Shining threads

Shining threads

Tuesday, 22 January 2013

How two oscillate

Many moons ago, a mystic madman sat down
to count the number of waterdrops cycling
between sky, rivers and seas.

He walked a thousand pathways
and seeing the world's waters
from many different angles
and time-frames,
one afternoon,
he was sat on a riverbank,
watching the insistent rain
pummel the water's surface,
when he saw a single drop


suspended from his hat.

Entranced by its pregnant pause
in movement,
its presence sucked him
into an archetypal realm
of water
the molecular structure
of two hydrogen atoms
and one oxygen
were displayed
in virgin wonder.

Forever spelling
the rules of the game,
he realised all water was
stamped with this signature of fusion.

Every drop emanated from its elegant entanglement.

The fool lost his quest
and became a wise evangelist
of the answer,
which was everywhere and without quantity.

Melting poles

If we keep burning oil, petrol, methane and so on,
the greenhouse effect of accumulated atmospheric gases
will multiply surface temperatures of the earth,
continuing to melt the ice-caps at either pole,
revealing yet more oil reserves to be burnt
which will in turn exacerbate the issue.

The ice from the landmass will fill the seas,
raising ocean-levels, reclaiming land
and the water will begin to acidify,
poisoning more life.

And the answer is not for all the nice people to take one flight a year
and limit their use of cars, because unfortunately,
the nice people are outnumbered by the ignorant, the despotic and the uncaring.

The answer is made of stronger stuff.

Being nice is at one pole of possibility.
Being nasty is at the other.
We need to melt the poles of personality to find the middle
and then act from there.

Beautiful heresies

Poetry is a vehicle for beautiful heresies.

Through picking up a pen,
(and remember Christ warned against scribes),
each poet exercises the power of choice,
through a combination of sublime inspiration
and linguistic selectivity,
to devise rhymes and lines which best express
their own personal Divine vision.

Displacing the authority of dogmas and catechisms,
evaporating the lingering spoken structures
of set creeds
and chants,
which encrust the air,
to open up fresh pathways,
unique channels
which faith leans into;
sciences scurry to uncover;
intuition hints at
and philosophies debate.

The best a poet can do is know when to stop
and urge the audience to listen.


There is a difference between distance and the idea of distance.

The latter is an ideal unit which we agree to find meaningful..

The former is an impossibility, based on fluctuating standards,
set in relativity, whose identity might as well be zero, for all the meaning it has.

Nevertheless, we persist & in our persistence,
life is made workable and laughable
on analysis.

Such is the paradox of pragmatism.


Flatland is the status quo.

Flatland is without a scale of value.

Flatland always agrees.

Flatland does not check the change given.

Flatland is into fate but not destiny.

Flatland does not understand consequences.

Flatland sees situations but not possibilities.

Flatland cannot tolerate difference.

Flatland wants a peaceful life.

Flatland is always tuned into the same channel.

Flatland puts faith in creeds rather than desires.

Flatland rules because a Flatland is easy.

Flatland seems to be vertical when awake
but actually may as well be horizontal asleep.

Flatland does not comprehend your problems.


It is becoming increasingly difficult living in a world system
that does not listen.

Is incapable of response.
Is set on delusion.
Defends its choices.
Believes in death
& the means to go there
wrapping it all in a cloak of niceness.

The world is a mix of mediocrity,
terror, depravity & brute force,
punctuated by flares of brilliance
& tenderness, attempting to transcend.


The enemy is not in a distant castle,
underground HQ
or shadowy alleyway
but in your everyday interactions.

As is the friend.

And the two are often very mixed up.

Whenever you let untruth hang in the air
without challenge,
unless your confidence is very strong and arch,
the enemy has won.

Whenever the love you desire to experience is not expressed,
the enemy has won.

Whenever your integrity is diminished,
the enemy has won.

The battlefield is the here and now.
There are snipers everywhere
& the finishing point is your heart & dreams.

A theology of smoke

Heaven and hell are relative and changing.

Some people's heavens are others hells.

Some like easy-pickings, others the hard sell.

God is heavenothingness.

The One is a smoke-ring,
absent-mindedly blown from human lips,
illuminated for a moment
by lamplight,
meaning nothing
yet we are emtranced by its transinent completeness,
before it dissipates into the air of the room.

Architecture and design are all we are left with
and the hard back of the chair against our backs.

Turning back to the feast from which he came,
the fellow exclaims 'And yet, and yet, there is all this!'

Drunk on the senses - awash with synaptic bursts
fusing language with sensation -
the existential fireworks of enlightened enjoyment
fizz like sparkles held by a gleeful child,
only to burn to the end,
suddenly extinguished
& the disappointing stick is all that is left.

Onwards to the next game, the next adventure.

More. More. Endless bliss.

Overspill of poetry

May I poem over you?

These lines are not straight.

Poetry, though not necessarily feminine
is somewhat youthful,
even when feeling tired and jaded.

In the battle between the bent and the rigid,
the flexible steps out of the war-zone
& dances trhough new pathways.

I am saturated with poetry,
seeping out of my pores.

My eyes speak poetry & all reality-things respond with their own lyrical charm.


Somewhere, past nowhere,
in the opposite direction to anywhere,

In this particular spot not yet known,
she stares,
a figment of my imagination still.

Looking intently, curious, waiting, somewhere,
in a land unexplained yet somehow existent.

The poet and the audience

The question, which may be asked,
is did I, the poet, write the poem,
to be heard specifically by you,
one potential listener,
out of 7 billion potentials?

Poets, functional autistics,
to varying degrees,
write alone
or in company.

Perhaps the musty solitude of an outpost lighthouse,
solitary bearers of the literary flame

or in that peculiar social space called,
the writing workshop, where fellow obsessives
& aspirants (who fancy the idea of being a writer but are not enslaved by it),
sit in circles,
pretending to be interested in each others' work,
whilst the facilitator suffers all torments
and thinks of the fee as she searches
amidst scrambled arrangements
for intimations of beauty and meaning.

Perhaps I knew of one and two,
who would be here, who promised to be here,
all other considerations factored in
and perhaps I wrote this poem particularly for them.

And perhaps my autistic edges are softened
in anticipation and enactment of the poem being received,
travelling the airwaves of history,
as choice phrases or gestures ascend into the neon lights of immortality
or at the very least we all go home,
with one more piece to the puzzle
& a few steps further,
deeper into the ocean of language,
in which we all live, move and have our being.

Speaking of dreams

Tell me your dreams.

The ones you have at night
when you've laid your hopes
and fear to rest.

Talk to me in images.
Hit me with archetypes.

Unconscious narratives that
startle and haunt.

Do all this,
because in doing so,
we will help give birth
to the shadow of the world,
speaking the language of the soul,
because without dreams spoken aloud
the air becomes too thin,
too parched,
strangled by lies.

Body divine

Human bodies are divine.

Stick with the flesh & the energy that animates it.

Eyes size up other eyes,
beyond the great white expanse,
travelling through different shades,
into the dazzling darkness
to see the elusive light
which is only revealed
when we meet on equal terms.

Human bodies are divine.
Eyes, hands, hearts, feet.

Settle into your suit. Your comfort. Your flesh.

Unconscious uprisings

Insurgents today succeeded in forcing the CEO to sneeze as she delivered the annual report to an audience of 48.

In the war against the unconscious, armed with social etiquette and stiffened resolve, daily battles are fought to suppress giggles, yawns, farts & burps.

The red scare of blushing breaks through when there is suspicion of inauthenticity.

Love does not care what you do for a living. These things are very secondary.

Magic is multiple

Fairy tales teach us there is a wicked witch or sorcerer, attempting to destroy our lives through magical spells which trap us in delusion or despair but what they do not say, is that magic is multiple, fragmented amongst a million players, all casting spells on one another.

Theologians talk about 'the banality of evil' but truly, no adjective can summarise the nature of the assorted magicians ranging through these realms. Some spells paint themselves as so good it is  hard to spot what they deny and some that seem horrible, may be our greatest deliverers.

Taste as many wines as you like. Weigh up every stone offered and see if it is of value to you.

Pay particular attention to what most people exclude and decide for yourself.

The greatest spell ever unleashed on the world is the idea that other people know better than you - attempting to paly on your potential for doubt, confusion, subservience, repression and enslavement to externalities.

Pay attention to your own instincts and ideas. They exist for a reason.

Always winter but never Christmas

In a land where it was always winter but never Christmas.

Where old men told jokes without a punchline.

Wives stuck in a perpetual preparation for going out,
trying on an endless procession of dresses.

Families gathered round a table,
spoke a never-ending grace.

The food set before them but never eaten.

A town which was marked by traffic lights
which never went green but flashed alternately between red and amber.

Couples locked into a first date in which they could never steal a moment alone.

A place of rain but no rainbow,
truth without kindness,
study but no learning,
travel without arrival,
caught in a pathetic process
of always beginning and never moving.

Addicted to anticipation,
drunk on novelty,
somehow reward is banished
into a realm of fantasy.
& only possibility is entertained,
but no specific guests are invited,
much less come to eat.

The religion of promise without delivery
has erected temples all through this land
and worshippers are locked into
pitiful prayers of supplication,
with no intention of doing what it takes
to get there.

Fear has struck a fateful blow to the land
and its inhabitants live in a circular prison
always believing in the next day
but never making it different to the one before.

The eternal now grips life and locks the population in a hamster wheel of delusion.

The extra mile

A backdrop of economy which
allows flourishes of gluttony.

Baking bread from scratch.
Enjoy the physicality.

Exploring the breath of possibility,
deciding for yourself.

Learning to draw a line for yourself.
Learning to jump over other people's lines.

Knowing when to be silent.
Knowing when to be vocal.

Using one's imagination to take advantage of situations.

Knowing when to let go into guidance or open-eyed faith.

Knowing when to study the map
and when to take directions.

Folding up clothes after laundry..

Enjoy the extra mile.

Appreciate each mouthful.


Poetry's bliss

Tongues feel each others mouths
lungs breathe between them the same air.

Ideas milled into communal space,
leaving no trace,
of fence of apartheid.

No, nothing hides
is only movement
and only stillness.

Poetry's bliss,
having shed its 'I's
to see
mirrors of difference
reflecting infinite shards
of presence,
mutual invitations to kiss.

No competition

To compete is so effete.

The prize for the wise
is mutual enjoyment
of each others grace.

No race for us gentlemen -
that's left for the insecure and anxious,
who set arbitrary finishing lines
& time their climb,
whilst we luxuriate
in the circle of life,
constantly arriving
at ever new yet familiar places.

Many ways of seeing

When perceiving any vision, any statement, any plan,
let its shadow aspect flick into sight.

With the two-fold vision things can become clearer.

Turn the vision upside down
to see how its architecture stands reversed.

Cut it up and re-arrange the pieces.
See how it might grow or diminish,
extending or exaggerating parts,
amputating other limbs.

Bend it, twist it, scramble it, 
see what possibilities unfold
from what is given.

Stretch its potential until it
becomes transluscent.

Watch it burst into nothing.

Then come back to what you see before you.

Opinions and facts

Opinions are curved.
Facts are straight.

Opinions hover restlessly in the air,
whereas facts are tied to places and dates.

Opinions are fighting a battle
which will never be won.
Facts and their shadow-sisters, lies
are ammunition which add to the fun.

When the personal meets the actual,
light sparkles in our eyes.
Opinions and facts coalesce
in the arrangements of the wise.

Opinions may never agree
but can find co-existence on earth.
So facts lay scattered all around
caring not about value or worth.

Saturday, 5 January 2013

Look twice

We are,
as a species,
a strange kettle of fish,
but having said that,
the phrase kettle of fish
is a very strange phrase.

Everything looked at twice,
has the veneer of inexplicable beingness.
A stone.
A lampshade.
It is no wonder people go mad
because there is a lack of forums
for people to just go ''
and come to absolutely no conclusions

We put labels on things - price tags, frames, theories, designs, names, boxes.
But really we are just cutting ourselves up and building traps.
Trees are indifferent to our opinions.
We trick ourselves that we enjoy compliments but actually,
we want to enjoy ACTION.

The sooner humanity embraces its strangeness.
The peculiar simplicity of the world and its particularities.
Of our desires and of our nature.

Always looking twice - first with educated eyes, evaluating eyes.
Secondly with the eyes of a cat.
The eyes of a mystic.
The eyes of an infant.
The sooner we do that,
the sooner the fun will really begin.

Eternity and time

Time pulls at eternity
rivers running under slumbering clouds.
Eternity smiles happily.
Time dreams of happiness
but is too busy to feel it apart from
brief slivers of elation and hints of a contentment to come.

Eternity doesn't know the joke,
yet is always laughing.
Time knows the joke only too well
but doesn't get the punchline.

Time ascends to Eternity by letting go of its usual flow.

Eternity falls into Time because it wants to know what it is to be heavy and have to move..

Eternity is in every drop of time,
latent peace
set adrift on a sequence of struggles.

Sea shells

See patterns
She sells magic
by the ounce.

On the corner,
blowing songs
on her conch.
Sea shanties that weigh in
at a dozen
for your heart's desire.

I know men who have tried
to steal her away.

But they could not see patterns
in sea shells.

So they missed the magic.

And she remains,
on the corner,
blowing songs
on her conch.

Freud's fixations

Freud thought it was unhealthy to have an oral fixation.
This indicated arrested development at a previous stage.
Yet what part of us participates in as much pleasure as our mouth?

We taste, we speak, we kiss, we lick, we whistle, we suck, we pout, we smile.

Truly, if eyes are the window of the soul then the mouth is the front-door.

Freud's great mistake was his own fixation on pathology rather than health.

Heaven knows what his own hang-ups were.
Better scholars than I might be able to explain
but I hear he had a liking for cocaine,
so that suggests to me he had a nasal fixation.

Very conveniently, he never mentioned that in his writing, did he?

We define ourselves by what we exclude.

Stick with the illusion

Don't try to understand me.
Some mysteries disappoint
if you try to unravel them.
Sometimes the charm is in the illusion.
The charade of faces
tell a funny tale
and we shouldn't wish for more
otherwise we will certainly
far less.

Silicon rule

If you stop and listen very carefully,
you will hear the hum of a thousand computers.

Electric fizz.

The quiet usurper of life over the past two hundred years.

No longer do we hear of the animating spirit, the elan vital.

Now it is all hertz and watts and whatnot.

Man has been conquered by silicon invaders - a technical demiurge has created a virtual space,
where human bodies lock onto LCD screens
and feed on information
whilst imagining they are learning about the world
and interacting with people.

This is a subtle trickery & no doubt many of us have been fooled.

If you stop and listen you can hear the hum of a thousand computers.
The revenge of the geeks.


Only the wise child is immortal.

Only the person who chooses both black and white can truly inhabit the board.

Only those words spoken without a hint of uncertainty, anxiety or regret can enter the corridors of eternity.

Only the intention that engages a whole being can move into victory.

Only the heart which does not want to possess can meet as a true lover.

Only prayer spoken from the soul will reach the ears of the Beloved.

Would it were otherwise. Our efforts would not be in vain and we would be surrounded by success.

But it is as it is and whilst there appears to be many, there are actually only a few.

Words and not-words

If you cannot write with your body, you are dead.

If you cannot feel a well of ink in your belly, simmering, bubbling and churning,
the flow of your life will run dry and stagnate.

Because words divorced from not-words create a prison-world  ruled by hands and heads whilst the rest are repressed - to become a body invisible - a myth which is only half-believed and rarely experienced.

Children are told to create a signature
and in that process, something is formed and something is lost.

Every new word we learn activates a latent capacity to perceive more of the world,
yet each new word moves us further into a cave of language,
whilst the bright dumb light of supernal being calls us back,
to bathe in the wordlessness of our Edenic beginnings.

The Scriptures have mislead us.
Things did not begin with a word
much less The Word,
but with something primal.
A gasp, a sigh, a groan, an ecstatic cry,
which underscores all our erudite and entrapping attempts
to wed what we perceive to language,
& breaks through in ums, ers and pregnant pauses -
the anarchy of silence - sounds without definition
tease open the structures of meaning to let in
blasts of impossible wonder.

Chimes of the sublime