratory

Even wishing that they could be here

To share in with the good times

Sometimes the black dog catches up with me

Then I don’t think well of owt at all

However alluring my pasts deem themselves to be

Not all my pasts will be buried, no, not ever

Tough on Trust

I was asked to choose someone

Who I could trust completely

I don’t know anyone

Who I could trust totally

I don’t trust myself that far

I’m pretty sure, experientially

Who do I hurt

With my lack of trust

Other than myself

And those with doubts about my trust

Am I trustworthy

Or is that a different question

That I tell you

Of my lack of trust

Does that help you

To now trust me

That is, any more or any less

Trust is what trust is, isn’t it

Inculcate

Are you by the water

Are you settled in space

Does the world revolve around you

Have you found, might I say, your grace

I chased you for a long time

Always I enjoyed the freedom of the place

I tried to make the world all mine

Yet often, to be honest, I could not find a trace

The brothers, and the sisters too

Carry on with their learning

I pass the baton from me to you

Either way, so it seems, I am forever yearning

Longing for a communique

You know the kind of thing

A simple note, perhaps to say

Oh, am I so glad that you did ring

For it was only a thought

Albeit also somewhat pretentious

That when I made the call I ought

To have said, oh, how wonderfully sensuous

 

Speculate

Today I leave the abbey

But first to read, and quote

A few words from Jung

… the waves from the steamer

washed up to the shore, the

sun glistened on the water, and the

sand under the water had been

curved into little ridges by the waves

… this expanse of water was

inconceivable pleasure to me,

an incomparable splendour - at

the time the idea became fixed

in my mind that I must live near

a lake; without water I thought

nobody could live at all

Jung was between seven

And nine years old

When these thoughts arose

I am almost ten times that age

And yet have not totally found

That place of water, or of meadow, or of calm

So I carry on searching

I return to our nice, spacious, comfortable house

In the heart of the picturesque Lincolnshire Wolds

Where I sit in the lounge

Listen to Max Richter music

And realise how lucky I am

Articulate

Are we mutually abusive

Or do we work, exclusively

Towards our own failed assonance

Are you in my groove

Or do you move, reclusively

Onwards with your own persistence

The last night of vespers

The last night of compline

Take me to your pictures

Are we getting there

Or do we have to drift further

Towards the planetarium

Are you in my curved air

Or do you kiss the Berger

As you step out of the sanatorium

The last night of dining

With the monks and brothers

Takes me to their pastures

Are we any wiser now

Or do we still

Have mountains to climb

Are you in my sentimental plough

Or do you move, at will

Inwards with your thighs to grind

The last night of this single bed

The last night of lights out at nine

Take me to your strictures

Sleep Is Good

I talk to my meditation teacher

About falling asleep during meditation

She gives the thumbs up

Indeed she says it is a good thing

So what do you know

If the very next morning

I don’t just go and fall asleep

And put another hour

Onto my Insight Timer record

If this is me being open

Expressing my fears, or restraints

Might I apply the technique in other areas

For instance if I write about my constipation

Might my movements

Become easier and more regular

And, if Lily Allen is to become the spokeswoman

For women’s masturbation

Might I apply for the men’s variate position

Also, now that I have come across

A rhyming dictionary, isn’t it time 

That I got off my high-horse and started using it

Of course all of this is skirting the issue

For I am damaged goods

I have been hurt, and not found recovery easy

Which is often why others wonder

What on earth I am thinking about

When clearly I am not in the present moment

Accidents Will Happen

Instead of the abbey

A man troubled by drink

And who knows what else

Crashes his motor bike

Almost in front of us

As we walk to the shops

I held back, until told

To ring for an ambulance

You, on the other hand

Rushed to the casualties aid

I failed miserably

With the 999 call

You, on the other hand

Had remained by his side

This man, out joyriding

In his dressing gown

On someone else’s bike

He turned to blasphemy

When more help arrived

Maybe he is addicted

Unable to restrain himself

Perhaps his taste

Was for Buckfast Tonic Wine

Before endangering a suburban street

  

Sketches

The many trees
The river in spate
The few trees
The almost still canal

The footpath to the abbey
Or to the cafeteria
For Americano coffee
And treacle tart with clotted cream

  

Do Does, Don’t Does Not

The dance, this year

Is not a line-dance

Nor a quick-step

And certainly not a waltz

I do not pick up the leaf

To twirl it in the sunlight

I do not read this year’s

Inspirational Book of Days

But I do

Rearrange the bookshelves

Move myself one step closer

To knowing who I am

The walks, this year

Are not meditations

Or pastoral observations

Neither do they go to my writing seat

I do not sit and gaze

Or contemplate a cigarette

As a means, if nothing less

Of beginning a conservation

But I do

Write these few lines

Hold myself together

As a signal to my true faith

 

Take Me There, In Less Time

Such sun on the trees

Such shadows on the page

That such a song lyric I heard

As the Corn Bread Crumbles

More time than ever

To clean the abbey

Less time than ever

To use the abbey for prayer

And the new organ

Not yet through its guarantee

Sounds out with resounding echoes

For all of those who are absent

Might that I remember

How happy I felt

How anxious I felt

How the two were tied together in you

More time than ever then

To play the hipness-hapless mind games

Less time than ever then

To believe that one is destined for prayer

 

Sideways, Straight-On Glances

The window panes

Are covered in water droplets

The fine mist has turned to rain

Smoke, from next doors chimney

Hangs in the air before dispersing

The window panes

They are my notebook

Raindrops are my tea-leaves

A spiritual one will arrive soon

To make a sense of my sense

The mist and smoke

Are my pencil and paper

Intertwined and misaligned

They tear at each other’s

Very being

That both have disappeared

Leaves me endless

some might say pointless

Tomorrow, so I understand

Things are forecast to change

 

Appetite

The lack of treacle tart

Is becoming an issue

As you know Buckfast Abbey

Is well known for serving

The best treacle tart in the world!

It comes on a hot plate

With lashings of warm syrup

Poured all over the tart and the plate

Before a substantial slab of clotted cream

Is added to finish things off

During previous visits

It became a mid-afternoon ritual

After a stroll by the river or a climb up the hill

Either way the exercise

Prepared one for the indulgence

Oddly, however much I write

In the present moment

I am in no way sated

No, only the real thing will do

I will be back!

 

On Your Way

One step after the next
Out through the big door
Across the paved forecourt
Should I go to the bookshop
Or the refectory
Or perhaps a little further
To the post office
To buy a book of stamps
And to post my lover a letter

I have the time, today
Today time is not an issue
If in truth it ever was
Other than in my receptacle mind
Even when, just as with money
I craved to be the one in control
Now though, that is nowadays
I have the luxury, without income
To let go of the chase

Not that I have financial wealth
Although I do live month to month
Or year to year
By that I mean not ‘day to day’
I can no longer travel the world
Due to fiscal and physical limitations
But I am able, and I do go, virtually
Everywhere, everywhere where, my mind
My memories, and my life might suggest

 

In Memoriamus

With intention

I take myself off

Out of my one self

Into my many selves

As I move

From one potter’s wheel

To the next port of call

I discover a new intention

At this point I pause

Wait awhile, listen out

For sustainable reverberations

Or impending voices of silence

It is as if

All of beauty awaits

Calling upon me

To make many visitations

First Steps (And All That)

I walked up the path

To the gate (five bars and all that)

Like all new tracks, or pathways new to me

It took me from a familiar place

To a more foreign escarpment

That I felt happy to settle there

Sufficient to draft a letter

Says something I do believe

About my mood, my insight for nature

Before I began the steady climb

I was prepared for a positive outcome

Hopefully my letter explored this

Although I may have been distracted

When you entered into the writing

As often happens on sunny afternoons

How not to have one's head turned

Returning, to land over sea

Before the slow, peaceful descent

Onto the island’s airstrip

Where the wheels touched down

I walked through arrivals

To the gate (full inspection and all that)

Like all new entrances, or passages new to me

It took me from a familiar place

Into the ways of a more beautiful life

 

Solid State Control

Anyway, in the comparisons

Comparing silence to sound

Darkness to light

Emptiness to…

Well, what is emptiness anyway

Just what was on the page

Before emptiness came along

In the afternoon light

The bare branches

Become silver

That is, the colour which tricks

Is not from within

But comes from our perception

We make brown, and silver, from the one source

Surrounded, by more

Than what I see in front of me

The sounds arrive from all directions

Other than I write of what I know

Or have otherwise have found access to

How else might I talk of love

Of an enduring love, way beyond logic

 

Approach

Who knows the distance

Yes, I know google might give a number

But with that you miss my point

Oh, then what is your point

How far apart, when apart

Yes, I know that some call it a void

And with that you are closer

Oh, then should I try again

Well is there any point

Yes, I know I have been told not to

But with that I am distraught

Oh, what is it that vexes

Who knows the answers

Yes, I know there are psychoanalysts

But with that, who should I approach

Oh, I know that you will know

How then to move with the flow

Yes, I too have read the book

And have put the practice into practice

Oh, one step at a time

Well then let's take the first step

Yes, that sounds like progress

But don’t be sure that I am certain

Oh, I expect you will be fine

 

With The Birth Of A Memory

Or the coming along of a thought

We might contemplate eternity

For the memories, and the thoughts

Will never ever shrivel or die

Touch the thought of a star

Climb over the mountain top

To look down into the endless

Valley of your memories

Let the shoreline waters bathe

Your toes in your thoughts

Paddle out into their names

Revitalise your memories

Walk in the meadow, wearing

Your Friday afternoon fragrance

Which fills your thoughts

With essences of your memories

Lay down beside the river

Or on the frosted grass

Bring to life hedonists thoughts

With a boatload of memories

Listen to the music of your life

With thoughts of how and why

Which masquerade as memories

Of approximately when and where

 

Rainbow, Wish

Grey is the colour

Of the first bare branches

Knotted, knurled, awkwardly distorted

Yet borne entirely of nature

Silver is the colour

Of the lining to the clouds

In the blue and windy sky

Which waves in the new day

Red is the colour

Of the bricks which built

Mine and my neighbours

House of love

Pink is the colour

Of my complexion

After returning, invigorated

By my morning bath

Blackish-brown is the colour

Of the tall four-trunk tree

Which wobbles slowly

Unsteadily, in the rising breeze

Empty is the colour

Of the stillness of the day

Yesterday’s wind and rain

Have moved on, elsewhere

 

Step Out, It Is The Future

The brightest of days

After the turning back

Of our abstract timepieces

The extra hour is not wasted

I have the time

To take time more slowly

I imagine the abbey

Inside and out

With beauty in both places

I turn towards the café

Thinking, pausing, thinking

About breakfast

Also, while I am there

I will connect to the internet

Say hello to my friends, and acquaintances

Following the sunlight’s

Strong reflections

I say good morning to the sangha

 

The Man Who

The man who irons

The lavender linen shirt

Looks out for the creases

Finds the perfect places

To press the lines

Of fabric together

The man who writes

Whatever it is that he writes

Can rarely find

The straight lines to follow

Instead, he feels

For the torn fabrics of his life

And so it was

By being distracted

That I arrived half an hour before

The allocated time

Which left me searching

For the lost lines of connection

 

Facts And Facts

Apparently I am a part
Of a non-exclusive group
So should I mention
My apricot tart

I drink my coffee
from a plain porcelain mug
Or a mug, once embellished
With expressionist paintings

Am I feeding the body
Or am I feeding the soul
Is the plain mug silence
While expressionism brings me joy

My mug tonight
Says Trevone Bay, on its inner wall
This is a place with history for me
A sharper resonance for my mind

 

Illuminations

Car headlights

In the rain

Is it better

To make one too many compromises

Or better to be excluded

Streetlights

In the rain

I am a flower not a tree

I am fresh

Not decomposing

Security lights

In the rain

I reflect

I am not a reflection

I see those reflecting, clearly

Torch lights

In the rain

I do feel free

I am in a safe space

Which gifts me freedoms

Broken Calm

Instead of an evening meal, with the monks, which may well have consisted of bread and soup, or a salad, or some pasta creation, I had a roast dinner with my partner, using the Syrian potato recipe, from this morning’s meditation course.

Instead of quiet preparations for matins in the abbey I tried, unsuccessfully, to repair my cars rear light; I  have though cleared the utility workshop work surfaces so that now they are pristine and ready.

The potatoes, home-grown and with lashings of butter are wonderful; present moment, wonderful moment.

Instead of writing, in the dimly lit and empty abbey, I am writing in our centrally heated lounge, while listening to peaceful, harmonious music on the stereo; yet soon I have to return to the sangha, for my last spot of meditation on this good Saturday, that is good except for the football results.

Beware Of Taking Deciduous Actions

The leaves are leaving the branches

Those branches, reaching for the sky

Are the most vulnerable

There is less shelter at the extremities

We have lost the protection

Of the majority who shield us

The two trunks, of the tallest trees

Shadow and support each other

I focus on the autumnal leaf

Orange, and peach, and bronze, and green

Will it still be there tomorrow

Is each single leaf aware of the danger

If I take it from its present place

And press it between the pages of a book

Will I have saved anything

Or will I have lost all that I already had

Does the leaf hear the hum

Or the buzz of the distant machines

Which pierce through my headphones

And unsettle my once steady balance

Fortunately, up next is a mindful moment

Where first I stand on my right leg

And then change-over to my left leg

Both of which produce a sense of achievement

In The Present Moments

These are the lists

That the sangha gave me

These are the lists

From Be Calm Be Happy

I thank Laurie and Vari

and Katie; also

Thich Nhat Hahn, wherever

In the world our minds and bodies are

These are the lists

Which entering meditation gave me

These are the lists

Which the relaxation meditation gifted to me

I thank the earth, the sun

The moon, and the stars

I thank the air, the water

And the mindful ways of life

Spates

Should it be

An autumn Friday afternoon

With the river surging over

The waterfall, bypassing the fish-pass

Could it be

Thirty years, or more, before

That spring Monday morning

A walk on Dartmoor, to the Watercombe intake

Aqua oh aqua

Would it be

A winter weekend

At the moorland reservoir

Making a snowman on the perimeter wall

Should it, could it, would that it be

A full week in the summer

Climbing into waves

Washing toes along the seashore

Singing aqua oh aqua

The Outlook is Mixed

That first raindrop

On the cobbled road

That first ice-cream

By the harbour wall

And so begins, or so began

The dripping-tap approach

To persuade someone

To let you share their bed

The sunshine arriving

As with a certainty of triumph

Or should it be

The beginning of the loss

No amount of French Cafés

Or London streets would suffice

Once the black dog was on its heels

The time has come to rethink or retreat

In between the in between

The unexpected drops of rain

Spots of sunlight though still flashing

A life to grasp, and how, yet how

Quiet now, quieter than before

Quietness which envelopes

The envelopes that I bought

To post my noteworthy letters

Inside Out

The goodness of men and women

The gentleness of men and women

The varied lives of men and women

My words, sincere and heartfelt

Straight out of endoscopy; one probe

From the top, one from down below

Professor Anwar set the scene

Although the nurse before him

Put me at ease with her cheerful manner

But it was the Prof. (I heard others say this)

Who talked the talk before he walked the walk

All the while keeping me informed

And now I look at Jung’s book

And wonder if I might start

My one on one meditations again

For I have a certainty

That my peace and calm

Throughout the procedure also came from within

From my breathing

From my loving kindness

From all the years that my contemplations taught

Such that I might make a trip

To the Abbey in November or December

Investigative results permitting, that is

Boxed In

The first one-third of a litre

Is in the body

Another third is to follow

In thirty minutes or so

I am reading Refusing Heavens

Poems by Jack Gilbert

How can we not

Compare our own lives

Think of good and bad times

Though most are melancholic nostalgia

For what, in all probability

We never truly shared in the first place

The hospital process is new to me

Though hardly an adventure

Although my brother told me

He thought afterwards he could climb Everest

He was a mechanic

Then he taught accountancy

Yet he has offered a medical certainty

In a way which no one else quite achieved

Jack, in his poem Kunstkammer

Says: but the heart is different

It never forgets

You may feel, my body’s definitive reaction