Revolutionary Revelry came up with three suggestions for this week's challenge. Three crackers. One of these was the suggestion that we should consider what we will do this year to advance humanity (if you please!) or simply ourself to a new level of consciousness. Being of a suitably masochistic bent, that was the one I chose.
I place the C.D. in the tray, then close
it to a slight vibration as it spins,
sense how a tomb of dumb and lifeless bits,
dull catacomb of science, understood
by men, unrousing monument to what
is numb, brings forth a ghost (of sorts), unseen,
of simple form - that no one understands -
to weave the ether of our high desires
with intimations that take me by storm.
Yet I am able to relax inside
that storm. This is the great conundrum: we
can understand and build complexities
of tool and temple for our gods to live,
yet they themselves, such simple things, remain
beyond our powers. Sounds take solid shape
or seem but human in their attributes.
What is it of a tune that strikes such rich
emotions in our hearts to lift or save?
to badger? bend and sway? to laugh or grieve?
We are but leaves blown headlong in a squall,
but in that gust the whole of death, desire,
requital of desire, divinity
and beauty, ugliness and sin (each sworn
to silence) faces us with God and man -
the whole of man and that of God we've grown
to know. The confrontation makes us all
more truly man. In that we come of age.
It is the same with any art. In thought
we meet the Maker that we choose. But thought
needs data from the senses or it dies.
We line our homes with images that speak
of freedoms - and in doing so, the walls
and chambers of our souls with purest gold.
I too have felt the dark encroachment of
that old catastrophe. It seems almost too
self-indulgent to increase our good.
But I will take the C.D. from the tray
and know that I am able no way else
to journey to the depths the music took
my captive consciousness on freedom's hook -
though other arts at other times may do
the same. The subject is not that which art
puts in the frame - the landscape, virus, tree
or blushing nude - but that which of those speaks
to me of what is most humane in me.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...