THE INNER VOICE OF MARK BIRROS II
From world war two in the Atlantic
I hear the drowning
cries of men,
climbing out, as in spirit, from waters
that lap the steps of the harbour wall ;
time erodes as the
sea -
washing up these thoughts that linger
here and on many beaches,
thoughts that stick and have the stench
of
used oil around them,
the name on a memorial
does not reflect the horror ;
the surf rejects such cogitation ;
for
a moment, ' try again '
the gulls seemed to say,
' let go ' said the movement of the ocean,
but I cannot, I simply
cannot
for what transcends these waves
and breathes out the universe
is love, the love of a father....
... ...
The old clock ticks away the day
that haemorrhages the
evening,
and like a night- nurse at the bed
as growing lesions slowly spread,
the crescent moon would nothing say
to see the patient pass away ;
the stars
call out but they are late -
what metaphysics spring from that
while in my soul eternity
is smiling like the Cheshire
cat !...
A presence haunts me as that touch -
that hugs the heels in failing light,
with eyes that peer through
space and time
and follow me into the night.... ...
The pine wood has its secrets -
I am one of them
now,
like the columns of an ancient temple,
straight and upright
where no priest intercedes -
I trust it with
my life,
I am theirs and they are mine,
growing inside me, sturdily and strong,
transcending their roots with my
secrets
to their archetypal heaven... ... ...
As if a change of consciousness was meant,
against
the pull of ego, the body
inwardly swept up in spiral ascent,
spirited away from me
from all the world below,
from
all that I would ever be
that anyone might know ;
raised the cloaked arm
of my archetype
to draw the void
across my eyes,
and I did rise to heights of bliss
to see the world from this -
dancing in vortices, tiptoeing
on pools
as through a mesh, devoid of flesh ;
our world is an illusion -
a carousel to light,
as in the midst
of heaven
we ghost on through the night... ...
Listening to that small male thrush
round
the spire, above the yew,
singing at the midnight hush
as if the stars were listening too.
So crystal clear, beyond
the word ,
beyond the miles we count in years,
a cosmos in a tiny bird
but then, it does through us, have ears,
a
miracle beyond the veil,
and it would move my heart to weep,
to share with you that nightingale
in silence,
with the earth asleep... ...
Stars seem captive tonight, out there
held
by their own gravity,
and so am I in thinking
space would mirror
the freedom of my inward gaze :
All life
is light, the light
that fills the external void
while within, that feeling of space,
the loving space we make
where
others live and move,
that space is freedom, loves expression
thus love is also life as well as light.
The face of
youthful being
is mainly green and vain,
until it comes to know
that inside beauty
that hides it’s
timeless age,
where an old man in time
hides his ageless youth... ...
As if the quiet moon
had hypnotised the wood to give it mood,
how her secondary light silouhettes the owl
that blinks
to my startle, and with one lid alone
captivates the sunlight in the dark ;
what aeons forged its silent passage
to
alight unnoticed,
poised like a star on the void's abyss
to perch on a bough !
Conjured up that spell-cast form
to
present it for nature's night,
with that tremulous call
the most lunar song of all,
to fly unhurried on its way
though
seldom by the light of day -
from shade to shade pure spirit
as if the turning world, knew it ?.. ...
...
Rays at sunrise, like a chord
fill the mountain air
with song,
all vibrations to a word
reminiscent of a gong !
Grandeur is the rolling earth
turning to a morning
sky,
questioning the golden eagle
does not the dawn imply the eye ?
To see the sheepdog with the sheep
run those
foothills to the scar,
how solid ripples in the rock
are fluid echoes of a star !
A clutch of eggs the hue of sky
as
if the sky had learned to fly ;
to fill the mountain air with song
now reminiscent of a gong !... ...
...
Sometimes a presence, walks with me
as if to share my life,
so like that star above, that casts
my shadow with its
own light,
walks through the gulls with me
and round the scaurs
and along the margin
where the tide roars,
the line of tide along the sand
and the life-line upon my hand ;
seeking the spirit is like looking for the wind,
not
finding the wind but only what the wind does ;
a presence within, as if from beyond
where
the mind cannot reach as it meets transcendence-
as my eye is dissolved by blue sky
;
with me, it seems, all day, in endless moments,
a gentle companion,
'til the mundane world returns, to span,
fill the depths and shrink
the man.
Tall trees, transcend
with magnificent beauty,
as if they had forgotten
their roots that fed on earth,
as
my old gnarled thoughts, discarded
are the shed leaves of my mind;
snowdrops come, surprising,
each blossom, white,
seems prodigal,
discoloured brown and going, going,
gone - but not forgotten yet,
late daffodils, trumpet their last
notes
like that sound of ‘one hand clapping’
and in dying, bend and bow to sacred ground;
ubiquitous
bird-song, clear,
I make no scent or sound among the deer
when in spirit here... ... ...
The light that lifts my mind
has
given that old oak another cycle, -
rising to awake from sleep,
dying for our contemplation,
and almost in
vain
as if condemned with ball and chain
to pull us through these endless orbits,
while underneath our feet earth
trembles
agitated at the heart... ... ...
I feel the Atlantic
connect me far and wide,
the whispered rush of surf
from its incoming tide,
under mackerel sky
cosmic in its movement,
lapping at my feet here
like a humble servant ;
for do the heavens lie
above these starlit shores
?
look through your spirit's eye -
you'll know the world is yours.... ... ...
We picked the fruit of Osho 's thoughts
that sounded
like a harp, then gave him belladonna
when the fruit was sweet and sharp,
entangled in a world of fear we reached across
that rift
and murdered him
without the thorn's reminder of a gift... ... ...
The sun is getting low now,
long evening shadows quell the song of shrike,
a heron with legs hanging, lifting from a
dyke,
content to fly beyond the last disturbance ;
flecks above the sky - line are geese migrating
with winter in
their wake, like lines of script
that prohesy, their trail across the barren moon,
counterpoint the life on earth,
lead
the eye to the horizon ; as darkness grows
around them, the stars appear as something
not quite forgotten, seem to infer
that
feeling as a spell cast -
not only on the eye above between the eyes
but upon the whole beautiful earth
that
in floating like an apparition
was going nowhere through a void of meaning... ...
The whirling dervish,
reels for stillness and for joy... ...
Tidal as these waters that erode their channels
through the reeds,
a feeling comes and goes
of warmth that infiltrates my being,
as gradual as I come to be
the silence that the curlew
punctuates ;
the world is mine, the remotest twinkle of light is mine... ...
