Androgynous

There is no doubt to find

One is one is one

However you look

At the philosophy of mathematics

There is light

There is dark

One is with the sun

One is with the moon

There is no love to lose

Two is two is two

However you seek out

The poetry of the past

There is time

There is space

One is for the leaving

One is for the joining

There is no worry to worry about

You are you, you are you, you are you

However I or I or I

Appear to imagine

 

At One

At ease

With the lilac scented flowers

At ease

With Van Morrison’s Scandinavia on the stereo

Settled

After fig slice with coffee

Settled

With presents beneath the tree

Thankful

For the loving-kindness meditation

Thankful

For the family connections

Aware

Of the Christmas tree lights

Aware

That it may be cold outside

 

Still Passions

I have an ability to be lazy

No, no it’s true

My mind is happy when it’s hazy

Or when I see the sea so so blue

I have it in me to be dull

Yes, yes it’s true

My day filled by not being full

Or when I see the bills are due

I have the juices to be a lover

Believe me, the quick-release is true

My body turns on when with another

Or when the silk sheets are left askew

I have the time to bathe in solitude

Have faith, this is so so true

My footsteps slowed on the beach in Bude

Or stopped altogether, in the meditator’s hue

 

Vision

I wasn’t there

But I heard the story

Of the mountain plateau

Covered in mist

Then of the clearing

To show the valley below

Tree trunks surrounded

By ever more of the white stuff

Yet before the photograph

Could be taken

Or words placed on paper

The denser fog fell

Engulfed him; uncertain of the way

Yet with sufficient nouse

To commit the moment to memory

For reminiscing with friends over dinner

 

Returns On Investments

I don’t have time anymore

Now that I have retired

I don’t have time anymore

To write those words of hope

I should have known I suppose

After watching the monastic video

I should have known I suppose

That hope is only for those playing the long game

His smile made me smile

Singing about his pony on his boat

His smile made me smile

A realisation that I too could cope

So step inside his house girl

Listen closely to his song

So step inside his house girl

His song is only for those playing the long game

 

Browse

In passion mango land

Opposite the anti-stress shoe shop

The perfume is in the bag

The jeans are in the bag

The satin slip was bought a while ago

All of this

After a morning at Salts Mill

Stocking up on Hockney stuff

An altogether different kind of culture

Complete with a full English breakfast

 

Good Times

Walk playful on the golden sands

Skip easy down the dusty dunes

Trip lightly right across the machair

Sing, sing in the joyful tunes

Crouch under the arched bridges

Watch the trickling silver stream

Taste clear water from the mountain

While the love of youth does dream

Witness skies of fork lightning

Trace curves of coloured rainbows

Search for the pots of gold

Adrift on the snow scenes glow

Let your eyes smile at her eyes

Move your skin to her skin

Hear the oceans calling both of you

It is the right time to begin

Walk playful on the golden sands

Skip easy down the dusty dunes

Trip-lightly, right across the machair

Sing, sing in the joyful tunes

 

Detail

Some words are understood

Some aren’t

Some stories draw you in

Others push you out

A secondhand copy 

Of The Practice of Zen Meditation

By Hugo M. Enomiya-Lassalle

Arrived in the post today

The words are crystal clear

Yet the book smells fusty

It may already have passed through several lives

Been stored who knows where

Some connections are understood

Some aren’t

Some attachments draw you in

Others flush you out

 

Inadmissible Evidence

Can I just ask you

On a scale of one to ten

May I stop you please

But I’ve done this on line

Oh, ok

Can I just ask you

On a scale of one to ten

Did you not hear me

I have already filled in the questionnaire on line

Oh, ok, right

Can I just ask you

On a scale of one to ten

Have I not made myself clear

I have answered the questions on line

Oh, ok, that’s fine

Can I just ask you

On a scale of one to ten

Have I not made myself xxxxxxx clear

I’ve xxxxxxx xxxx done this on line

Goodbye

 

Stepping Over

They aren’t memories anymore

More evocations of a moment perhaps

Yet nothing certain, nothing fixed

Total freedom for the imagination

I tell you this because that is how it felt

As I climbed out of my early-day bath

There I was, for an instant transported

To my land of misty morning make believe

Of course now you have the image

Of a naked, elderly man, unsteadily

Placing his foot onto the linoleum floor

Which, as we all know, is slippy as hell

Such that no amount of meadow grass

Or talk of Wordsworth’s Tintern Abbey

Will resurrect that peace, which was not

A memory, but was the whole of a lifetime

 

Poltergeist

Does it help

That I am home alone

Is my writing more deceitful

Without the brake of your presence

Do you have to leave the house

To remove the weight of my burden

Do you too escape

So that I also may escape

The lattice-like web

Is a miracle of minute suspensions

Which catch the kaleidoscope of colours

Gifted as might diamonds gift a freedom of life

Compared to the pins, the needles

Which traverse my right leg, my buttock

Gifted by the sciatica, which in turn

Was given to me by the witch doctor of Harrogate

Almost two years ago now

In the sauna bath at the spa

Or was it down to the hotel bed

Which I almost fell out of

South Circular

Thirty years or so

Ten thousand days or more ago

To remember the metallic, sky-blue, rover car

To go there without knowing

To return, knowing more

Though still without knowing

A quarter of a million hours ago

Yet not a time

To clock-watch on the telephone

To be there but not be there

In the centre of the storm

Yet still to be there, but not there

Fifteen million minutes

A million fifteen minutes of fame

Fame for one in a million

To be acknowledged

Yet also, to be taken away

Back to that place of thirty years ago

Acting Allocations

Hope to be the lover

Hope to recover

Cope with the difficulties

Shore up the diminutives of indifference

Hope to rediscover

Hope to smother the loss

Cope with the onrush of newness

Shore up the wonders of past memories

See the sunlight

Stranded on the suspended threads

See the church

Camouflaged by trees

As the watches reflections

Strike the desk

Lined up by the wall

Be thankful for what only you do see

Immersed

In memories of what only you do know

Yet, yes, as always yet

Memories where others have played their part

Right Angle

I have lost my way a little

What, with sciatica

Toothache

And a swiftly diminishing bank balance

I have turned to old love

To write of love

I have gone back to past times

To pass this time of life

The spiders web

Woven from banister batik

To window, to wall

Developed day by day

Yet I don’t see the protagonist

Neither do I ever hear from the old love

Perhaps they, as I myself

Maybe they have also lost their way

I listen to Gregorian chant

Congratulate myself on the fact

That today the margins do not slope

I am, so it appears, almost upright

All Of This; And Then Some

All of this

I rather feel

That you would welcome

All of course

Except the tear

In the silver lining

All of which

I do suppose

Approaches melancholy

All of course

Except the tear

To smudge the make up

All of what

Did I hear you say

Seeking exposure

All of course

Except the cobwebs

Leading to the dust

Present; Correct

The light is good

The breeze is strong

The tiredness

Throughout the body

Is replicated by the dryness

Of the blossom-tree leaves

The afternoon is mine

It wasn’t always going to be so

What is yours is or isn’t yours

I have no way of knowing

The place, this place

The new desk

Beside the banister

With Batik

An upstairs window

Which looks out

Over trees, over rooftops

Over half-way horizons

The time is good

The mind is strong

The awareness

Throughout the body

Is contrasted

By the endless line of slights in the sky

Extrapolation

From one book come many books

From one line come many lines

From one creaking floorboard

Come stories of many floorboards

Winds, rains, subsidence

Glory-boards of many stories

Dust, cobwebs, loss, passing

Stories skating over many glory-boards

Pull in the seat

Pull the seat in closer

Become nearer to the stories

Come, give lift off to your own glory

From that new house, almost completed

To that old house, in need of renovation

From that house of your friend

Or the relative who went to America

With the rubble, with the toil

With the stubble; who is to be the foil

I tell you my story, you tell me yours

We listen, with mindful listening

I do not tread on your story

You do not tread on mine

We nail down each other’s stories

Before we move on, to the disturbance of critique

Reflect On This

One last page

Only one

For closure

For closing

For bringing to an end

Yet it isn’t an au revoir

Nor a final goodbye

You see, it is a see you later

Not

I won’t ever see you again

There will be other pages

Many more than one

For being

For seeing

For continuing from the beginning

Yet it is unrequited

Not two-way flowing

Yes, it is, so please don’t bother

Not

That you will, even if I were to ask

Draw Lines

That I love you

Is that I loved you

That I loved you is evidently true

That in creation

We created

That in future we never created again

Here I am

Alone not lonely

Here in a place of forever good fortune

Many leaves

Turn through their colours

It is a season, there along with the others

That I remember

Meeting

Then persuading, yes that I remember

Yes

I am reminded

By another existential mirage

Mindful

Autumn colours at my window

Autumn winds in the sky

Here also plays

The music of the monks

Here then the meditation

Those twenty minutes alone

Without thoughts

But with the ambient sounds

Eyes closed

For these moments

Sat in stillness

Hands lightly held

Call, and response

Response, and call

There in the monastery

Beside the river

There, bathed in sunlight

Here, bathed in sunlight

Autumn, body as mountain

Autumn, mind like sky

Exposures

Somewhere

Way better than nowhere

On a journey

Free of hostility

Free of contradiction

Walk with me

As I show you where I know

Also

Where I don’t know

Or in what you decide to question

Camouflage my pain

At least in the moment

Help me to reach back

To that place

Of abundant joy

Steer me clear

Of the sadness

Of the betrayal

Of my own memories

Of my own wrong-doings

 

Outside In

Of the doubt

On the cross

All that’s forever

Forever the loss

Loss of the doubt

As new life comes across

Whenever is never

Without the dross

The limited pathways

Out to naught

Never is forever

With all that’s ever caught

Head up, head out

On your way

Together, as if whether

The truth itself will stay

Say you don’t mean her

But oh yes you so so do

With skilful demeanour

Embellish what is you

 

Inside Out

Is there grief, is there loss

Is the energy in the image

Of a passion spent

Of a love, long since lost

Is there solitude, is there soul searching

Are the colours in the picture

Of an acceptance

Of a new life, at whatever cost

Is there hope, is there charity

Are the movements in the painting

Of a life form

A greater beauty, in the riposte

Is there need, is there despair

Are the instincts in the action

Of an old angst

So so difficult, a final post to resist

Is there a secret, is there a revealing

Are the nuances almost the same

Of a time of simply being

To scream out loud for all that is

 

On The Shoulders Of Giants

Between the Eliot and the Cocker

The writing is bound to come a cropper

With the plot line firmly stored in the locker

The time is now right to write something proper

To draft something new about you

Say what you want if that is what you want

Be deceitful if deceit is your concrete choice

Say what you hope for if that is what you hope for

Be sincere if sincerity is his master’s voice

To craft something new about you

Between old Thomas Stearns and young Jarvis

The words are certain to be a real showstopper

It is the modernist way to call out the avarice

To pick out the pills for the party popper

Who laughed at something new about you

Say time is time if time is what you want

Be endearing if to endear is your Rolls Royce

Say place is place if place is how you cope

Be revealing if to reveal is your James Joyce

So daft, a portrait of something new about you

 

Silent Echoes

Always I wait

I wait for the first line

Some days I make note of the date

But mostly I don’t, and, do you know, that’s fine

I have a vacuous shelter

Which I cannot enter, or hardly speak of

Therein lies the joy of the helter-skelter

Which once passed itself off as love

For all I know the emptiness is compounded

By the singular thought

That no thought is returned or rebounded

All I hear is naught

Naught of the nothingness of light

Naught of the depth of misunderstanding

All that is left is the fear of fight or flight

As if on that runway once more landing

This din is the end of the latest new beginning

Feint leads for fickle feelings

The dies are cast, the hair is thinning

The doubts stand out, up on through the ceilings

 

Starting Over

Already the leaf as fallen

Even as the pain pays its own reminder

One body, which makes its way

Working out where to place the music

It is obvious that I should crawl about the floor

Find the remote, plug in the CD, turn it on

But I don’t, no I don’t do that

The poetry must always come first

Instead to listen to the silence

Or the ambience of the muffled world outside

Where the leaf has already fallen

Where the pink sky has turned to grey

It is less obvious what I would listen to

Which playlist, what century

Yes I am unsure, and being unsure

The poetry always comes first

I sit in this new writer’s space 

Fashioning myself as such a vehicle

My eyes sway from leaf to leaf

Working out how to begin again

 

Meditation Shrine

Between the vast landscape

And the tiny flower

And further memorabilia

A flame flickers

That is

Between

The vast Hebridean landscape

With land, loch and mountain

As photographed in years gone by

And the tiny flower, captured

By camera

On the roadside beside the bog

There is a glass vase

With a votive candle

Also, between the large pebbles

There is a thin slice

Of fossilised ammonite

Which was

A gift for services rendered

In the furtherance of publication

Of that lady’s poetry collection

 

This, Or That

In this town, whose streets

I neither own nor roam

Unlike that village

Which really was my place

In this time, whose age

I both fear and crave

Unlike my youth

Lived out for all to chase

In this light, whose darkness

Checks all progress made

Unlike the dawn

More certain in its gaze

In this line, whose edge

In truth approaches plain

Unlike the poet

Who wanders in malaise

In this end, a stuttering fall

Which maybe came too too soon

Unlike the comet

Whose sparkles our spirits raise

 

Ninety-Degree Shift

These are warm-up exercises

In preparation for

Or as a means of delay

For the forthcoming grand entrance

When I will turn the book on its side

To write in landscape form

A set of poems to be printed

In limited, limited editions

That is how I started

Back in the day before self-publishing was rife

To return is not always nostalgia

Nor is one always to write in the portrait form

Such absence of technical manipulation

As might be found in serious study rooms

You know the kind of place, criticised

For enjambment, for not knowing where lines end

To fast forward is not always science fiction

Or modernist futurism by any other name

To loop the tape loop is still to loop

Repetitive writing is similar, if not exactly the same

 

Organised Observation

I have to rearrange the Batik on the bannister

In the process, but then firmly fixed

I see a space for a row of my pictures

So self-evident in the course of natural selection

Will I get the idea past management

Who I do know rather cares

For the new desk’s location

Although it was ridiculed at first

I have kept the penny coin (mock copper)

Which sits atop the banister post

What might be its provenance I ask myself

As I take a moment to look out of the window

I bought a shade with a tea candle from Ropewalk

Which says it is not to be left unattended

It is as a counterbalance, to the natural light

Though not yet seen to, or at, its full potential

 

Observatories

From Scorpio to Aquarius

Among the planets, among the stars

Talk of the multifarious

To banish the witness, to spare the scars

The PGS physics class

Never did go to Jodrell Bank

And on that one visit to Kelly College

The giant telescope was out of bounds

This then is almost to the limit

Of my knowledge of astronomy, or astrology

Except for Bridget Riley’s poem The Planets

Which I recorded live at Emerson College

I have looked out at the moon

I even sang along with The Waterboys song

I saw the crescent, you saw the whole of the moon

Long before our meeting of the signs

Did I though not begin with the zodiac

An altogether more debatable subject matter

Where you can always find the good, or bad stuff

If your thought processes are sufficiently flexible