I try not to work too much, and don’t drink. Stretching, I wake to the rustling dark – to dawn seeping in through the brink of the window, and the dog’s bark – It’s then I see what’s really always there; light streaming in through the misting air absolving me of days that never quite start; fallen empires grown thick with weeds, a knowing smile at capricious needs and under it all, my whispering heart.
The mind ceases to glare. Not through fear – some good done, some love given, time lined up like a jigsaw – here missing a piece or two, but it’s fine; there are more puzzles to do, that’s for sure, while the stars play out their grand impure drama, which can be a mess – all scattered across the endless black that brought us here, and can take us back; Chaos can stand such a diffident dress.
There is a peculiar way of letting go – The smile as a cure – like Gautama’s – who tells of all deaths we ever could know and did so to teach us: be calmer. ‘They have seen the Way, like a flash of lightning in the night’ – now that’s enlightening. Just relax – no sound, no sight No touch or taste or smell, no mind everything collapsing into the void which we are, and are again, every night.
So. You can only learn so much from death. You can dream about it, sure, but let it go. It gets easier all the time. And as for the rest – The sun will rise. This we can know. Doesn’t it betray the poet and child in the morning to sit in stunned and wild silence, hands clasped in black prayer, and think this shows some clean truth? Give me a break. Death is no forbidden fruit and your whining might just hasten you there.
(Interesting to see that you have no thought For the deaths of your friends and those you love as well you ought to in those dark mornings. Let’s forgive this self-regard. We know there is space for all kinds of death; the shadow face you held up as a simple, clarified skull is a Janus. And on the other side is a face of a mother, perhaps, with a soft smile who takes leave from the world and leaves it full.)
A worried king came to me, lord knows why to measure his luck against the Philistines. Strange how an eldritch technique can change from heresy to dogma for reasons of state – anyway, for all my murdered sisters I gave him just enough doubt to put off his aim – he’ll lay down his sword from anxiety, then lie down and slide along it, slowly, to rest. I slaughtered a calf to give precursive thanks and fed him libation to his own pierced flank.
When the gods ascend from out the earth, justice sees tyrants come off the worse.
An itinerant treads through the fields in London, Wales and England, picking through the debris of a culture war, heading back home to the north. They record the thoughts of objects and see the others talking and gesturing, haunted by visions and dreams of the past and future. The field repeats, each time slightly differently. In each field a different assemblage – maybe a castle, or a festival, or a bird