unfolding

as a person who puzzles over the form and necessity of relationship - all relationships - each and every day, coming across these words that fell from walt whitman's head, heart and hands so long ago

is so joyous and exciting

i can hardly wait to share them with you!!!

unfolded out of the folds of the woman man comes unfolded, and is

always to come unfolded,

unfolded only out of the superbest woman of the earth is to come the

superbest man of the earth,

unfolded out of the friendliest woman is to come the friendliest man,

unfolded only out of the perfect body of a woman can a man be

form'd of perfect body,

unfolded only out of the inimitable poems of woman can come the

poems of man, (only thence have my poems come;)

unfolded out of the strong and arrogant woman i love, only thence

can appear the strong and arrogant man i love,

unfolded by brawny embraces from the well-muscled woman

love, only thence come the brawny embraces of the man,

unfolded out of the folds of the woman's brain come all the folds

of the man's brain, duly obedient,

unfolded out of the justice of the woman all justice is unfolded,

unfolded out of the sympathy of the woman is all sympathy;

a man is a great thing upon the earth and through eternity, but

every of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman;

first the man is shaped in the woman, he can then be shaped in himself.

"unfolded out of the folds" by walt whitman

seen

i cycled along a country road. everything was strangely and beautifully quiet. a large monarch butterfly, flew next to me for a while. the road passed by shadowed and damp woods and fields dotted with white cows.

suddenly, there was colour.

it began with this.

with the immediacy

of its appearance

how could it not

bring me so sharply into the moment

that i blinked

with the suddenness of it

and had to turn back

to see it again

to be sure

of it

pass the time

i found myself in a place with people who were entirely disengaged from the immediacy of their experiencing as each was lost in conversation on a cell-phone. their facial expressions, waving arms, and empty presence were disarming to me. because other than avoiding physical contact, they couldn't know

that anyone else existed around them.

this is now commonplace.

and i stood back

and wondered ....

where would you go

to find

honesty . truth . compassion . care. kindness . fairness . empathy .

when

deep inside

a building

a camera

watches

the watched

passing

the time

on their cell phones

it's all

about

time

passing

the time

music by jon hassell

crow in the rain

you know me

by my blackened feathers

and dark eyes

tonight

rain flows in a thin cold film

from my head

to my throat

falling to my feet

in pale grey drops

you know me by my call -

raw and brusque

not sweet and kind

and yet the words i sing

i sing like a kiss

(you know the kind)

the soul-opening

world unfolding kiss

that sells all else before it

as cheaply

as any night market trinket

danced into desire

by a hawker man

ever was -

bent on you

but only for an instant ...

my words hover

and hold

entire moments

great spaces

in which lives begin and end

and begin again

you know, this rain ...

this rain serves me well

as it soaks my scars

with its electric

blue linament

and slides

so moistly off the rock

to which i have attached

the small clinging hope i have

for an evening

spent in solitude

and peopled by wishes

so bold

and unlikely

as to frighten off any takers

hearing my call

my kiss

my song

photo from google images shared by tess kincaid at magpie tales

an idealist

i'm an idealist.

i know that that is probably as obvious as anything this universe has or ever will concoct. but i figured i'd better get it out of the way.

so.

let's move on!

i'm an idealist. and i wish for people and things and experiences to be as beautiful and good and real and truthful and transformative as they possibly can be.

why?

because wishes are about what is outside the realm of the immediately possible.

they are about what could happen in some ideal state.

perhaps even what could happen in a necessary state.

for example, i wish to be removed from the necessity to pass judgement.

really i do!

i'd like to know ... i'd love to know ... what it's like to experience a situation and remain as objective as possible for as long as possible.

will that happen - i really don't know.

i'd sure like to know.

what i do know is that people suffer in the space that is described by the distance

between the actual and the wished for.

i also know that at times i'm one of those people.

but let's move on.

another wish that i have is to be able to express how i see this world and then also and maybe even more especially, the worlds that are embedded in this world. it's why i write this blog. i get intimations, little glimpses, that are so clearly describing one very small part of what i wish to see in its entirety that i share it with the same glee and delight that a boy would experience upon finding a coin

while digging on the beach in search of a chest of doubloons.

it's strange to put it that way i guess but i do see worlds overlapping, enfolded, unfurling like fractals, all connected of course but available depending on the circumstances of the person, place, history, need, purpose; oh yes, it's a convoluted and detailed picture i have in my head. and believe me when i say here that i am only just beginning to unpack it, so only time will tell where this ends up, or if it even has an endpoint.

i'm hoping also - let's call it a wish while i'm firing so many all over the place - that i can eventually know why i wish to see the world this way

and why i need to share it.

thankyou for sending me an angel

one night

the sky was calm

and the world

had a feeling of benevolence about it

it was raining

so i put on a jacket

and my walking shoes

and i went out

bought a bottle of wine

and brought it back to my room

the building was quiet

each room

had a person in it

they too were listening

to the quiet

the very quiet

footsteps

of someone

walking about

why were they there

what did they want

soft knocks at my door

the glasses on the shelf

rattled

i opened the door

and

one enduring moment

entered the room

enveloping us both

i was listening to thankyou for sending me an angel by talking heads when i wrote this

the colours of us

we grow out of

the slightest

rising light

the smallest

dancing flame

emerging as one soft thread

first wetted on a tongue

then pinched between hip and mouth

then rolled into the confusion of a knot

the thread that we are

contains

the colours of us

at once describing

and then also

sanctifying

us

in our incompleteness

autumn

i came across

the beginning

of a story being told

in the gentlest

crimson whispers

when colour goes home

when colour goes home into the eyes,

and lights that shine are shut again

with dancing girls and sweet birds’ cries

behind the gateways of the brain;

and that no-place which gave them birth, shall close

the rainbow and the rose

still may time hold some golden space

where i’ll unpack that scented store

of song and flower and sky and face,

and count, and touch, and turn them o’er,

musing upon them; as a mother, who

has watched her children all the rich day through

sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,

when children sleep, ere night.

rupert brooke

creases and folds

you could see

the depth

of the man

in the creases

around his eyes and mouth

he was a sensitive

and kind man

a caring man

you knew that

he was a man who you could say left too soon

but really, he left as soon as he was ready

when he finally flew away

his wife inherited the creases

that defined his presence

and layered them above and beside her own

for safekeeping

his children

placed the creases

into words

and life

unfolding folds

carefully pressing the creases

to a sharper edge

because so much

- so much -

of what he left

was worthy and magic

and entirely of himself

and nothing else

and so deserving

of perfecting

and transporting beyond itself

i could wish -

and i live my wishes

as if they were already real

i could wish that he was still here

but his work was at a point

that required him to leave

i could wish

that people who reach a place

of such value

could be given more time

but i know that value

is driven by perspectives

that aren't entirely connected

to the larger piece of this place

and that is how

it's set up

and so i hold my memories

examine them periodically

confront them in my self

and test their veracity

let them go

hold them tight

hug them

when i see them fading

i am listening to omar faruk tekbilek as i write this.

walls

the wall had a face in it

and i saw that

the wall

was you

so i offered you my hand

work-worn and calloused

"take my hand" i said

and let it lead you

where it may

let's break apart

the wall of you

let's know the stories of the unlikeliness of me

let's know the stories of the unlikeliness of us

but those stories were too detailed

too tender

too loud

too exotic

too plain

too unlikely

too kind

too demanding

too old

too new

too hard to imagine

and so i became another possibility

and held much of

the entirety of myself

in check

in place

in side

in sight

and poured the clay of my self

into the brick-shaped frame

over

and over

and built a wall

with my face in it

the wall of me

i'm listening to steve shehan and nabil othmani as i write this

a stair of stars

the evenings have become so sudden. in the space of a few minutes, the sky can flare and erupt into the most glorious colours and then fold in on itself. subsumed into the deepest velvet.

above charcoal hedges

and dead leaf of land

it cuts out a deep

gleaming furrow

of clear glass looking

through our funneled day

up a stair of stars.

italicized words excerpted from "dusk" stephen spender

call me

call me

the name you call yourself

give me

the words you use

to tell your story

and i will become

the space between your thoughts

the sight your eyes can't see

the paint that's smeared across the face

of your soul

i will be

the otherness of what

you cannot bear

in yourself

the darkness you call night

i will call dawn

the light you call sky

will be the tablecloth

on which i will taste

the fruits

of the labours

you undertook but could not eat

call me

when the silence is too much to bear

and you will know me

as the subtle

truth

and grace

of the music

that is you

it's best left alone

the words

were right there

but i turned

and looked the other way

i had to

a world of rain

kawase hasui a small boat in the spring rain

-

there's a world

where it rains all the time ...

all day

and all night

summer

winter

autumn and spring

no one sighs

when they wake up

and see that it's raining outside

because that is what happens

in the world of rain -

it rains

all the time

some of the rain

is soft when it falls

(like small bubbles)

and some of it is so fine

that it's like

walking through gossamer

some

of the rain

(especially in cities)

falls fast and straight

in thick quicksilver threads

that gather to form alleyways

through which one can walk

and remain dry

the alleyways form

through the rain's sensitivity

to the passage

of people

walking through them is much like walking

through a shimmering tunnel

as the rain actually bends overhead

and appears to cascade

to either side of you as you walk

from one doorway

to another

there is no sun

as the rain itself provides

a soft grey light

that actually grows

with the intensity

of the rainfall

in this world of rain

no one cries

because there is no sadness

people speak in warm whispers

that hover above the hushed sigh of the rain

which as you might have imagined

has a degree of sentience

that allows it to become part

of the conversations

the words that pass

between people and the rain

are gilded in pale shimmering hues

that gather into deliquescent rainbow pools

each of which hum, purr or murmur

the rain falls

each and every day -

its constancy

measured

in the beauty and the joy

of the world it falls upon

kawase hasui benten island at tomonotsu

evening closes

being entirely protective

and then also

loving

the sun holds the day closely to itself

not wanting

to let it go

quite so quickly

music by jon hassell - sundown dance

sorry, i don't have the time

this day is thick

and tastes like old water

it moves so slowly

almost like it's thinking its way through itself

almost as if

it knows itself so well

that it's consciously trying

to avoid cliches

but nothing new is happening

we're all waiting

see it's more than a day

it's a stage . . .

a piece of human history

change is in the air

everyone has some sense of that

don't we ...

the numbers and stories are much the same

so it's something else.

perhaps it's about a way of seeing

and then it'll become

a way of being

and then a way

of knowing ourselves -

and everything else.

but

being my age

i wish so hard to see

the goodness that i know

is coming

and i don't want to miss it

just because my body

runs out of time

it's gonna rain

i lift my head

thin cold feathers of air

crease my bare feet

the poinsettia's

dusty red leaves

shudder in the small breeze

shadows

move across the walls

into reflection

on this day, after one so filled with memories and associations

particularly for my american friends,

i'd like to share with you the music of robert fripp.

this piece of music is entitled "refraction" and was part of a soundscapes performance

at the world financial center on december 1, 2000.

robert was musician-in-residence at that time.

an astonishing feature of the soundscapes

is that 'of being true to the moment in which they are performed,

to act in accordance with time, place and person.' (rf).

robert has also observed that soundscaping

"has the aim of finding ways in which intelligence and music,

definition and discovery,

courtesy and reciprocation

may enter into the act of music for both musician and audience".

(please note that it is the artist's wish for this particular piece to be shared,

free of commerce, with those who want to listen and reflect.)

(click on this link to access the music)

~ refraction ~

if the music intrigues you, then this note which accompanies its posting at ars divina

might help you place it or locate it somewhere in your understanding.

then again it might leave you even more baffled.

robert's music can be purchased at dgm.

love, peace, and - above all - hope to my american friends.

steven

up above the world so high

some evenings draw

some evenings sing

some evenings dance

to a close

this evening

told the story

of earth's beginning

of a time when there were no people

animals only knew

about themselves and plants

and how closely they were connected

and why

and the skies were soft with wonder

and love

and the care

that left

the possibility

of people entirely

open

to the vagaries

of nature

and the necessities of the universe

and when

people arrived

and made the changes they required

without really

asking anyone

it didn't matter that much

because the evenings still drew

the evenings still sang

and some evenings still danced

to a close

music is provided by agitation free

still

there was such a stillness about this place

i painted the scene over and over in my mind

holding the moment

like a small brush

until the painting

was done

and i too

was still

her crystal heart

our planet flows

in the short term

the very small space

that our perception provides us

she shudders

shakes

whirls

wriggles

writhes

lunges

slides

explodes

pulls apart

draws together

crushes

grows

shrinks

she dances

while in the long term humming of her own crystal

body clock

our planet

vibrates as softly and as smoothly

as clay

under a potter's fingers

turning

so slowly turning

so carefully becoming

so carefully leaving behind

wandering

my access points for the natural world

as a whole

or in microscopic detail

are

so much like the skin

i live inside

my body

my medium for being here

is so conditional

i can feel

in its tiny decays

the muted clarion call

to live

a life

comprised of moments

each describing

however obliquely

the one great moment

of being

that has no referents in space or time

and which i represent

through my being

as fully

or as thoroughly

as i allow myself

the first day

on the premise that a good beginning informs a good ending

i approach the first day of school with care.

not caution.

and so arriving quickly at the end of an afternoon

we look at each other and wonder at where a day could have flown.

what wings carried us here?

skies of astonishment and wonder arrive unbidden and carry us on their soft backs.

i wonder what we'll see, where we're going, who we'll meet, why we'll go there.

this is what it's like.

in a classroom.

on the first day.

school ahead

today i begin my twenty-first year of teaching!!

you're beautiful!

no matter

how we choose

to perceive ourselves -

we are all very much like this

sun ship

summer

drifted like a burning boat

through the clouds

of everyday

i tell these things in confidence

this hour i tell things in confidence;

i might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

i believe in you, my soul—the other i am must not abase itself to you;

and you must not be abased to the other.

and i know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,

and i know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own;

i pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-wash’d babe,

and am not contain’d between my hat and boots;

and i know i am solid and sound;

to me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow;

all are written to me, and i must get what the writing means.

i know i am deathless;

i know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by the carpenter’s compass;

i know i am august;

i do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood;

i see that the elementary laws never apologize;

i exist as i am—that is enough;

one world is aware, and by far the largest to me, and that is myself;

and whether I come to my own to-day, or in ten thousand or ten million years,

i can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness i can wait.

i laugh at what you call dissolution;

and i know the amplitude of time.

all words walt whitman leaves of grass

cabbage white

in mid to late august the gardens become temporary shelters for little white butterflies called cabbage whites. they flutter in pairs and dance on invisible thermals in spiralling helices

that bring them close together and then suddenly far apart.

sometimes they settle and enjoy the pale violet softness of the russian sage.

homeward bound

they fly by each night. i wonder if they know each other.

i wonder what the sunset feels to them.

i wonder if they feel glad to be home.