Byzantine Bindings

Monday, 10 March 2014


such a long time and rest from it
it used to be lifeblood
compost roughage for the soul
it used to flow through
the then other gods came
more organised
book of hours

there once were cinquains:

something other
dream like half memory
stored where, accessed how, intention what?

what a pity
just another baby
longing for its earthly mother

language forming
clumsily explaining
everything is what you make it

early morning
soaking up the sunshine
croaking spawning in the water

and then 50 words would just flow:

nature getting on with it
unquestioning loyalty 
blind indifference seeing as other 
injunction to ameliorate 
sow seed injudiciously
smear and spawn in the park
frenzied orgiastic ritual breaks
into polite spring sunshine sunny sunday
homecoming from 
boys brigade
grasping slime of memory’s 
past and future
dreams and promises

and a closer look would reveal the close to 500 waiting in the wings:

winter turned to spring and hearts eased into the sunny sunday morning walk around the park. No more than a stroll after alo paratha yoghurt and masala chai with custard creams and tea for afters. East meets West. There is a sort of acknowledgement tacit, implicit, passive aggressive, that communication becomes more likely when the mind is focused away from sectarian boundaries and thrown together in the physicality of community based interventions. Car boots on the fringe, artist’s cafe’s and homeless climbing walls. Broken boundaries lay side by side with tired ideologies food for thought becomes the compost of the next generation.
Then suddenly there they were. Causing us to turn aside from the regularity of arboreal circuits they were there frogs upon frogs upon frogs gloopy coagulations of spawn; transparent black-eyed jelly beans. We thought the noise was a lawn mower or a distant helicopter - I say we…
Who knows.
Perhaps the magic was different for you.
Something happened
though where it is now
I couldn’t say
and wonder why would I want to -
Perhaps a need in future time
to re-collect
gathering up fragments of a life
in apparently disparate threads
misunderstood - certainly
connected - somehow
truth to tell I am unable to say with any degree of certainty what happened
as to it’s meaning
there is a wrongness living in the head
but  my fingers retain the feel of life in that slime - so called
and life was alive in that moment - over fifty years ago
the last time I collected it
and stored it
in a saucer in a shoe box with a cellophane window cut out to observe
and they grew and pinged against the lid
until due to lack of care and water they stopped pinging
death entered my world
by my own selfish careless hand
and as the spawn slipped through my fingers
yesterday, yesteryears guilt weighed heavily fresh

some things when done cannot be undone
they are woven into the tapestry of our lives

perhaps the trick is to live with them and learn from them
I wish I knew

but on these gifted rare days of season change and threshold crossing
over and again
there is offered a glimpse of the whole picture
landscape laid bare
with great ancient trees, seasonal flowers, edible plants, deep roots
and yes of course the weeds
the compost
the smelly
without which
there would be no smelly flowers.

he who walks in the garden in the cool of the day finds himself…