and i knew

i was walking through nearby woods when i came across this branch.

it had been lifted and moved slightly, revealing a shadow of fallen leaves.

a memory.

an echo.

a sense of uplifting.

a passage across a great open space.

and i knew.

"i feel my boots

trying to leave the ground,

i feel my heart

pumping hard. i want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.

i want to be light and frolicsome.

i want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,

as though i had wings."

mary oliver

words by mary oliver excerpted from starlings in winter

stone eye

i went to the sea

in search of my father

and came

to this place

where a single stone eye

stared skyward

through all the small details

of coloured pebbles

and meltwater

winter sea

i walk in the winds

brightness and darkness

santoka taneda

its terrible beauty

you'd need

to know the very real

gap between what is

and what you wish for

to know the truth

of the word

suffering

and then also

you would need

to spend some time

living inside that word

to come to know

and value

its terrible beauty

breathe

i can

breathe the breath you just breathed

and feel it pass through

my bloodstream

as surely

and as fully

as if it were my own

alleyways

the sure

and certain

- like a well-lit corridor -

holds no surprises for me

it is entirely laid bare

and there's a sort of comfort in its familiar barrenness

that somewhat softens the edge of the discomfort

that attends my living as and who i am

in this iteration of the world

perhaps this explains why

alleyways

hold such charm

and distraction for me

with their furtive

and unexpected

comings and goings

windows and doors

suddenly opening and closing

the soft uncertain rustle of angels

in the shadows

holding onto the ever-expanding moment

they are intent on creating

as they draw their bodies away from the here-and-now

and dance into the nothing-and-everythingness

of each other

i was listening to nicholas jaar and nina simone when it wrote these words

christmas day 2011

hey!!!!! it's christmas day!!!!!!

so a big happy christmas to all of my readers no matter where you are.

i remember one christmas holiday

travelling around with a group of my friends to sing christmas carols.

our goal - fun - pure and simple.

i recall that we had sucked back more than our fair share of riesling

before heading out to share the results

which only served to enhance the joy

for the singers

if not the listeners.

singing isn't one of my strong points.

so rather than share something

personal but capable of ruining this morning's magic,

i'd like to share with you

three carols sung by people who know what they're doing.

starting with my favourite . . .

i saw three ships

next up will be good king wenceslas

the lyrics for this carol are rich with images in my mind

connected to my last christmas in england.

i was eight years old

and staying at a holiday home

in saltburn up on the yorkshire coast.

at the time, my dad was three thousand miles away

carving out a life for himself and his shortly to be arriving family.

it snowed while we there

and i recall one journey out into the countryside

that filled my mind with

(what have become)

archetypal images of a magical christmas.

i wish i could put the sensations of that particular day into writing for you,

but the effect of seeing snow,

moorland, waterfalls, rivers,

and the pennines

filled my head and heart

and to this day i can recall and feel

the very same childlike wonder at it all inside me.

and so i'll indulge myself further

by sharing the lyrics of good king wenceslas

with you here .

good king wenceslas looked out, on the feast of stephen,

when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even;

brightly shone the moon that night, tho' the frost was cruel,

when a poor man came in sight, gath'ring winter fuel.

"hither, page, and stand by me, if thou know'st it, telling,

yonder peasant, who is he? where and what his dwelling?"

"sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain;

right against the forest fence, by saint agnes' fountain."

"bring me flesh, and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither:

thou and I will see him dine, when we bear them thither."

page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together;

through the rude wind's wild lament and the bitter weather.

"sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger;

fails my heart, i know not how; i can go no longer."

"mark my footsteps, good my page. tread thou in them boldly

thou shalt find the winter's rage freeze thy blood less coldly."

in his master's steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;

heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.

therefore, christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,

ye who now will bless the poor, shall yourselves find blessing.

to learn more about this carol then you can give one of my old posts a read!

and of course last but not least, the holly and the ivy . . .

a very happy christmas to each and every one of you!

steven

i know this long open place

i know this

long open place

it's

so like a field

without fences

unfurrowed

unconcerned with the urgencies of artifice

and that long open place holds

the imperative of life

as it is meant to be lived

holds it

as gently

as it holds

the certitude of death

so very like a found feather

brought to ground

after rising sunward

on a soft warm thermal

and then settling unexpectedly

onto the soft loam

of a ploughed and fertile field

all we want

we want and wish

then we hope and dream

at first we hold our own hands

kiss our own reflections

run our fingers across our lips

hold ourselves closer than almost anyone might

then we put on clothes that say more than we could ever say

are seen in circumstances

of our own design

and still

we aren't recognized

for who we are

because we haven't given ourselves the opportunity

to recognize ourselves

it's the letting go

the leaving behind

the willingness to drop all pretense

that opens the door

to the fullness of our presence

to ourselves

and to each other

variations

the sounds - fragmented and then closed . . . drawn together so like the details of life . . . somehow connected and then also hovering, independent of each other . . . hope? it's embedded but requires some sourcing out with no guaranteees . . . . this boy's 21. he know far too much about life and music. and then i love his intuition and serendipity. it so mirrors the many stretched thin and torn little pieces...........

this unfurling

the very big

and the very small

the unknowing

and the knowing

the oblivious

and the entirely aware

are all meeting

side-by-side -

sometimes wrapped around each other

in a dance

of consonance and dissonance

each finding its place

in the turning of this great place

-

you wonder

as you look about you

you wonder about choices

who was i then

and why am i me now?

who holds the purse strings on the expense account of my soul

is there reason

to all of this

or am i perhaps

asking too much of a process

that is so clearly so much larger than the life one man

can describe in words or pictures?

letting what will be

be

a request

that asks more than i might be capable of

and yet there it is

in the form of an unfurling sky

enough of words, come to me without a sound

i stopped my bicycle and stepped off to see this beautiful place where the autumn leaves were held

with all that was left of them beneath the ice

and the pine needles held their place above the ice

as if they were looking into each other . . .

as if they were speaking without words

so much passes inside our words, and then beneath our words, and then especially without words

.

i am so deeply grateful to the angel who is looking over me

we see the leaves beneath the ice

snowflakes star the icy skin

of a leaf-lined pool

come and go

the layering of winter over autumn is so gradual.

the morning arrives rendered as tiny frozen islands that hold their form ever so briefly

until softening and returning to the puddles and pools they emerge from

each night these little spaces breathe in and hold the moment of winter

each day they breathe out and hold the moment of autumn

ebb and flow

swell and deliquesce

it's so much like knowing

and understanding

so much like wishing

and doing

the arrival and the return

braided one into the other

soft heated sky

this sky's skin

brushed against the face of my heart

and then

drew its fingers

across my soul

pressing

reaching

drawing out the essence

of my wholeness

challenging me

to tell the story

of our encounter

this day ends gently

the soft tongues

of the end-of-this-day's sunlight

gently

brush their tangerine paint against

the river's steel-blue mouth

deep autumn

the nights are now chill and thin

filled with the rustlings of

dry-veined leafy bodies

tumbling and colliding

across the thin skin of snow

the music of their puckered mouths

a hollow

whispering

reaches

into my sleep

and draws its notes

across the page of me

i reach for your warmth

the old coat

i wrap her

in the old coat of myself

and she says

"where are we going then?"

"home"

"which is where?"

"where ever we are"

music by underworld "witness" from "lovely broken thing"

out and across

image by mostafa habibi courtesy of tess at magpie tales

secure inside the finest softest sand imagineable

my body washed by the memories of waves

i stood entirely still

my heart beating purely out of obligation

i was capable of being and doing

nothing more than was necessary

.

until one night

the moon

drew her body tight about the ocean

and running her fingers across it's liquid body

with greater conviction

and effect than usual

she caused the water to pull back layer upon layer of sand

until finally

by chance and happenstance

my eyes

were exposed

and an entire world

of sky and ocean expanded before me

i felt its fullness

in my own becoming self

and even now

as i gradually withdraw my body and my self

from the comforting clasp of the somnolent sand

i feel my heart beating

a rhythm it hasn't played for decades

and wish for nothing more than to feel

the simplicity of the sand between my toes.

the small voice

in a small corner of this world ...

left behind

through some oversight

i found a voice

a small voice

.

and that voice

(which sings a song each of us knows

but that for some strange reason

we don't sing very often)

said

"there's nothing to be left unspoken . . .

there's no reason to be silent,

especially when it has to do with

the truth of your existence.

because as long as you hide your true voice,

you will suffer unnecessarily.

and all those

who love you truly,

will also suffer unnecessarily.

and so,

as an act of kindness and contrition

i beg you, to open your mouth

to shape your breath

and to form the words ...

i am not perfect, i have no wish to be.

i could gain nothing by trying.

i am entirely my self

as i am intended to be.

and i am grateful

for the allness

of who i am

and for being who and what

i am loved for."

falling behind the horizon

my heart

i ask it to be so strong and so brave

i ask it to give so very much

and especially i ask it to be patient and understanding

ever since i was a child,

my heart has always been so very open

always letting everything and everyone in

the wind, the sky, the trees, the little animals

running in and out alongside those who gathered and gather to know its love

- honest and without condition -

this evening as i write

i find the eyes of my heart caught in the spaces between these branches

letting in the faint distant loving light of the sun

i miss its fullness

so thoroughly

i watched the stars

i watched this afternoon's snow

fall like so many little stars

the sun scattered

and all its light was hidden behind the hills

then there was nothing left

but the rich echoes of you

flowering across the emptiness

of your absence

tightly

there's a little yellow flower

beside the river

hugging the ground so closely to itself -

a hope fulfilled

in the dance of its subtle body

the slender fingers of a breeze

draw across its flowered lips

my words and eyes

drift across its tenderness

we are lost to each other

in so many different ways

there are small lines

there are small lines ...

wires running through

and out of my hands and my feet

my eyes and my mouth

filaments that tether me

to the ground

i know this

because i've seen them

twice in my life:

once when the earth wished to swallow me up

and take me back

and once when i saw in your face that the earth

wished me to be more than i am

and i bet you know the small ways

in which those filaments can be brought to make music

much as the sun knows the snow

that settles around the tip

of a dried goldenrod

and teases its tongue around that

crystal circle

of containment

i hear the music of you in the rushed whispering

of the thin bodies

of the young trees

as we pass

i feel the songs of you in the small melt

of an ice-clouded puddle

somehow your words hold the whole

of the pieces together

and the formless scatter of my passage

melds with the flawless calligraphy of your voice

into a dance that brings the trees closer

each bowing in to see and to hear

what will be?

what will become?

looking back, i saw my path

i'm wrapping my self

in the soft pale clothes of late autumn

this morning, i came across this beautiful piece of writing by the eighth century chinese poet li bai.

"down zhongan mountain to the kind pillow and bowl of husi"

down the blue mountain in the evening,

moonlight was my homeward escort.

looking back, i saw my path

lie in levels of deep shadow....

i was passing the farm-house of a friend,

when his children called from a gate of thorn

and led me twining through jade bamboos

where green vines caught and held my clothes.

and i was glad of a chance to rest

and glad of a chance to drink with my friend....

we sang to the tune of the wind in the pines;

and we finished our songs as the stars went down,

when, i being drunk and my friend more than happy,

between us we forgot the world.

three years

what i can remember

is the fullness of presence

in my mother’s voice

caught in the unreality of a phone call

so subtly enunciating the words

describing

the flying away of my father

the man

who first dragged me into this world

lost me in the process of his own becoming

and then thrust me forcefully

into the mire and glory

of all that he knew and had subsumed

into his becoming self

later, our trajectories

separated sufficiently

that we could see each other

through the fog of our histories

so clearly

that respect

and an acknowledgement of all that had passed

and all that might be

entered into the hugs

we bracketed our meetings with

perhaps most painful

and most daunting -

were my mother’s words

(and later her eyes)

full of the empty wonder and ripe sorrow

of the loss of all that she had known

all that she had worked for and with

despite and against

-

my mother and my father -

so very like the most unlikely dance partners

seeing each other across a crowded dance-floor

and drawing together to bring concordance

to the music of two orchestras

and in the worlds i had collected to that point . . .

well, with his flying away

a world ended

in the slow dying

of the knowing of him

contained in my own children

whose lives lost all at once

an open doorway

and a containment

in my father’s flying away

unravelled

scenes from margaret's garden (iii)

i am

no longer

tidily wrapped and ribboned

parcelled and delivered

i am now

entirely unravelled

and blowing in the wind

the golden fire

i hold her slender body close enough

to my own

to feel her pulsing self rising and settling

in the golden fire of her allness

so like silence

this entire feeling moment

across an open sky so cold and then so bright

stands so like silence

-

i bet you've already figured out that there is so little of us left behind when we leave -

not much more than small pale emotive jewels contained within the dried husks of memory

each holding the water of tears that fell so very long ago

and somehow containing the softness of kisses that closed the shortness of a night

but right now in this moment that steps so very far outside the skin of this place

to an otherness where tears and words have no substance

we are here

and we know

that we are merely signposts

for something far greater

and so i dig beneath your sweet soft skin

for the soft welcome of soil and roots

and embrace it as something other

that holds the little strings of me and pulls them tighter

offering love and an understanding

that all of this is more sign than place

so like so many little wings, so like clouds

there's a place in each one of us -

a small and hushed place

so like the forest floor

where all the pieces

of the sky and the trees

gather and sing

their songs of return

i bet you can feel that place

in your body

as it flutters

like so many little wings

as we pass so much like clouds

through the each of our otherness

and when you rise

from that place

scattering dust

and sunlight

every which way

your body sings

the wordless song that is

the slender echo

of its own becoming

in the small cry

that escapes your mouth

in place

i'm thinking and feeling the great fullness of walking

beside someone else

in their entirety

within the possibility

i fold

and curl

and throw myself back to the earth

even as the earth

rises to meet me

but, while held in the sun's hands

i feel an invitation

to stay

that is hard to ignore

every morning

every night

and every moment

that flowers in-between

i am pulled

and stretched

between

the straining hands of the here and now

and the feathered edges of evermore

i was listening to the music of harold budd and brian eno when i wrote this

little bridge

when swimming

from bank to bank

is not an option

the little bridge

(which takes more time

and more effort to build)

repays its existence

over and over

which is why

(when i stand on it

and stare upriver

and out across the bay)

i feel gratitude

dancing alongside

wonderment

rain in the night outside my open window

the air is alive with rain-silvered words

scraping their vernacular in coarse ciphers

that bisect the night air from sky to ground

like so many sentence threads

drawn together

as much by coincidence as by chance

and how

can i

ignore the stories

that slowly flow

inside

each little drop

as if each

were the first

and the very last

note

in a song

i wrote this while listening to thom yorke's "and it rained all night"

evensong

i'm so like a kite

soft-papered and soaring

catching the soft and wild winds of the moment

and ripping across the sky

with fluttering tail

and cross-haired body

seeing and feeling and knowing

the detail of every thing

so minutely

so precisely

and as i turn

and see the sun

its red heat brings me

to the horizon's edge

to the edge of my existence

and i call out

"please

if you choose

to bring me back to earth

please

let me fall

into the arms of the one i love"

wind song

the air i breathe

becomes a song when

the wind flutes words

through your leafless arms

i wrote this while listening to the golden gate quartet singing some righteous gospel from the late 1930's ...

the skin of this place

rising in unlikeliness

from the forest floor

how long can i hold myself

in the hope

that my return

will be more splendid

"small metal gods" by david sylvian (remixed by modesto muniz)

distance (for the very idea of love)

cresting the once and foreverness, i see inside the view a stillness. it sings with unmoving lips, a song, told on furred tongues, of a time when the ice and the snow was all that was known. it sat and moved in rhythm with the moon. the tidal tongue so deep and long it covered almost all and everything until, receding it revealed a landscape as barren as nothing and so in all conscience it couldn't restrain itself from becoming life in all its rich fullness and it filled everything with the colours and the smells and the textures and the tastes of ripeness and when i came into this place i called my world - or my world as i would come to know it - so many distractions and opportunities and possibilities swirled about, that in their essence i came to know as my world through their little fingers, their small constellations, their bodies that sometimes stood and sometimes ran and sometimes even and especially held me close and so often i think in my head how grateful i am for those brief moments when the very little details of this place revealed something to my becoming self of how the whole is held together and especially how it's represented in the very tiniest way by pieces of wholeness that rise up out of the ground of it all and speak in their own sing-songy way about what matters and what leads to deeper places and especially what holds its form as a way-marker in the journey of my own becoming.