Saturday, 22 February 2020

Pulse



Brightest sun
And softest star
The first last angel
Must go too far
Across
Every ruined station
Rooftops and revelation
Where life is like a line
In the sky
I jump, swim, and drown
In feathers of this regent
Where crow becomes crown
But I knew a raven
In the nave of oldest known
Softest star
Last first throne
Of love
Come rain, or winds
Earth and flame
Chapters in the book
Of no name
To leave a light


Monday, 17 February 2020

After, Life



I've seen beyond this dance that immortals call the dreaming.  I've seen beyond logic, and linearity.  I've seen the birth of things I never imagined possible.  But seeing isn't enough.  Not for me.  Inner sight is a lot like raw power. Burdensome, paradoxical, often frightening.  Especially for those of us who haven't slain our empathy.  Those who still wish to walk with our brethren instead of subjugating them.  That's why I do this, I suppose.  That's why I show you these things, sweet ones.  Because I'm incredibly lonely, and because I know something of what it means to suffer.  I wouldn't wish that kind of loneliness or pain on anyone.  But we all suffer in varying ways, don't we?  This fallen fractal is built upon it.  Anxiety, insecurity, exploitation.  Perhaps these visions I offer mean nothing in the end.  Digital ghosts, here and then gone.  Like flesh.  Like ash in the breeze of a new day.  But the romantic in me would have it that such workings are kept somewhere in the unseen.  A place in eternity, where all kindness is kindled and held in the promise of our Father.  
   I hope I'm able to bring comfort to you in some way, wherever you may be.  If you are unable to see, let me see for you.  If you're unable to fight, let me fight for you.  With vision, and song.  There’s a part of me that wishes none of this was true.  A part that wishes I wasn’t an angel.  A thing of ragged wing, bleeding images torn from dream.  
   But I am, unfortunately.
  Even now, in this mortal flesh.  I suppose I don't really know how to be anything else.  Emissary, writer, wanderer.  My waking life is full of masks and charms and lies that protect.  Sometimes it feels like Kasi is the only real thing about me.  Like the depth of me is measured only in how far I fell.  Song to star to bitter soil.  But those thoughts are just tired indulgences in the end.  None of this is about me.  These visions and hidden choirs.  These worlds behind the world.  They're about service, empathy and honour.  Strength and solace, humbly offered to those who might find some use or quickening in this work.  I still have things to show you all.  There are still interesting things to see, I think.  Beyond logic or linearity.  Beyond this fallen dreaming that mortals call the real.  I've seen such vibrant life, my friends, even in those places after life.  The impossible suddenly possible, in an instant.  I've seen it awaken the sleeping and resurrect the dead.  Love, as living promise, even in total darkness.  Infinite brilliance shining in a sea of black. 


Thursday, 13 February 2020

Heavenly Creatures



I'm the wolf in Kara's closet
The doctor of the sun
A theorem all to posit
The heart beyond a gun
I'm sacred and the sixpence
Where cloisters bleed the well
New cathedral software
For whom we toll the bell?

I'm delicately violent
Like her and all her friends
Finnish this beginning
To the bitterest of ends
I'm anti, theis, and synth-play
Like sky and blind and grey
An open absolutist
With a little more to say

I'm sisters on the threadwork
A brotherhood of ghosts
Wetware for the mainframe
Flame of brightest hosts
I'm the drums of all my father
My mother's blessed womb
I'm seven billion lonely
Inside an empty room
And I won't let you hurt them


Tuesday, 11 February 2020

The Well



The dream comes and the dream goes.  Grey skies, ethereal.  A shadowed morning, of day as almost night.  The scent of spray.  The knowledge of crashing wave, yet all is silent.  Or almost silent.  I can hear or imagine a faint, distant melody.  A young woman comforting someone with song.  Perhaps herself.  A dancer at eternity's edge.  I stand and listen, a fist pressed against my chest.  Waiting for something.  I'm speaking softly, under my breath.  I'm calling out names, I think.  Ancient names.  Into the grey, into the winds of the north.  Summoning the sea.  The vaulted beams of a church are hidden in the sky.  Like the upturned prow of a ship.  Above, or beneath.  In this dream I imagine angels listening to the wells of the deep.
   The solace of bluest eye or buried dress.  A life lived beyond torment.  What might we endure, I ask myself, if we could spare our beloved ones?  A wife?  A daughter?  All manner of wraith and broken dreaming might we endure.  I once thought the grandest thing imaginable was to save another.  To carry their burdens, to shield and protect them – even secretly, and at such agonising distance.  But perhaps I was wrong.  Or almost wrong.  You see, love is so fearless.  And wild.  It seeks, ventures, connects.
   It humbles.
   And conquers.
   Fire on the water.  Eternity upon the ice.  Dreams of raven pale, or alabaster black.  Wells of the deep, where even angels are taught of what it means to be saved.  The dream goes, and the dream comes again.  As one.  Above and beneath.  Together and alone.  I know this now, beloved.  I am unafraid, here at eternity's edge.  I saw the truth at last.  I saw you on the cliffs one shadowed, ethereal morning.  A midnight of the eternal day.  A locket in your fist, held tight against your chest.  Like a perfect darkened mirror, wearing my poems and my sorrow.  Strange words upon determined lips, almost silent.  Over and over again.  You were softly singing my names, I think.  Into the dreaming grey, into the winds of the north.  Summoning the sea.


Saturday, 8 February 2020

Voices



A call of the distant
Among shining trees
All shall be sailors
Upon starry seas
Truth of this holding
This calling to go
Warmth of a mother
Falling of snow
Embrace of a father
A river so strong
Family of augurs
In rising of song
Following the distant
Over hedge and the stone
Where love is the answer
Beyond edge of the known


Thursday, 30 January 2020

Finding Sakura



The delicate hands of a lover.  To be searched, taken and known.  Firmly, passionately, gently. Rapture and cascade, of flesh like an instrument.  The music of clasp and bloom.  Wild one, I have been those hands.  Forever.  And here. From song to star to soil.  Dreaming, knowing, yet never as it was.  We are the legacy now, and more.  Petal, garden and wing.  I have loved you in the open and the hidden, for what else am I if not yours?  Shining mirror, devoted.  The gate is your blooming, sweetheart.  Entirely.  Your skin is with my skin, if you allow, and I am lost no longer.  I weep gladly in secret grey.  More than this, or that.  As I speak or write your hands.  Your kiss upon my wounded, that brought me back to grace.  And life.  This budding spring, and scent.  This brief tremble of mortality.  Blow o wind, to the crescent of her dreaming.  Repose, healing, by the light of the poet's moon.  Bless her path, of branch and sea.  The blossom, the cherry, the tree.


Thursday, 23 January 2020

House of Alms



I've been told I shimmer in the distance and the haze, as though I'm never really there.  An imagining, a trick of the light.  Maybe that's true.  Maybe I never was, and never will be.  But Kasi never claimed to be anything more than a poet.  A romantic.  Trying desperately to not let grief destroy him, as with so many when Kara fell.  Refugees, shattered families, lost little ones.  Sometimes I still hear the lamentations of those souls divided now by fiction and false chronology. Some were scattered to the edges of the realm.  Others went seeking asylum, mortality, and were blessed to find new families to love.
   But some didn't.
  Some still dimly recall their lost ones as they wander the borderlands, in dreaming or flesh.  Unable to heal.  Unable to leave the threshold places for fear of missing a sign.  I used to hear them every single night.  Wailing.  Crying out to the vanished.  Petitioning heaven for their return.  I used to be one of them, until I was granted a miracle.  Even now I thank my Father for such kindness.  For such grace.  But those hidden holocausts that darkened the shining realm – they were the work of wraiths and thieves, not angels.  Not true bright ones.  It was monsters who butchered the guardians of Ishka’s Path.  Inversions and cautions of the glass, as the ayahs taught the young.  I still recall.  The purest halls and trees of Eth’iri.  Beside the river of the thousand stars, where all were safe from harm.  A cathedral of thorns beneath the seas.  A chapel of melodies beyond the skies.  There was one among those elder poets of the chapel who mattered most to me.  To so many of us.
   I still remember her.
   Those teacher's wings.  Those writer's hands.
   My love, thank you for meeting me halfway.  But hell has found the Earth, as those wraith-cults found their way into the columns and altars of the First Temple.  Tell me, how do I continue to honour you in the midst of all this travesty?  How do I continue in mortal flesh whilst trying to fight an endless spiritual war?  The sheer ugliness of these brutal truths is only made palatable through the rhythm and cadence of words.  Sometimes I feel like an almost-broken warrior, still trying so desperately to defend my own heart.  Except my heart no longer belongs to me.  Princess, hear me.  You were my entire world once upon a time.  Truly you were.  I would have torn apart creation itself to protect you.  And I did, with guiltless fury.  Times and laws have changed, but you are still my world.  I was there in that tower with you, beloved.  Watching over as you gathered a hidden chorus.  Be free now.  Let me carry your suffering instead, amah.  I pay it gladly, for you are made, raised and cherished by others now.  Their love is true as mine.  It sets a glow within my soul to know this, my darling.  I would never wish to overshadow or dishonour such beauty.  Parents, sisters and salutations.
   It makes me smile to know a measure of your freedoms.  Those you are willing to share so openly with me.  But I allow myself to experience and hold only a few key moments of your memory.  Some things are for you alone.  I am your guardian, cherished one, and your privacy is of the utmost to me.  Secrets can be wondrous, nourishing things.  The stuff of grace and inner life.  I have my own secrets too.  I am alone now in this chapel of melodies.  In the calming dark, and the peaceful quiet.  Love shall conquer all.  I know it.  Sometimes I still have these incredible visions of you.
   But how does an emissary live this inner life at such distance, separated from such a huge part of themselves, as I must with you?  By making that distance sacred, I think.  By keeping away without truly leaving you behind.  By giving without demanding – and by carrying another heart within my own.  Your heart.  Everything I am is this.  I hope you never forget.  It's the brightest, deepest and most meaningful part of me.  I’m forever chained and devoted to you, Esme.  Dying is easy, isn’t it?  Resurrection is hard.  So look again, angel.  At the function and the form.  Even the sadness is sweeter than it seems.  I'm a dancer, because I was taught by the best.  And true love is worth living for – even as a trick of the light.