• Fire over Water

    I am in some heavenly place
    A tree house where the storms are gathering on the mountain
    and the river rushes in bright torrents over the rocks far below
    The day has has just ended
    and an early night breeze blows through the open walls
    as pools of light fall and shift through the clouds,
    emptying slowly from the sky

    There is nothing here to keep the living world out
    and I lie gratefully in the embrace of the soft night,
    in the arms of the wind and the deep darkness
    I am enveloped by the sound of the river and the rain
    My body is a new land for small flying insects
    while my heart is becoming a new land for this animal that
    I am coming to know

    The thunder is approaching
    with drums and song
    announcing night
    Fire over water
    Thunder over mountain
    The leopard waits in the shadows
    The water buffalo waits at the bottom of the rapids
    raising his horns from the bright-dark cool water
    and stepping forward as slowly and gracefully underwater
    as a four-legged ballerina king
    in a palace built of water and sky

    Now the rain is drumming harder on the roof
    A deluge of drunken river water risen from the valley
    through the clouds to pour itself into itself again
    All the sounds of the world are here in this rain
    All notes, all chords, all symphonies and drunken cacophonies,
    all lullabies, all songs,
    all rhythms drumming themselves in and out of time


    Stones in miscellanies of 108
    white, rough, big and small,
    each already a multiplicity;
    ours is the counting
    back to one,
    theirs to be inscrutable
    somewhere beyond zero.

    Clearing the garden bed
    until the earth turns satisfyingly dark,
    even though one knows that
    tonight’s rain will bring
    another crop of rosaries floating to the
    old wrinkled face of the earth.

    Each pebble grasped
    between thumb and finger
    could be a tiny tombstone,
    bone dust of some old beast
    that walked or wiggled here
    in the primeval land.

    The gardener is kneeling,
    wrinkled earth, hands, mind, fingers,
    beside the slowly filling barrow.
    Weeds fall in a pile, stones to the trolly,
    gardening is sorting,
    counting the treasures of heaven.

  • 9108757484?profile=originalPLAYING WITH FIRE

    Fire in my mind, liver, garden, in my bed;
    Fire in dream, image, touch, silent words never said;
    Fire of the gods, on sweet ambrosia they fed;
    Fire of painters, poets, artists, seers, mostly dead.
    Fire flaming mattress high on the pyre
    Fire surging upward higher and higher
    Fire of gold, so far without a buyer,
    Fire of silver music flowing from her lyre.
    Fire of Aphrodite’s glow from distant parts,
    Fire of the goddess, breaking rocky hearts
    Fire of the loins penetrated by her darts
    Fire of sweet girls, innocent or tarts.
    Fire of the dew on a morning song
    Fire of you, away so long
    Fire of the few who still belong
    Fire of the true that can’t be wrong.

    La Ville au Roi, 28th October 2015

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