Wednesday 11 July 2012

Down to sleep

            It's not the candle spasms 
thinking shadowed
  the odd eyed ikon face 


It isn't the quiet so
                            viscous and there

                           something utters
                                   coming from over the hedgerow
                      with the tongue running
                                                   off on one
                          hid behind the make believe cloud
                                              the verbiage

    This is something other than our usual here.

                  Remember the pictures 

from the picture book.

              Is this a person telling tales?

 There are that many chthonic fingers
                                         going at my feet.

                 from our whereever to this
                               way up there
                                             the body vast
                                a mass of Himself
                                                 and ungettable


                               too much of everything
           that won’t be troubled
                                     by nothing or no one

    The host can only be tasted,

a mouthful of strange trust.


a poison kindness
or near enough

                   undead paper dissolving
               
                                                leaving a stain or

    to be so alone
        with that nameless something
  puttering about at aching play
             where once I kept accounts with
                                       a steadyish hand.

3 comments:

  1. WB,

    All conscious life leads toward puttering about at aching play in the twilight, as the long day closes and the shades of evening come on.

    __

    thinking shadowed
    the odd eyed ikon face

    It isn't the quiet so
    viscous and there

    something utters
    coming from over the hedgerow

    __

    hid behind the make believe cloud

    __

    There are that many chthonic fingers

    __


    The hand will move where it list, steadyish or wobbly. It is a form of prayer, following the traces that have led us here..

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  2. It's good to have some form of prayer to hand, given that the official forms don't leap from the tongue at present.

    Better the aching play than the bookkeeping, I reckon.

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  3. The being so alone with that nameless something... can this be the common condition (oft felt but ne'er so well confessed), or is it that we have something other than our usual here?

    Coming back to this, the spiritual solitude can be felt keenly, as also the honesty that can taste the poison in the kindness and also the strangeness in the sort of trust distilled (artificially? -- or is symbolically merely same thing?) in the host.

    But at best perhaps we can never be more than guests, or ghosts, at life's table. Hid behind the make believe cloud

    Chthonic fingers recalls from somewhere Keats's demand that poetry ought to be something "felt on the pulse".

    (Remembering he had been trained to be a physician.)

    Following the traces that lead back toward the original stain. Incalculable by any known bookkeeping means.

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