beginning

drink winter wine
warm your hearth fire and
embrace your
shivering being

can you hear the stars
in the ice crystals
whispering of the living spirits
deep down in the earth?

can you feel the longing
in the low-sun horizon
guarding the eye
upwards to fire
healing and holy?

does not a hint
of glowing sparks
sound forth beneath
winter-hardened bark?

this is the beginning
this is the release of
the frozen form

spread your wings widely
over the declining arch
of the dying year

exhale your seed of light
breathe it and grow it
close to you

the wondrous moment in between....

inside your dream
you awaken
to give rise to
timeless
drownings
inside floods of
ancient
glow

in a dance
of warm winds
and dark soft voices

in the center of a
sphere without perimeter
you
then create
flaming rivers
nile songs thick
with ancient honey
its silent refrain exploding
as firefalls spin

your heart beats into existence
the rapture of drunken dreams
the wild meeting of breaths:

the ur-seed of wisdom
the well of light

universes you give birth to
and are born from

October

this buzzing silence

holding its breath - sweet

the arvid murmur of

last skythes

smoke wed to glow

coupling with the

dying sun that perfects

the sleep of clouds

the undevoured light

ebbs to sustenance

in the fissures

of decaying dreams

embering to the lip

of a nomadic sky: earth

from which my voice

escapes

eyes sleep in soil

fruit ripens

in the vacant lots

of solstice

heat recedes

light escapes

through the interval

piano and accordion

life is like a piano: what you get out of it depends on how you play it.



time is an accordion: expanding and contracting while the wind of change sings on its reeds.

...if life is a piano, and time is an accordion (and a cello is passion, and a clarinet is emotion, and a guitar is thought, and a drum is instinct), then the human voice must surely be our own jubilating consciousness within the great symphony of existence....

the frozen sea within

jökulsárlón, glacier lake south of vatnajökull glacier, iceland, 1990. pic taken from a paper photograph.

"A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." ~ Franz Kafka

.

Clouds and souls

.

like clouds we float
from north to south
from day to night
from soul to soul

to paint the sky
from darkest coal
to wildly burning sunset light

Sensation of time

“It is the hour to be drunken! to escape being the martyred slaves of time, be ceaselessly drunk. On wine, on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish....”

"We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose."
Charles Baudelaire

.

juggler's mind

the dance, the flux
the gentle connection
the wild meeting
of motions: the inside
winds drifting
swarming out
blowing
meeting
mingling
interbreeding
returning
the rhythm of hands
syncronism of minds
unison senses
spirits shared
wild transformation
drum beats, the whirling
the whispering, the wheeling
the dance, the cascades, a million
feetless steps
whisking
into us
into our breath
into our dance
into our gestures, our song
our meditation
our wondrously humming
harmony pulse

.

Shadows of Light

A room without books is

like a body without a soul.
-- Cicero

A light without shadows is

like existance without identity.
-- Anémone

.

one more cup of coffee for the road

Ex Is t?

how can i be sure you exist, you ask?

hmmmm.


possible answer no 1):
to come to a decision in that respect, we must define the term "existence" first.

possible answer no 2):
sure enough to write to you and meet you for virtual champagne every now and then!

possible answer no 3):
of course i am not sure. how can i know? you might as well just be a figure in a dream, an actor on a screen, a mind's imagination scheme...

possible answer no 4):
absolutely sure. esse est percipi, and i definitely am perceiving you, so therefore, you are.

possible answer no 5):
the only one who can prove that you exist are you, because your own self-perception is the only proof of your existence. can you feel yourself being?

possible answer no 6):
you do not exist. i've made you up. sorry to tell you, but you've asked...

possible answer no 7):
you do exist. since nothing doesn't exist, and minus and minus is plus, it must be true that something exists. since you are not nothing, you must be something, therefore, you exist.

possible answer no 8):
i've dreamed you into existence, so you exist.

possible answer no 9):
hit yourself on your head as hard as you can while being alone. if somebody screams "ouch!", this is a proof that you exist.

possible answer no 10):
you are existence.

possible answer no 11):
existence is you.

possible answer no 12):
cogiti, ergo es. or, wait... how can i be sure you are really thinking?
cogito, ergo sum, ergo es...

possible answer no 13):
who fucking cares? it seems you exist, for both of us, and that's nice enough, so what... ? ;-))))

birth of a day

Lines

Unfelt, unheard, unseen,
I've left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
Ah! through their nestling touch,
Who---who could tell how much
There is for madness---cruel, or complying?

Those faery lids how sleek!
Those lips how moist!---they speak,
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
Into my fancy's ear
Melting a burden dear,
How "Love doth know no fulness, nor no bounds."

True!---tender monitors!
I bend unto your laws:
This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
So, without more ado,
I'll feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty morn.

John Keats

===================================

this sweetest day
born into my dalliance
into my dewy dawdling
into the sauntering and dangling
of my soul:

it is singing
with the heaving of the tides
within in the morning's heat
welling up in my slumber

is expanding
blushing into
aurora rise

Anemone

between lights

.

An Acre Of Grass

PICTURE and book remain,
An acre of green grass
For air and exercise,
Now strength of body goes;
Midnight, an old house
Where nothing stirs but a mouse.

My temptation is quiet.
Here at life's end
Neither loose imagination,
Nor the mill of the mind
Consuming its rag and bonc,
Can make the truth known.

Grant me an old man's frenzy,
Myself must I remake
Till I am Timon and Lear
Or that William Blake
Who beat upon the wall
Till Truth obeyed his call;

A mind Michael Angelo knew
That can pierce the clouds,
Or inspired by frenzy
Shake the dead in their shrouds;
Forgotten else by mankind,
An old man's eagle mind.

William Butler Yeats

lugubrious cawing

white frosted meadows
frozen sunlight in the eyes
of a warm-winged crow

writing

"The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all. And emotions which he has never experienced will serve his turn as well as those familiar to him. Consequently, we must believe that 'emotion recollected in tranqulity' is an inexact formula . . . Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." ~ T.S. Eliot


as for me, writing is an entering into other thoughtscapes, emotions and dimensions, rather than it is an expression of something.

it also is other dimensions entering into me - the writing is the journey, is the trip (of both, me and the words), and it is the process of writing itself that creates the emotion, the altered state of consciousness.

it's more an in than an ex.... an "into" rather than an "out of".

i'm not letting it out - i'm letting myself in...
.

amaryllis

.

ambiguity

watch yourself
leave yourself behind
in the eye of the crow

light your feathers
wrap yourself in sweet bark
and unravel the scrolls
of other times

let lose the canvas
of your whispering tent;
sun-drunk like seed
you must close
the shutters of the sky

the labyrinthine heart
keeps distance
as something lost
becomes a spark
followed through dust

in shades of dunes
the sift of sand
speaks braille

.

schrödinger's hatbox

imagine isaac newton, erwin schrödinger, and george berkeley standing around the cat box, discussing the cat's nature.

newton would say "a cat is a cat is a cat". schrödinger would speak of a 50:50 cat. and berkeley would claim that there was no cat at all, since nobody perceived it at that very moment.

the absolute cat, the potential cat, and the no-cat.

and upon opening the lid, what would they see?
a cat in a hat.
meow!



.

the only sun

"The existentialist…finds it extremely embarrassing that God does not exist, for there disappears with Him all possibility of finding values in an intelligible heaven. There can no longer be any good a priori, since there is no infinite and perfect consciousness to think it. It is nowhere written that “the good” exists, that one must be honest or must not lie, since we are now upon the plane where there are only men. Dostoevsky once wrote "if God did not exist, everything would be permitted"; and that, for existentialism, is the starting point. Everything is indeed permitted if God does not exist, and man is in consequence forlorn, for he cannot find anything to depend upon either within or outside himself. He discovers forthwith, that he is without excuse. For if indeed existence precedes essence, one will never be able to explain one’s action by reference to a given and specific human nature; in other words, there is no determinism — man is free, man is freedom. Nor, on the other hand, if God does not exist, are we provided with any values or commands that could legitimise our behaviour. Thus we have neither behind us, nor before us in a luminous realm of values, any means of justification or excuse. — We are left alone, without excuse. That is what I mean when I say that man is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, yet is nevertheless at liberty, and from the moment that he is thrown into this world he is responsible for everything he does."
Jean-Paul Sartre





we wander on primary rocks
doing ancient things with archaic instinct
realizing old ideas we think are new

on untrodden paths we walk
searching for a place to rest
demanding peace with archetypal struggle
and a primal scream

flowing with the real tides of existence
reaching into an underground
beyond guise, hate or love
thirsting for and demanding meaning
entering into the unescapable truth and squalor
of our own being

a warm thrilling voice crying out hallelujah!
god father, show your face!
or must it finally be acknowledged
we are all orphans?
standing in the dark midnight of existence
knowing we are all alone?

it is a jungle of pain and happiness
we stagger through
dewdrops on our feet
and on our forehead beads of sweat

and as we walk deeper into the forest
breathing its intensive spice
listening to the murmur of leaves
we lean back our head
and see pieces of celestial blue
and a glittering far up in the treetops

and we know what we see there
is the sun -
the only one
we have

and stepping out of the forest
our amazement turns into joy

Masked

desert rose

drifting like plankton among the shadows of passing spells,
wrapped in blue sheets of transience,
moonlight on brows and elbows,
tiptoeing through a stranger's dream -

a story without ending, sweet and hot
like turkish coffee served
in tiny cups filled anew forever.

letters written with white ink flow, pressed
out of erect nipples, unread and stored
in shirt pockets close to the heart - if i looked
through them in my dreams, would the heat of my sands
create form from your salt and tears?

beyond the concrete of all considerations, you are
arching over me your rainbow,
fool's gold and colours of everything to come;
skin exposed to the sound of night,
eyes like heartbeat grazing bodies sore with life,
spread out beneath the fresco ceiling,
dancing slowly,
meeting, parting, touching,
in an ancient rhythm of blue.

silent, be silent, but
swallow me into you,
lest the cool air finds any space between us -
let silence potentialize, radiate, while the thunder
of the city is screaming in the night of chosen destiny,
giving birth to a desert rose of forgotten sand.

.

.

about time

“The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once.”

Albert Einstein


“The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.”

Henri Bergson


time: physics or philosophy?

.

with arrows through the heart

blue messenger fire cuts
through soundless weather

as visions aflame
touched by eyes
suck in sights
create images
penetrate soul

expand the sky
with sheer
glance

(while we

with arrows through the heart
run

along the horizon

dancing
along the tightrope

of the apparent line

of transition)

Time and us

"Our destiny exercises its influence over us even when, as yet, we have not learned its nature: it is our future that lays down the law of our today." (Friedrich Nietzsche)

musings:

the past contains the being of what has been,
which must not be reduced to what we remember;
for what has been and, without leaving discernible traces,
has been forgotten by everyone,
has been nevertheless,
and will forever have BEEN

but

if the past is not of irrevocable nature,
if its unalterability is changing by the history we tell,
and we can make it whatever we want -
then memories of the past might be desires of the future,
and preceding experiences might be nothing but dreams
and possibilities still to come

but

if there is something like fate,
if the way we walk is already marked,
linear, predestined,
then past and future are timewise equivalent and
as much real as the NOW,
all of them existing at the same time

but

a simultaneous existence in time
throws us back to the only reality we have:
the NOW in an empty space,
and we are creating our way
with every step we take.

future solely comprises possibilities;
it can either be understood as a homogenuous continuation
of the past being, or as an empty space
for whatever may come -

as an unlimited open space of potentialities
before the present decision,
restricted to the logical consequences of our actions,

or as a determined part of a predestined fate,
traced out ever since,
no matter what we do.

but it could also be pure arbitrariness,
sheer coincidence,
in the void of the illusions of time.

and presence!

the moment of our only true meeting with the world,
the moment of our ascent towards being by means of freedom -

what the world is and what i am
might be a result of the past, or
of my imagination, or of a strange chance,
or even of fate;

but what i can make it, hic et nunc, is depending on nobody
but myself, is coming into being
through myself, an absolute presence created
by myself.

crossways through time towards this flash of light:
the moment that is eternity.

ascension

we roam the ancient trails
among wheels spinning
around and around
as we speak and wonder
and wander and write our ashes
into millenium mornings
of struggle and hope

we veer round we
crumble in
we stand there
again
breathing
in the newborn sun

listening
to the first word that
tears the page

to the silent hallelujah

as we stretch
towards an ascension

exposing ourselves

waiting
among fragments
of the sky

In slow motion

Shadows

shadows cradled
by a phantom sun
smouldering through
this wafting steam

the resounding realm
of dreaming light
echoed in mist
echoed in white

wandering quantum land cat

we are all
schrödinger's cats
waiting for the box to open

howling in the dark
screaming into the ambiguity
of our existence

yearning for and dreading
the certainty of what we are

waiting for someone to free us
from the prison
of endless possibilities

someone who lifts

the lid above us
and lets the blue floodlight
of the moon fall upon us

to grant us

the mercy of knowing
if we are alive or dead

choice

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Free

sitting on our floe
we smoothe our iced place
among the crystals of snow
upholster it with moss
and cant our song
carefully

until one day we grow wings
and leave that lichen nest

singing out loud

those pinions
free

light and colour

light
is the radiating
flowing ur-substance
is pure consciousness
is living, seeing energy

when consciousness manifests itself
it becomes radiance and seeing,
subject and object,
and out of the energy of its
inherent creative wisdom
it creates the whole universe
in the act of refraction and condensation

creation is projection and refraction
of a ray of consciousness
into the limited form of
time and space

and just as light is the ur-image
of the all-permeating consciousness,
colour is is the reflection
and expression of life

life
welling up from the depths of
universal consciousness
reflected on the world's surface

just as the soul, colour is
the connection between material
and spiritual world

light, darkness and colour -
a trinity just as spirit
body, soul

colour mirrors the struggle of the soul
with the forces of light
and darkness

it shows its tension and motion
its searching, longing and joy;
harmony and conflict, sadness and enlightenment,
purity and impurity

colours are the

"deeds and sorrows of light",
as goethe says

soul reflects colour
colour reflects soul

they pour into each other
without end
or beginning

the wanderer

diving into past and branches
i find the word among pebbles
at the bottom of a creek
sleeping
in restless water
speckled with light

i dip my hand into the flow

kneeling on mosaic rock
sliced with shade and
scarred with snow

i bow
where moss
and centuries
grow

The River Rose

The river rose in the night, flooding the piles of time washed ashore. In this dream I stood in the wild light of moonshine and shadows, watching the alluvial years and matter being washed away. The river rose and gave company to my released yelling, purifying what I really was.

I saw the crow watching me, then flying away, leaving a crow-shaped hole in the air for all the rivers in the world to flow through. White lunar heat surrounded me, though I knew it should be cold. Cold, because it was night and the river was rising. Cold, because my planet was washed away. Cold, because of the waters curing the bed of my river. But it was warm, getting warmer, and the sky was tempestuous and wild. And a silver thrill filled out my moonlit dream and an inexplicable knowledge emerged, frozen by morning.

This night I woke to find the full moon shining onto my face. And I lay smiling within the warmth of my own shadow that had become a bed for me.

mirror

eye to
eye --

thought
reflected;
this facing
of sides.
different visions
shape the eye .
i see clearly.
can no-one
touch a horizon?
find a mirror!

m i r r o r

mirror a find;
horizon, a touch.
no-one can clearly see.
i eye the shape visions --
different sides of
facing this
reflected
thought;

eye
to eye.

luna

at night the moon
is so bright, a pulling of light, low
on the horizon - and she touches my face
and with a silver embrace her glow
finds my dream; white is her gleam,
her wondrous delight wandering
so slow through my soul
until i widen.

words and vibes

words are lying down as
long night shadows
along hardened snowdrifts

the train we're on is moving
across a beautiful landscape
of words and weed

on cold rails
along which only a wind
and our thoughts dare to wander

you, nomad

you, painter of rivers
of old dreams &
shadows of wanting,
your brush is dripping & you're
drinking from the glass of
antigravity and wandering

sipping timelessness, blue
and awakened in drunken drownings
you! the traveller of lighted dreams,
hungry & filled with hidden galaxies,
speak divine, goldshowery shaken,
tumbling through time, listening
to sandstorms in your secret oasis of thought
that blow scatterred paradises upon your
shores of leaving & longing
while light is welling out from the shock of ideas

you, juggler of crowns,
windside dancing on desert trains,
speak the dark whispers of broken sunshine
and moonlit questions that linger in between stars and souls -
you meander through bloodstreams and crystalline poems,
fingers slipping into pockets where
conglobate kisses, stored & dried, are sleeping,
and you are left with only your fish and
captured titanics, your jellyfishsongs
and swaying, you, the stone filled
with the echoes of a million lightyears,
filled with seething dewdrops and
the rage of eons, you, tumbling through
the hiccups of freedom with burning eyelashes
and smiling snakes crawling through your bloodstream,
you, the hungry star swallowing eternities,
your sore throat softer
than the inside of your skin, you! you!
you hear the sift of time, the murmur
of the last grain of sand
trickling down your spine,
you eat the ripened word
the sheer aureole of the dance... while in your
deep pockets the suns are alive,
living light between your curled fingertips

you, nomad, wherever you are,
the desert that shifts inside you
is with you, your footsteps
backtracking the drops
of light dripping from your lips
as you milk darkness out of flashes -

as if a spark, dreamed by you,
could ripe in cold and light
a blaze of flaming flames

breakers

i call i call
into the waters of this
rolling tide
i call out loud
i call out wide
i call the divers out of sea
i call
i call them back to me
the arctic divers hooded
as dark-winged crying gulls

at night
at night in
crumbling dreams of time
unfolding behind curtains
of waves that whisper
silver to the sky
i call
i call into the wall
of the heaving tide

the moon the moon
i dream the moon
on wounded waters stained
with jewels
moonfluid
glittering through
the crashing arches
of falling waves
littering the beach with
crazy human breakers

wild sunsets

this desire for longing
like the sunsets
drenched by light
that live inside you,


this shuddering inside your skin,
the wild lightfloods, rose-coloured
to drown in,
the scald you dip your finger into
to taste its sweetness -


this desire to burn.


wild sunsets.

open doors or open minds

flying free
as if my eye had opened
in a bird's wing

as if a light wind
could wave with a gesture
larger than life
towards things that pass
almost unseen

as if the moon
circled inside me
and not even tide
with its ancient breath
could keep me apart
from the sky
forever

as if
i flew free

rhapsody

sound of silence

clarinet sound

song of passion

gershwin on my mind

rhapsody session

filling me today

can't let it go, can't

let it fade

away

like clouds we float

like clouds we float
through births and deaths

the path of night
the path of light

we walk them dreaming

the only thing we have in mind
even when we wake:

the murmur of rain
we heard when we
were in bed at night

smile

smiling full face

rinsing butterflies

polishing toes and taking

a long walk through puddles
warm with laughter

she exhales life
creates the moment anew
with every breath
she takes