Tuesday, May 20, 2008

There was a village called civilisation, Sir
Eliot's ancient village bought for a kiss
through an invisible pane of intelligence
Little remains of: nothing of the owners'
eye after they auctioned his tongue, part

I from prayer, part stolen, silently wrapped
lustre of a son eyeing cold the sustenance
Of oil and the horror of its contract longing
in a poetic soul and sold to the high caste.
There is a village called Civilisation, sir.

Serene small village of infants' blood, sold
twice, once for money and once for love,
Earning its right to measure between what sun
And sibling moon the village accent shone,
Reputations frankly bought, it falls leavening
Neither truth nor lies, but in the equipoise
sounding classless. A twenty first century voice.

I apologise for breaking any rules or causing offense.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Even non-bardic heads buried sand-like and ignorant - the straw wo/men of our bunch - stubbornly count time within; spell a game between what was behind, in front and yet to come, somewhere between these three states of imagination, where a truth of letters and two linguistic realities lie.

Few aware of the filidh/poets tradition -- though all filidh when bardcraft was practiced -- know as solidly as do not the hordes of contemporary practitioners, the fully nuanced particulars of this ancient verbal craft.


The twelve hundred centuries in which the art of this tradition existed in print, composed by numberless bardic poets whose base level of training (in comparison to today) is - to all but a handful - entirely unknown; contain keys to unlocking this fascinating verbal system, based on a sophisticated, intuited set of principles divined by speculatively casting into mirrored pools, for a poetic knowledge, returned via reflecting the essence of reality, in textual attempts which bear the imprimatur of oneself.


Communicating effectively in print and person on bardic matters, is a complex and entirely speculative discourse from which we lead ourself into a unique web of self-made literate sensibility and process, with which the poet practices blind - in effect - attempting to mark out his and her datums, constructing what level plane s/he can project onto, slowly at first, the stuff of our mental doings, and if lucky, decant some real strain of ourself into verse, on a printed page

But before we have our plane a sheened smooth surface of reflection at the well of Self, musing on whatever our instinct lead us to, we must first launch headlong into the unknown, as a total fraud, imitating what fake it is we think we should be to enter a fictional citadel of Literature and literacy an absence of intellectual self-worth and paranoia creates.

At first we are fearful of a poetic grading device imagined others calibrate our minuscule measure of natural ability with. And devoid of experience, we look to the mind/s of these imagined others constructed from a questioning, self-testing force within, and our placebo-hacker against whom one pits and measures what it is we do, forms before us.

Failure on a grander scale than what amounts to the imagined rival/s who puncture our dream and rent one's confidence asunder. The practicing cynics whose game is donning a clever mask of poet troll manqué, devoted to issuing solemn, sombre sermons in tones of high gravitas and hieratic airs woven to bluff the poorer scholar/s with a sharper wit.


Adopt a pose in which the pretended position -- that intellectual inheritance is a question of birth and not the democratic application -- advocates our intelligence and the imagination, creating with instinct alone, print in this ultra-conservative tradition of druidic precedent and principles ordered by a society's entirely civil legal system, in a way even our most skillful would need several lifetimes to fully crack and understand, in the original and ultimate impulsing idiolect and pattern of things our sworn source adheres upon.

Few contemporary poets emerge from this tradition (ultimately rooting in the Ogham alphabet), to reconnect and practice the somewhat incomprehensible rules which - for all but a few members in the guild - appear odd and illogical.

The writers ludicrously attached to this form -- offering scant return to our lovers and trolls competing in the contemporary quick thrust poetic tank of virtual bruisers (on the surface) -- attempt to compose a plea wrought wholly from love, measuring our progress in the challenge-of-self-against Self, yielding in a demonstrable process whose charted arc of knowledge, in a hopefully straightforward and logical narrative; course into the pave of forms and potential proofs proven (or in a state of proving) speculatively - to oneself - and provide perceptions within that convey one's inner-provincial strain to the exterior, universal audience, in the sense of one's poetic sounding the manner of our own essential note.

The rhyming period of always fifty 50 splits, eternity's second minute, hour ad infintum makes until re-waking, births again in any measure the key intelligence time creates, armed with only forgotten doors into modernism of yore today and now; beacons the tomorrow of our collective will our thought being in the fabric reality, can spell...
Trams heaving up West Street.

The extra weight of an ice-cream
Bank Holiday and flecks of blood
Bubbling from the night before

Like some petulant brolly-less kid

Caught in a downpour, stalling
Invisibly at the Swim Inn awning
A bus door opened as the breeze

Hurried past and began to move

At last again the sudden fleeing
Head against a single pulsing blur
Quick begins to move and traffic

Against the shop window glass

Streaming past into distant streets
Like rain sputtered routes, gathered
Watching spent under a step-rest

A sun pulling as the bus trundles

blessing a journey without ticket
Marlboro and the Zippo cloud
End round a cup, hands for cover.

Friday, May 09, 2008

S/he

A bardic return to ignorance - after a while in the woods hunting for clues to the poetic art - has left empty a scabbard-skein within, sheathing some analytical instrument which calibrates every step took as we make our way along whatever path life and love delivers us.

The nuts and bolts of language are…to paraphrase a secluded device upon which the finite balance resting hidden, staying even, remotely arranging the cross-wires fading meshed and one's connection to...


“An exterior source of four joys, whose cause is interior meaning”


...teasing itself out on the mirror within, delineating reflection/s and leading light to a singular template, armed with only the one, split to two halves; then held behind an object to replicate an infinite number spiraling back perhaps - or in a straight line; the glass tilted just so and an eye measured 'n smiling at the show of it - a shifting linguistic count of painting and picture, sifting through the invisible state.


Reality, half unreal, half a yearn for cash, and spirituality's guerdon, the recompense for effort poured into bringing before our eyes, a creative proof.

The he and she from cricket begat a cracked venture of crockery and two paths leading into neologism spun through the dream machine of sleep last night, and nights past, ever captured, in the most sensible of linguistic arithmetic experienced; dreaming just before sleep ended 'n consciousness calling; awoke wisdom of the vanishing-only trace of what remaining -- like a self made machine assembled by study and nature -- strung sophisticated and delivering keys to the divination which uncovers a core nut of knowledge, the artist of jumbled bunch letters, collapsed into a heap of meaningless phenome and verbal bites.

Whatever the rites to attainment the mind makes up, the god/s he and she (perhaps – perhaps not)

Shed empty and turned inside out
By a rational process of time

The play-pen and pal lapping around the borders of our own conundrum, puzzle of what is this 50/50, one to one ratio humanity forever builds the edifice he and she, all of us, each blade or leaf, stalk and stem, fish, fowl, plant and inanimate being, s/he the world itself a grain and globe on which animal man and woman; spool out doing whatever it is that fill our days..

Some are lucky, others less so, many, not at all, but we who are literate and can read, afford to believe our life a burden for the vastness of choice; should try and touch the hem of god/s he and she.

Move away from the diatribes of bile and distress we visit on others in print, and seek to create stability of mind, the equilibrium and neutrality of thought a specter of the other/s mind raised to face our own, asked or unwanted interplay of stranger/s (never as cut and dried as the two sides think) coincidence and the naming of God.

Friday, May 02, 2008

Rustling farm dig sniff
utterly iambic, trochee
sea/s lipped and DG kip
L hair bee gad verily


it's wand, go'er open r
elm of a fictional pie
crawling to a science,


Bohm sear st. eve n's
nuts and bolts, believe
and thus, the knowing o



hems tune, see wy into
an Ogham alphabet, per
Oxcam and ford Un i-vers
it yoidelic Galphabet cl
assed telling Q-Celt, ohm


B L F(v)S N

H D T C Q

M G Ng(v)Z R.

A O U E I


...the strange sight above is a very boring area of re-search, yet very rewarding for the driven, addicted or plain person holding a some times tattered dream with which to cheer one's Leader/s he and she,


strange a yeats or ovid could come good when the bearla filidh sound came and drew a noo sé gower editorial proof/s of the (s) yah, in flue of a beh 'ad eel of some


....so the bearla filidh means...language of the poets. bearla language, filidh plural of fili -- poet -- quo raw sat ewe versing wonderfully X yiz ir landed bow, cohm, diddlee 'ed fools ghost/s here i jack klaxon liambical moon nee ow poetry id is the 50/50 question of whom one is 'n not the hilarity of free hugs and vacuous emoticohm, cool, doon does my mils ey yah pupil ranting at the rails of in-just ice, nawn warm blod fitz school of noo droll trolly throttling massive bulls on the oink for jippers, R 'otto-wailer soil under bumming thriambickle crace craw of summat aw rarver


Feda (let ter)


Y in the above sez
NY
GN
NG

what this meant was a bit complicated to the rayl ale king/s he and she prolled in yah ha ka ka kan not doo, they say

now over ovid, love a flue of images
.


The Ogham (Ohm) alphabet, written originally
along the centerline a star vid ever tically


bottom op pot pically yal gon a den oo stave
warked with am line central The consonantal


corresponding, fifteen letters, to letters


B.L.F(V).S.N.
H.D.T.C.Q.
M.G.Ng(Y).Z.R.
A.O.U.E.I.

diphthongs
AO.OI.UI.IO.AE.


originally consisted of 20 letters, as Q-Celtic Ogham, and later expanded to 25 per Macalister; Ogham ollamh and classic alphabet used by Goidels, on mainland Eu rope how i-grated from the alin and tos mout heast erritain, bout 200 ears priory tot, Gaul Belgic invasion/s introduced a revved up P-Celt, noo a ha ha ka ka klaxonic blakean eliotic rev of verb and re-heard, herded thralls and all welcome, dear readers, let the lead be roc tee h'alpha bet, come forv fourth century bc



(400 -- 600bc alphabet Brynmor-Jones and Rhys


F feda: voiced fricative
F stands for V, whereas


the double-letter FF
ands stfor het vuno iced


consonantal Ogham bet alf
irc as/is reserved pin


sever al-tones inscription
wound found North, in wail


South whale attack gossip
Wales totty tacked, racket


stacking completely island
Isle of Man, Scotland delic

i-ogam alphabet, the hoany
moo gossip rumour: Sun-face


alphabet as the reflection
rarver fetching blue print


pure unadulterated fun kid/s
playing in the chime, stage,


hooked on vidz, rhyming marn,
totally indo videz of roodz


'n feck full time future/s h
ah skill hUath ka ka kah shee


lamb contendor for a contrary
mob full of time custom airing


number consuming scam, life lap
yap ay pay up, lap at my pulpit



coz the planet of sea marn, sun
o'er and... like i know whorra


iamb actually feckin duz yah,
like am i effin rung and rit in


as in do cop me doc spook er, o'
er the directoary arl bored


sci-fi wattage Walt dear chap,
old chum, bummies, aint sin yiz,


fan the fat target/s he and she
lube roanin a rim and git fist


fingz King, ho ho ha ha, demon
strafe *you* whorl first, fore


most that is..ho hu ha no no,
erm, a flippin wummin, if yer


must noo, i came from outer
planetary rhyme zoos, crowded



overt rant and whinge-free peo
please, wonderfully in tune



chime and for the death of mils,
ta, sound lah, did yer sea,


swelling ebb and flowing tide,
natural the occurence if an eye


st. evens gets right as per cert
i aint a specific location, LA


say marhm, yoh, droodz, we lohmm
to Nem e-ton, a take your clothes


hands, wake up in a puddle, wake
up in a ruddy bluddy fight yah..



cozzer, coz 'as, coss o she were
hurin foh her moh 'n yah, suckin


sum one ooh dunt giv a foggy coz
thaze too biz like living dreams


readers, mates, the wen waze
will their be freedom to appear




deeper, in a shallow air, oh i
lurve the smell when i'm a troll


king wiv jamus, nowt fun is-as
missus doh, the failed clown,


and thus failing greaves
and breathing moves
to make beleive


eternally verse is lit living
by the ghost/s imilarity odds

for even/s and odd he and she
we, met in 'orn..


50/50 soh, pro the am iz ooh
we is yah, ow yay ow yah ooh


yum, heading off the folk move
away, ilk off moo, moany et tu


do, a comment is free pit of L
absent and the tallaght plague



ground like heath, the ghost
tipped comment, free is/as


it owned a while the strobe
on the waltzers, of course,


before the fictional science
cohm on 'n i escape into dead



droolidiotic ficker; trendy
the gaffes and gap gaps one


wore indoors, occasionaly,
as the nerdy type and have



known far more pointless bores
than my very failed safe self,



an utter outrageous person
practices exile and on DLA,


moany cash, yo ladeez, line
up and bendy boy, cohm, cohm


fecking cohm lard on Zen list
opined i am big and bickle

trochee the core fork off
the éigse star aged rant


of a PoF took one over the line,
and the whole edifice collapse,


due to one single provable point
of neo metrical significance


only officially interesting
squares who troll detached
and have mastered the mistress


Art thou me of feck off firing toe path

nah -- feck off the poetry stage, i am
a bore wiv a proven record of gerrin
talked a boot mah parish, which is all



noo, as i am justly making up, shh...it
is the result of a seven year one way

train of studious slog and now, i am
the worlds foremost AS stress is,


a living lore, as it was Merlin apppy,
my ate fair Sir making me suck and be


scum, until i tuv-waxy droll froogle
minded dozzers, but not you lam a score


ing ad lang raw choppings of it off WaR
WaR Oh what a horrid WaR, lurve, lurve,


Emit-o con the stupid English it's hit
hit and naw 500 yrs later, Kilcolman


cast le mown hay eye, yah, a dream
eight nomens, and fair playa at comment


s free, spinning loser-top, the failure
versed success; reverse in between toss



the airs of lying graces, spacey racy
fab, yer noo, intow letcher boo ho ho ho


ka ka kah..alphabetic addictional in-sane
brained to lurve Benders/s mate/s all


rarver, ooh fow sand dans le and dan eces,
poetry is the super natural decapitation,


of the final head in one today, F in sea,
English, that's me, Bohola, may o'er three


master sons, squat, able bothie dwellers,
in scarisbrick fields on the west lancs


dead eye plain straight spud, swede, beet
root muckers, mate/s he and she air through



the vwee leader/s and of gab, end of Fab?