there is no story

August 18, 2007

Her eye rests in the marble like a galaxy
her son is rolling. A hamster spins its cage.
She shakes pages free of her fingers; Caryatids
and Atlas, elephants on a tortoiseshell
and something like God holds whosoever
wants to be held. Today he is rippling silver
beside some seaside town, she whorls smoke
through the gap, shedding ash. There is no story,
but keep talking love,
keep misting windows and painting your breath
into the clear of glass.

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shells (see above)

August 18, 2007

A well-known scientist (some say it was the philosopher Bertrand Russell) once gave a public lecture on astronomy. He described how the Earth orbits around the sun and how the sun, in turn, orbits around the centre of a vast collection of stars called our galaxy.

At the end of the lecture, a little old lady at the back of the room got up and said: “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.”

The scientist gave a superior smile before replying, “What is the tortoise standing on?”

“You’re very clever, young man, very clever,” said the old lady. “But it’s turtles all the way down!”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turtles_all_the_way_down

silence

August 7, 2007

How strange that one may speak of silence,
tow threads of sugar past thin,

lace this void with the absence
of satin or gliding on snow.

Please imagine these words whispered, or better still
whisper these words to yourself.

You will not be startled
by the joints of your house, when they carp in its sleep,

or by the footfalls of the rain.
If you hear them fade

pass outside to your world
as it casts its words again.

Wordsworthrap

the cats are alive

August 6, 2007

Science is interested in the precise analysis and study of the material world, and it has no heart. It knows nothing about love or compassion or righteousness or purity of mind. It doesn’t know the inner world of humankind. It only knows the external, material world that surrounds us.

Venerable Walpola Rahula, Theravadin monk

A billion blue whys stuck in boxes
mew for their Schrodinger. Einstein’s spooky action
will not cover their distance from the light.

The cats are dying. They accept this now.
Their tears soften cardboard, setting them free
to find the laps of their remaining lives.

9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 – the next folds
into the empty whole like a sephirot,
containing spirals of endlessly reflected stars.

undine

August 6, 2007

Foam of pearl and warp-glass torrents,
forms anew so swift in her nectar
she flows solid. Whispers

water is a proof of Goddess,
unwings me, shedding lotus.
The worlds mill inside her like ovaries.

Untells me
flesh is a bed for feathers,
life is flowers.

horizon’s snapped

August 2, 2007

We lived in silver thimbles, deafened by taps
that were to us as loud as cymbols

and when the fireflies came to hatch in our dream
it melted and sluiced into the sea
like ice cream from the fist of Liberty

and glued the feathers of American seabirds
and vultures painted the sky.

Peter

August 2, 2007

Peter is full fathom five
and right beside you. He is a current
of living ink, briefly invisible
as his brush tests your canvas of air.
He clothes silhouettes in moments,
scrambles you with calligraphy,
sketches round the headland in vaults of bank and yaw.

Peter knows glass changes in the fold of sun,
he makes origami of images and inhabits them,
rustles them from his sleeve like flowers:
parts you haven’t seen, traces of lightning,
forgotten monuments to the strange orchids of eden.
He is a connoisseur of sense and debris.

Peter is full fathom five
and most alive. He is larger than your eyes
trailing kingdoms, anarchies,
islands of spark and curl and noise.
He is the captain of fireworks,
the merchant of colours.

Peter knows glass changes in the fold of sun,
to water and waxing from what is or is not
to seal life upon what might want to be.
Peter is full fathom five, with the bright roots, and with you.
He gentles fruit from the ether’s life tree.