27 January 2011


Here is the course of my day, from morning to eve. Evidently I sailed from perdition to paradise. It probably shows that I read lots of Tagore, but I adore the universal beauty and rhythm he is. The final long verse was composed as I walked into town around sunset. God bless the iPhone's compositional capabilities. In the city I had gelato and hung out with the friendly fire-twirling people. Okay, I also had a beer when I chanced to meet a work colleague a bit later.

I am tired like old bones in the desert sun.

O heart, when will you burst
The banks of this little river
And sweep me in flood
Towards the sea?

Who knows the hour?

There is no perfect dream that does not flee.

I have riches and treasures for you beyond compare. Your imagination will not suffice and allow me to bind your apprehension. Words fail me. All comparison is false I swear. The very noble art of description has found itself dull and wanting. Enter my kingdom. Come. You are the key to the treasure house I have been seeking all along. All my store is rusting, wanting, waiting for your song!

PS Click here for evidence of my photographic brilliance - lol

26 January 2011

Australia Day

The other day, I met an aritst in a tavern who gave me a scrap of paper with the url of her work, but I don't know that I would do the same. Max Eastman, an American writer said, "A poet in history is divine, but a poet in the next room is a joke." This sentiment was only recently expressed in respect of me in fact.

From the window,
We only see the winds of evening
For the moving of the trees,
And shadows draw all the light
For safekeeping.

Right now, I am still of the opinion that the finest poem I have written was just last week. Maybe it's just my favourite, for who is to judge? When I finished that poem I felt such rare joy and the next morning at work I could not remember the names of long-time colleagues. This state lasted half a day. It was akin to that mad divine drunkeness that Rumi and Hafiz rave about. Sadly, I could not bear it long and I know everyone else thought I was just plain drunk. At its best, my poetry is a ladder to God. At its worst, you decide.

This happiness you give,
It mingles with the dust,
We have dropt it it so carelessly



There is gold in all the streets
You have walked;
And your streams of sorrow glitter
In this certain light

So dance

And be glad.

Well, there are two poems from this evening by way of introduction to one poem. I am not even sure if this is one poem below, except it was all composed this morning. I was worried it was a strange poem, but it is just a little weary.

Who can understand?

Not I, the eyeless-eye.

We met

Songs of God escaped

from your lips


The songs of God

...that escaped

……from your lips

My tears are gentle now

The infinite sadness calm

I have laid down my pen

And asked the Author

To take up the course of my life.

Prayers are flying

On wings so many colours

In a gigantic whirl.

Always this dream returns,

Ever and ever and ever:

The reins of the horse fall from my hands

And I cling for dear life to his neck,

He rises on two legs

To snort and prance in desperate rage,

Until exhausted, only trackless fields

Greet us once more

Always, ever and again.

Lovers, in love, TRULY –

These pages are blank for you,

My ink has no spells,

Nothing to entice,

There are no rules for you –

Throw the book away.

You can not be defeated by my many

Talking, smiling, laughing disguises.

But in my tears, conjoined, revealing

Dreams within dreams, we really fight.

All day and night, without end,

Only seeming pause, pretend respite.

23 January 2011

Now it seems I do not have another essay on poetry to write today.

I thought about reading the whole of Savitri: A Legend and a Symbol. This is an epic poem by Sri Aurobindo. It is over 23,000 lines of blank verse. The language is archaic, which I love; but I find it next to impossible to read at length. There is just such vastness in the writing which is foreign to our quotidian apprehension. A line I have always found particularly appealing is: '...trooping spotted deer against the vesper sky became a song of evening to the silence of my soul.' This line is from Book V: The Book of Love, Canto 3: Satyavan and Savitri...

The neighing pride of rapid life that roams
Wind-maned through our pastures, on my seeing mood
Cast shapes of swiftness; trooping spotted deer
Against the vesper sky became a song
Of evening to the silence of my soul.
I caught for some eternal eye the sudden
King-fisher flashing to a darkling pool;
A slow swan silvering the azure lake,
A shape of magic whiteness, sailed through dream;
Leaves trembling with the passion of the wind,
Pranked butterflies, the conscious flowers of air,
And wandering wings in blue infinity
Lived on the tablets of my inner sight;
Mountains and trees stood there like thoughts from God.
The brilliant long-bills in their vivid-dress,
The peacock scattering on the breeze his moons
Painted my memory like a frescoed wall.
I carved my vision out of wood and stone;
I caught the echoes of a word supreme
And metred the rhythm-beats of infinity
And listened through music for the eternal Voice.

22 January 2011

Reading Rilke

It rained today and rains even now, fat, gentle, straight down drops. The cadence of this quality of mercy seems to have found a partner in the Beethoven I am listening to. O how I wish to dance uncovered in it and glory so. This is why I should have bought a house, rather than a unit. Thus my emotions could have found asylum with nature rather than my nature be placed in an asylum. I really like it when it rains unseasonably. It is harder than I thought to photograph rain.

Garlic season is here and it abounded at the EPIC market today. I made enough soup/stew to feed me for a week, if I eat like a dog, that is, always taking the same meal. A little too much water or not enough lentils, plus very generous with the cayenne pepper as it is a new ingredient to me. None fatal flaws in such a modest work. The pan pipe duo that played out the front of the market was musically disturbing in their commitment to atonality, although no-one else seemed to notice. It was almost beautiful.

Read some of Rainer Maria Rilke's famous Letters to a Young Poet. (Sorry, I don't know why he has a girl's name for a middle name.) It is quite a soothing little book. In the second letter, he advises the neophyte versifier: 'We are unutterably alone, essentially, especially in the things most intimate and important to us.' Sadly, I am unable to find the original German for that online, but am fairly sure it would sound crushingly depressing if read aloud. Such a horrible tongue, no room for amusement. The following line from a poem called Abend (Evening) did appear: 'Slowly the evening changes into the clothes held for it by a row of ancient trees.' This is utterably lovely as demonstrated.

Makes me think that the poet's fate is intertwined with the quality of their metaphors, analogy or imagery. One of those. Something is always like something else. What is that thing beyond compare? That unalloyed treasure found everywhere? The Source. Is it worthy of infinite comparison when it has already expressed so markedly its commitment to self-discovery? Ah, these words, so like a poem, but not.

Rilke says first off that you should only write poetry if you feel you can not live without doing so. He also reminds junior-poet not to be shy about writing of his sorrow. I acknowledge that I don't usually write about my sorrow, maybe because it largely seems insoluble, or in fact that it changes so painfully slowly. Joy will dance for hours alone or take any partner, but finds it so difficult to coax sorrow onto the floor, for sorrow knows it will not sit down unchanged.

My most steadfast hunger when writing poems is to express beauty and that is often found in longing. For what we long we reach. It could be said - I am about to - that joy is the flesh upon the suffering bone. A limb without a bone is useless. Perhaps it is worth hoping that every sorrow gives strength to our limbs. Knowing that sorrow is mutable is the sword to slay our fears.

Beauty wears two masks - joy and sorrow. Hold too fast to the one and be sure to find it transformed within your grip to the other. Be only committed then to the beautiful. Which brings us to the concept of ugliness...dichotomy is so tiresome. This is the problem with prose.

Here is something I wrote at Yarralumla last Spring:

See the bird
It knows not hunger.
I am but a worm,
Call me plunder.

Do we build a cage
For the ineffable?
Or give form
To the unfathomable?
Everything comes,
Everything goes –
This is mystery.
But nothing ever leaves us,
Everything remains –
This is mystery.
Human games a shadow
Of a drama divine –
This is mystery.
I take the bitter
And I make wine.

This yearning to be nothing
And be all.
This stranger in the hall of time.
I see the carpet of a million leaves.
The canker of corruption
Ignoring the breeze.
Nothing knows form
And nothing takes shape
Without the breath of death
Forcing it to gape –
The endless maw of time
That powers the rhyme
Of the world.

To sing is not a crime,
To be a poet in time,
And remember beyond the ages.

21 January 2011

Man Friday

Somehow I read some quotes from Picasso today, which I quite like:

“My mother said to me, 'If you are a soldier, you will become a general. If you are a monk, you will become the Pope.' Instead, I was a painter, and became Picasso.”

Most wisely, he said:

“It takes a long time to become young.”

20 January 2011

The draught of midnight is cool

Solitude is a balm

Sleep is a dream within a dream

Love is a stranger to reason

The season of remembering approaches

On love

O love,
The poets have not
Exhausted you yet.

All their words
Are like clouds
Drawn from the
Endless ocean.

They only rain
Back down
To the source,
All the while
Covering the sun!

You, My Lord,
Find this amusing
No doubt.

Blake and Love

I was quite unwell for a day or two and missed out on the chance to travel for work. The accompanying sequence of events was quite bizarre, so my trip was not meant to be. Afeared I was that I was sick of poetry, but, well, it has been such a faithful companion to date that we are going to stick together.

Some William Blake from his Songs of Experience.


Hear the voice of the Bard,
Who Present, Past, & Future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walk'd among the ancient trees;

Calling the lapsed Soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might controll
The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!

"O Earth, O Earth, return!
"Arise from out the dewy grass;
"Night is worn,
"And the morn
"Rises from the slumberous mass.

"Turn away no more;
"Why wilt thou turn away?
"The starry floor,
"The wat'ry shore,
"Is giv'n thee till the break of day."

Listening to Bach's Six Suites for Cello. It really has to be done from start to finish. I am waiting for Pierre Fournier's rendition of same that I ordered. The appreciation of classical music demands finding the right performance it is becoming evident, so it will be interesting to hear a new take on this work as I have been listening to Casals for maybe eight years or more. I also ordered Beethoven's Piano Sonatas Opp. 109, 110 & 111 played by Mitsuko Uchida, because the cover is really funky.

EARTH'S Answer

Earth rais'd up her head
From the darkness dread & drear.
Her light fled,
Stony dread!
And her locks cover'd with grey despair.

"Prison'd on wat'ry shore,
"Starry Jealousy does keep my den:
"Cold and hoar,
"Weeping o'er,
"I hear the Father of the ancient men.

"Selfish father of men!
"Cruel, jealous, selfish fear!
"Can delight,
"Chain'd in night,
"The virgins of youth and morning bear?

"Does spring hide its joy
"When buds and blossoms grow?
"Does the sower
"Sow by night,
"Or the ploughman in darkness plow?

"Break this heavy chain
"That does freeze my bones around.
"Selfish! vain!
"Eternal bane!
"That free Love with bondage bound."

I do wonder what this reply is about precisely as Earth seems to be accusing me, i.e. humanity, of being responsible for its bondage. The one serious piece of analysis I could find online more or less agrees with this idea, but it is quite difficult to follow; being a compendium of over a dozen analyses, with frequent reference to the repetition of imagery throughout the entire body of Blake's work, contextualised against the mores of the poet's epoch. See, even that sentence is too long to understand! (Amusingly, there was elsewhere a brief critique stating that the poem is encouraging fathers to let their daughters sleep around more. That pearl of wisdom undoubtedly came from a high-school student!)

In the end, I read it as a cry for humanity to perfect its own behaviour or refine its way of loving. Blake himself did not include the following poem in the final manuscript of Songs of Experience, but he may have written it at the same time. Anyhow, here is how he describes love:

Love to faults is always blind,
Always is to joy inclin'd,
Lawless, wing'd and unconfin'd,
And breaks all chains from every mind.

18 January 2011

On the street where I live

“I am only a little bit mad,”
I want to tell the stranger;
But she will know
I am drunk
On more than nature’s bliss.

The moon is almost full.

A chopping-board rhythm
Calls dinner
Through the open
Windows and doors
Of young twilight.

Couples have met,
Or are making rendezvous.

I pass a man
And gravity has weighed his eyeballs down.
Down, down, down.

Fair, I am dressed so garish,
Effort would have hardly
Produced a greater dis-sympathy
Of patterns.

I may be more than a little mad
Without a cent in my pocket,
No more fruit of the vine for me,
It’s bread and butter for tea.

Everyone it seems
Is singing the same song tonight.

A lonely chord flies out some door.

17 January 2011

The Web

At once,
You are beyond all,
At the same time,
In the small,
You hold me in thrall.

This photo I took this morning. The spider rushed to the centre of their web straight after the shot. Butterflies danced with me all the way home. It seems I did not have to wait too long for the muse to return...

Hafiz and Gertrude

Poems are written by fools like you and me,
But only God can make a tree.

Anonymous of course and true. Very true.

And each of us is a tree. So you will know a person by the sanctuary and succor you find beneath their canopy, the fragrance of their flowers, the scent and taste of their fruits. In the blazing sun of noon we all seek respite and then sometime later a pleasing curtain from the night.

This post was planned to be an explication of why I have no new poems, but I am getting suspiciously proasic. What a surprise.

Returning to trees, what springs to mind is the following lines from Revelation by Sri Chinmoy:

Drunk deep of Immortality,
I am the root and boughs of a teeming vast.

Read the whole poem I suggest.

Where was I? Explication. Rhymes with frustration.

What touches me deeply is that from checking out my analytics page, the deus google sent someone to my blog after they typed in "my sorrow aches my heart want to be carefree". And they actually spent some time looking around. So I better post something useful.

Anyway, today I ordered up some more Hafiz books and read the introduction to a translation of his work by a certain Gertrude Lowthian Bell written in 1897. I first tried eight local bookshops looking for the books I wanted and none had them. Then I briefly dreamt of opening a shop that selt only awesome volumes of poetry along with occasional food and sublime coffee. I am such a damn hippy, except the concept of stock control troubled me briefly. Also, shoes would be mandatory.

Right, some quotes and meta-quotes from Gertrude:

"The world," he said, "is like unto the shadow of a cloud and a dream of the night; for the one has no resting-place, and when the dreamer awakens there remains to him but a vain memory of the other."

this is Shah Shudja, a relative of Hafiz, writing to his family about property matters following the death of a King

"Thou art but the glass," the poet concludes, "his is the face reflected in the mirror; nay, if thou lookest steadfastly, thou shalt see that he is the mirror also." In a parable, Jami illustrates the universal presence of God, and the blind searching of man for that by which he is surrounded on every side. There was a frog which sat upon the shores of the ocean, and ceaselessly, day and night he sang its praise. "As far as mine eyes can see," he said, "I behold nothing but thy boundless surface." Some fish swimming in the shallow water heard the frog's song, and were filled with a desire to find that wonderful ocean of which he spoke, but go where they would they could not discover it. At last, in the course of their search, they fell into a fisherman's net, and as soon as they were drawn out of the water they saw beneath them the ocean for which they had been seeking. With a leap they returned into it.

this is from Jami's Yusuf and Zuleikha in which he sets forth this doctrine of the creation

The conception of the union and interdependence of all things divine and human is far older than Sufi thought. It goes back to the earliest Indian teaching, and Professor Deussen, in his book on Metaphysics, has pointed out the conclusion which is drawn from it in the Veda. "The gospels," he says, "fix quite correctly as the highest law of morality, Love thy neighbour as thyself. But why should I do so, since by the order of nature I feel pain and pleasure only in myself, not in my neighbour? The answer is not in the Bible (this venerable book being not yet quite free from Semitic realism), but it is in the Veda: You shall love your neighbour as yourselves because you are your neighbour; a mere illusion makes you believe that your neighbour is something different from yourselves. Or in the words of the Bhagaradgitah: He who knows himself in everything and everything in himself, will not injure himself by himself. This is the sum and tenor of all morality, and this is the standpoint of a man knowing himself a Brahman."

Gertrude's interpretation

Be that as it may, one who sings the cool rush of the wind of dawn, the scarlet cup of the tulip uplifted in solitary places, the fleeting shadows of the clouds, and the praise of gardens and fountains and fruitful fields, was not likely to forget that even if the world is no more than an intangible reflection of its Creator, the reflection of eternal beauty is in itself worthy to be admired. I wish I could believe that such innocent delights as these, and a wholehearted desire for truth, had been enough for our poet, but I have a shrewd suspicion that the Cupbearer brought him a wine other than that of divine knowledge, and that his mistress is considerably more than an allegorical figure. How ever willing we may be to submit to the wise men of the East when they tell us that the revelry of the poems is always a spiritual exaltation, it must be admitted that the words of the poet carry a different conviction to Western ears. There is undoubtedly a note of sincerity in his praise of love and wine and boon-companionship, and I am inclined to think that Hafiz was one of those who, like Omar Khayyam, were wont to throw the garment of repentance annually into the fire of Spring. It must be remembered that the morality of his day was not that of our own, and that the manners of the East resemble but vaguely those of the West; and though as a religious teacher Hafiz would have been better advised if he had less frequently loosened the rein of his desires, I doubt whether his songs would have rung for us with the same passionate force. After all, the poems of St. Francis of Assisi are not much read nowadays. Nevertheless, the reader misses a sense of restraint both in the matter and in the manner of the Divan. To many Persians, Hafiz occupies the place that is filled by Shakespeare in the minds of many Englishmen. It may be a national prejudice, but I cannot bring myself to believe that the mental food supplied by the Oriental is as good as the other. But, then, our appetites are not the same.

The tendency in dealing with a mystical poet is to read into him so-called deeper meanings, even when the simple meaning is clear enough and sufficient in itself. Hafiz is one of those who has suffered from this process; it has removed him, in great measure, from the touch of human sympathies which are, when all is said and done, a poet's true kingdom. Of a different age, a different race, and a different civilisation from ours, there are yet snatches in his songs of that melody of human life which is everywhere the same. When he cries, "My beloved is gone and I had not even bidden him farewell!" his words are as poignant now as they were five centuries ago, and they could gain nothing from a mystical interpretation. As simple and as touching is his lament for his son: "Alas! he found it easy to depart, but unto me he left the harder pilgrimage." And for his wife: "Then said my heart, I will rest me in this city which is illumined by her presence; already her feet were bent upon a longer journey, but my poor heart knew it not." Not Shakespeare himself has found a more passionate image for love than: "Open my grave when I am dead, and thou shalt see a cloud of smoke rising out from it; then shalt thou know that the fire still burns in my dead heart-yea, it has set my very winding-sheet alight." Or: "If the scent of her hair were to blow across my dust when I had been dead a hundred years, my mouldering bones would rise and come dancing out of the tomb." And he knows of what he writes when he says, "I have estimated the influence of Reason upon Love and found that it is like that of a raindrop upon the ocean, which makes one little mark upon the water's face and disappears." These are the utterances of a great poet, the imaginative interpreter of the heart of man; they are not of one age, or of another, but for all time.

Nice work Gertrude.

Off with his head!

This poem methinks is probably seven years old. I remember writing it while I was running. At the time, I think I was quite into Vivekananda.

The only battle is within.
If a man comes
...and cuts off my head,
I will pick it up,
Go to God and say:
"Here! Give me another body.
.I have work to do!"

Last night, I discovered the following flower from Hafiz (translation Ladinsky) and there is some congruence concerning decapitation.

That Sounds Wonderful

Good poetry
Makes a beautiful naked woman
Materialize from

Who then says,
With a sword precariously waving
In her hands

"If you look at my loins
I will cut off your head,

And reach down and grab your spirit
By its private parts,

And carry you off to heaven
Squealing in joy."

Hafiz says,
"That sounds wonderful, just

Someone please - start writing
Some great lines."


A good friend of mine told me my poetry was an arrow in my quiver when it came to the art of romance. I had to tell him, "I fear this arrow flies too straight for mortal hearts!" Just what Hafiz speaks of it is hard to say, but that I can not stop smiling none can gainsay. Then, of course, what Hafiz speaks of he has already said.

Well, I must go to work. I took some photos this morning and it turns out that it is not too hard to replicate the trippy light effect I produced last night. Still, the light itself is ever new. I will upload the photos tonight. Lux semper novem. That can be the motto of the Mystical Poetry Society of Canberra which I need to start.

16 January 2011

Pictures, poems

I just took a photo in Haig Park, down the road from where I live. I was trying to catch the golden glow of the setting sun on the tall pines, but it wasn't really working. The plan was to shoot that and then try and catch the golden reflection on the ground that shone through the trees. Right before I took this shot, I literally ran to catch the light. It looked like this in the viewfinder and a moment after I took the shot the sun slipped below the horizon. (click to enlarge)

There is always a few supernal minutes around sunset full of pastel poems of peace. I will try and get out there every night to enjoy it from now on.

Still decorating my new place, slowly but surely. Today a cast iron Japanese teapot, short and stout. It has a handle and a spout.

It all seems a bit psychedelic right now.


Following is a poem from Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky. Apparently in Iran etc, it is not unusual for folk to sit around after dinner and recite Hafiz and Rumi to each other, even these days. Hafiz says, "I am a hole in a flute that the Christ's breath moves through - listen to this music...."

I Knew We Would Be Friends

As soon as you opened your mouth
And I heard your soft

I knew we would be

The first time, dear pilgrim, I heard
You laugh,

I knew it would not take me long
To turn you back into


Here is a diamond from Sri Chinmoy, good for evening or any time:

Let us not worry.
He who has brought us
...Into the world
Will take us back Home safely.


Here are a few poems by yours truly from years past:

Just feel
That whatever you have,
God is hungry for
that very thing:
How can you be


I am an ordinary man
If the grass is ordinary,
The pebble, the tree and the sky,
I am an ordinary man.
The ripe fragrance of the hill
Which flows through my veins
At sunset,
One great big
...beautiful breath.

I tell you, the sky is living in my
throat; I can't walk down
the street without tripping
over twelve miracles.

15 January 2011

Tagore and talk of tunes

Have I mentioned that I love Tagore?

Stray Birds I have been reading lately:

My heart beats her waves at the shore of the world and writes upon it her signature in tears with the words, "I love thee."


The waterfall sings, "I find my song, when I find my freedom."


The world rushes on over the strings of the lingering heart making the music of sadness.


Wrong cannot afford defeat but Right can.


I think of other ages that floated upon the stream of life and love and death and are forgotten, and I feel the freedom of passing away.


The hills are like shouts of children who raise their arms, trying to catch stars.


The Great is a born child; when he dies he gives his great childhood to the world.


I carry in my world that flourishes the worlds that have failed.


I feel, thy beauty, dark night, like that of the loved woman when she has put out the lamp.


Woman, with the grace of your fingers you touched my things and order came out like music.


One sad voice has its nest among the ruins of the years. It sings to me in the night,--"I loved you."


A mind all logic is like a knife all blade.
It makes the hand bleed that uses it.


The burning log bursts in flame and cries,--"This is my flower, my death."


Maiden, your simplicity, like the blueness of the lake, reveals your depth of truth.


Our desire lends the colours of the rainbow to the mere mists and vapours of life.


The storm is like the cry of some god in pain whose love the earth refuses.


Life has become richer by the love that has been lost.


Timid thoughts, do not be afraid of me.
I am a poet.


I do not ask thee into the house. Come into my infinite loneliness, my Lover.


Light in my heart the evening star of rest and then let the night whisper to me of love.


We live in this world when we love it.


That love can ever lose is a fact that we cannot accept as truth.


The prelude of the night is commenced in the music of the sunset, in its solemn hymn to the ineffable dark.


That is a small selection of the 326 terse verses which reveal in their aching beauty that the hunger to discover the beauty of existence is beauty itself; and that existence is all beauty. What I'm saying is that it is beautiful. There's a superfluous exegesis if ever there was one.

Anyway, apparently there is a musical genre called Art song. I stumbled across this and found there is a famous song called Do Not Go, My Love composed by R. Hageman. The lyrics are by Tagore from The Gardener. This is the best version I found on YouTube so far:

Nice, hey?

Serendiply, I also found out there is an Art Song Canberra and now I have a concert to look forward to at the end of February.

Apparently to Wikipedia, my man Schubert is the greatest art song composer ever. That's funny, because I have Die schöne Müllerin, I bought it before I had even heard of art song and haven't listened to it yet. The story is extravagently German and I can't imagine it will be that cheerful a listen.

For the last few days I have been listening to Schubert's Death and the Maiden String Quartet in the car. He wrote it when he realised he was dying, but it is not depressing at all. This is the same version I have on cd:

Three poems by Sri Chinmoy

Here are three of my favourite poems by Sri Chinmoy.



There is only one sentence
In God's entire Autobiography:
"The galaxy of stars
And the darkest night
Are inseparably one."

Excerpt from
Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 24 by Sri Chinmoy


My Lord Supreme,
Who has a real claim on You?
"My child,
He who does not expect anything,
Either from Heaven or from earth."

Excerpt from Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants, Part 24 by Sri Chinmoy


The immortal Motto
Of a God-realised soul:
Tommorrow's Dawn never begins.
Yesterday's Night never ends.

Excerpt from
My Master by Sri Chinmoy


A poem of waiting and wanting, late December 2010.

Everything can wait.


Yesterday, today, tomorrow,

Hope, fate, destiny,

The memory of your face.

Except one thing:

My appointment

With the

Love Divine.

It is the

Perfect wine

For every meal.

It knows the taste

Of the bitter thrill.

It is the sound

Of the birds

Who rip the night air.

It is.

The rich hours

We would spend

Growing pearls

In the oyster bed.

Sweet everything.

And nothing is

As it seems

In the midst

Of our naked thoughts

And dreams.

Oh the

Teeming buds

Of all the seeds

I will sow in your garden.

If you would like to

Oh how

I would love you

While I am

Always discovering

This beauty mine.

Do you want to

Fill this empty room?

And the gardener

Loved the tender fruits

Of the green

And named them each

A forgotten song.

Older poems

To be honest, I am not certain when I wrote the following poems. They were in a note book that was to hand the other night when I felt like using a pen to write for a change. Sometime in the last five years most likely. At first, I felt quite disjunct from the experiences they represent, but typing them out gave me a greater appreciation for them. Still, it's a fool's way to explain poetry so I will say no more.


Nothing do I have
Nothing do I know
In the breath of the sky
I am sure to dissolve.


The dark night does
not sway me
The clouds but
cover me
I am moon
to hold
The earth
to right.


I have felt
the breath of the universe
It has passed
And not found
A single one wanting
For that is its way.


If I can not feel You on earth,
then where is heaven?

If I can not see You with eyes,
then where am I?

If I can not know You with mind,
then how am I?

Contradiction you have served me well enough,
Go hence:

With heavenly eyes on earth
I mind You.


Will I ever be
such an immortal poet
as You, My Lord?
When tomes are writ
upon each blade of grass?
Great libraries in the lawn
are trodden daily.
Epic trees wave in the breeze.
Everywhere gods and goddesses are at their tasks.

(No factory ever grew a fruit
But happy I stand easy in my boot.)


There is PLENTY more where there came from and I expect over the coming weeks to be doing lots of typing. Perhaps I can work out how to edit everything into a book. My collection is so scattered that any attempt at chronology would be futile. Perhaps theme will work.

Ask not & This game

from 11 January 2011

Ask not

The proof of my love,

Seek not

The proof of my love,

Only know me,

My love.

And all is done

When all is love.


This game we play

I do not know it so well

But it shows me

The thousand hidden faces

That spell you

And I do not flinch

From a single one.

09 January 2011

What bird alights
In the midnight-tree?
Your silent song
It seems to call to me.

08 January 2011


God is my banner

And always will be.


Everything in this world is a gift

And it is full of beauty.


This mortal span is not the end

Our days live on a greater gaze.


My heart aches

Like a boat for the sea.


Love is patient

And all things

To all people.


Love is a slow ripening fruit

And quite rare.


From temple to temple she roams,

I don't know how to tell her,

Here is home.


I sang

On the wings

Of my sorrow

And my pain

Is gain

In heaven's name.


Your body has

One thousand

Road maps

To travel.


The Friend

Only the Friend.

No man,

no woman,

no father,

no mother,

no brother,

no sister,

no lover.

Only the Friend

Will do.


She taught me

How to cry

Beneath her tree

Where I did lie.

One summer long

The memory of

A forgotten song

Stole from silence.

Throw your self

Upon my shore

Kiss me NOW

And never more.

03 January 2011

From Pent-Up Aching Rivers

The title is genius enough, but here is the poem....

From pent-up aching rivers,
From that of myself without which I were nothing,
From what I am determin'd to make illustrious, even if I stand sole
among men,
From my own voice resonant, singing the phallus,
Singing the song of procreation,
Singing the need of superb children and therein superb grown people,
Singing the muscular urge and the blending,
Singing the bedfellow's song, (O resistless yearning!
O for any and each the body correlative attracting!
O for you whoever you are your correlative body! O it, more than all
else, you delighting!)
From the hungry gnaw that eats me night and day,
From native moments, from bashful pains, singing them,
Seeking something yet unfound though I have diligently sought it
many a long year,
Singing the true song of the soul fitful at random,
Renascent with grossest Nature or among animals,
Of that, of them and what goes with them my poems informing,
Of the smell of apples and lemons, of the pairing of birds,
Of the wet of woods, of the lapping of waves,
Of the mad pushes of waves upon the land, I them chanting,
The overture lightly sounding, the strain anticipating,
The welcome nearness, the sight of the perfect body,
The swimmer swimming naked in the bath, or motionless on his back
lying and floating,
The female form approaching, I pensive, love-flesh tremulous aching,
The divine list for myself or you or for any one making,
The face, the limbs, the index from head to foot, and what it arouses,
The mystic deliria, the madness amorous, the utter abandonment,
(Hark close and still what I now whisper to you,
I love you, O you entirely possess me,
O that you and I escape from the rest and go utterly off, free and lawless,
Two hawks in the air, two fishes swimming in the sea not more
lawless than we;)
The furious storm through me careering, I passionately trembling.
The oath of the inseparableness of two together, of the woman that
loves me and whom I love more than my life, that oath swearing,
(O I willingly stake all for you,
O let me be lost if it must be so!
O you and I! what is it to us what the rest do or think?
What is all else to us? only that we enjoy each other and exhaust
each other if it must be so;)
From the master, the pilot I yield the vessel to,
The general commanding me, commanding all, from him permission taking,
From time the programme hastening, (I have loiter'd too long as it is,)
From sex, from the warp and from the woof,
From privacy, from frequent repinings alone,
From plenty of persons near and yet the right person not near,
From the soft sliding of hands over me and thrusting of fingers
through my hair and beard,
From the long sustain'd kiss upon the mouth or bosom,
From the close pressure that makes me or any man drunk, fainting
with excess,
From what the divine husband knows, from the work of fatherhood,
From exultation, victory and relief, from the bedfellow's embrace in
the night,
From the act-poems of eyes, hands, hips and bosoms,
From the cling of the trembling arm,
From the bending curve and the clinch,
From side by side the pliant coverlet off-throwing,
From the one so unwilling to have me leave, and me just as unwilling
to leave,
(Yet a moment O tender waiter, and I return,)
From the hour of shining stars and dropping dews,
From the night a moment I emerging flitting out,
Celebrate you act divine and you children prepared for,
And you stalwart loins.

Walt Whitman

02 January 2011


A short joggle, jiggle, jaggle this morning. My shins are rent, but temporarily. It provided the opportunity to stretch and do weights after anyway. It will be quite hot today, but it rained last night and the morn was still quite cool.


The night wakes me,

Or day never left.

I hope with words

Some sleep to keep,

If eventual

I rip the deep.

Hear it now -

Some thunder distant

And lightening lumes

The curtain.

If rain comes

The sky will tell my story.

And that is enough.


01 January 2011

No run today, even though I had a quiet New Year's Eve.

I ache everywhere.