VOLUME I

In Three Books

Including Early Poems, Meditative Bird Poems, and Odes

N.K.Tointon
(1988)

Book I - A Collection Of Earlier Poems

	For a number of years now I have been meaning to collect all my earlier poems, scattered about on miscellaneous bits and pieces of paper, and put them into a first volume of poetry. Some of these poems may be found to merit this attention while most, I will be the first to admit, barely deserve such a collation. However, many of these lesser poems are descriptions of events memorable to myself, evoking a remembrance of times gone by and have been preserved purely for my own pleasure. If another reader than that of myself were to find herein a few poems that might catch their eye and evoke for them too some feelings of nostalgia, and a few thoughts that might touch upon the aesthetic, then I would rest more easily in the fact that this volume was allowed to reach the light of day. I apologise therefore for the unevenness in its quality and in the manner of its construction and beg that criticism be only applied to those poems that might be able to be found to have entertained some possibly worthwhile pretensions that might allow their entry into the land of the poetic even if this entry be rather forced and performed in the half-light before the dawn or after the set.
	This volume is at present divided between three books. 	A first book consists of earlier poems with the addition of a supplementary appendix to include earliest poems, fragments and lesser miniature works. 
	A second book includes those poems put together in a book of meditative bird poems in 1976.
	I have also taken the opportunity to enlarge upon this present volume by including a small series of latest poems in a third book placing this first volume in a state of possible future expansion through such a precedent.
	Hopefully a few of my insignificant poems might meet with at least some small instance of your satisfaction.

						Noël Tointon,
								12/11/87, Sydney.

[1] The Exile Of A Saint - The Dalai Lama (1966?)

A school of pure thought
stands to the sky crystal clear
whispers to the wind that truth is taught 
among the hearts in the hills near.

On this hill thyself is sought
to guide and show its base 
malice in iron hands wrought
seek not to show truth's face.

Thy reflection in jewels set
mark not thy home coming hour,
"far away ", the water ripples wet,
"past thy subjects so subjected now".

We welcome thee O guider of light
through the forbidden stone portals
and up the stone steps painted white,
O living saint they are but mortals.

[2] Five Metaphysical Poems

1. The Hungry Snake (1971?)

...half asleep, in a dream
the hungry snake eats its tail.
The poor snake bites its tail,
the tail shakes with surprise!
The tremors then reach the head.
Alas, to open its mouth 
is to half choke itself,
the tail firmly wedged,
the teeth tearing painfully.
To shut it causes still greater pain.
To keep it half open 
is to half choke, half eat itself.
The snake twitches and wriggles.
To get out of this 
is far too hard it thinks...
To do nothing is to suicide,
and what problems and questions 
does that resolve?
Desperate for an answer
the snake thinks to itself
perhaps someone or some thing 
might come to my assistance?
But alas, it muses, who is 
brave enough to assist me,
who indeed might help me?
"I must move quickly" 
the snake thinks to its self
and then, after taking a deep breath, 
aims its body at the nearby wall.
It does so in a lightning flash,
in the flickering of an eye,
propelling the body forward,
letting it meet the wall 
with an almighty thud.
With its head pressed 
hard against its heart
the snake fractures on impact
its clear white teeth,
now deeply embedded 
sharply into its back.
Then relaxing, it gently continues 
to swallow its 
inwardly entangled tail.
"Ha, ha", it thinks to itself,
"this would certainly fool others".
Getting desperate,
it smiles through its round eyes.
They blink, a little faster,
it changes colour...
hot and hotter...
fast and faster...
With a bang one snake snaps.
One snake, one enlightened snake.
A little breathless it looks down at me.
A hungry snake, one hungry snake!
One dream,
one dreaming snake?

2. Pictures of a storm (-/12/69)

Sweat pours off the trees
onto the ground, leaves all drooping,
continuous thunder bellows forth
disturbing the oppressive heat.

The trees wait dull and lifeless,
the birds tense themselves
among the twigs, among the clouds above
riding high in the air to cool.

Crack the thunder cloud strikes,
bang one hundred times the sky resounds,
the lightening forks again,
again the sky resounds, and echoing.

The storm closes in onto the farm, no difference
is there now between the crack and the bang.
A few droops fall and a few more, 
gone now is the heat as it slips away.

Like a fast river the water falls,
hard against the wetted surface
it pits itself and splashes,
soaking into the ground giving life.

All things now sparkle, the air is cool and
the trees surround themselves with light.
The thunder storm mores slowly away,
then, out across the sky one more fork strikes.

A twig snaps or a branch, a bird 'pears struck,
up and up it staggers jerking up,
above the trees some fifty feet
it moves by painful inches, I sadly see.

The noise abates, the silence shatters and
down the bird plummets like a falling stone.
Then near the surface of the trees a miracle,
unexpected, it flutters and swoops to land.

A strange dance, a mystery or a play
in this what meaning does there lie,
then from the trees some five birds wing,
beating their smaller wings upward into the sky.

3. Inspiration From A Distant Tree (Jan.-Feb. 1971)

Just a second before a green summit
of a rise on a slope there grows against
the sky a high tree like a great landmark.
On the edge above the bush its stands on
an uncut island fading amid green seas
of sheepless fields of grass and gorse. 
Upwards it spreads outwards its lofty branches, 
there towering above all the other bush,
while standing naked on the horizon
a paradox - still, secret and silent.
Here amid the bush and trees there can grow
other trees of a strange undenying 
majesty so tranquil and secluded.
Such mystery is this ever to be,
strange trees so peaceful, alone and yet not 
like other places of land and water
that when people wander into their midst
and gaze upon their hidden perfection
they sense it and feel, think, yet cannot put
into words that which to others they wish 
to speak. No way but to experience 
is there where eyes and ears don't see or hear,
where thoughts do not think and time slips away.
Such I tried to picture where all words failed
where one tree stands to a mystery veiled.

4. The Storm - In Faint Memory of Shelley (28/1/70)

When the sea clouds look like sprouted corals
distorting gently in the white capping wind
from the cliffs above into the distant waves I look,
murmuring, and yet below they thrash the rocks.

And above the horizon the floating tide
like flying mountains which filled with thunder storming
draw nearer, as if time were to tell us 
when they lighten the ground, "that all is change".

Look into the clouds for with thunder it soon rains,
take warning at the stirring of coming trouble,
take now thy shelter or be drowned in dumb conformity,
clouds which cloud out that which is before us.

I see the swirling mist moving within the clouds,
the storm shall strike and screams shall pierce the air,
that winter storm always before the summer peace,
the in between alive, awakening as if from some dream.

Does not the waterfall and its rapids then peacefulness 												  find,
if winter is now upon us can spring be far behind?

5. The Formless Mist (4/5/76)

The formless mist melts
the mountain tops into one,
how much greater they seem to rise
behind the falling mist?
I feel their presence
hovering ever higher,
forever heavenward.
There, silently waiting,
the old unseen mountain
looks downward,
from its thoughts
cool tears form pure streams
which fall upon the steeply 
time saddened slopes.
What vanity is it to think, it thinks,
that one can assert oneself.
O trees you grow from the rocks 
and then return there,
you try to reach heaven and fail,
so what hope have we I despair?
The formless mist melts 
the mountain tops into one,
how much greater they seem to rise 
behind the falling mist,
I feel their presence
hovering ever higher
and higher above me, 
as I look I am left beyond
all such sadness, 
as I look all despair
is left behind.

[3] In Mist It Rains Under The Trees (21/3/70)

The rain falls heavier
under the trees,
the finest mist
a thousand drops
that fall and splash 
and wet!

[4] A Poem On Love (26/8/71)

Love of people, money, things or power,
some love life love, God or things gone sour,
out to the sun like a fragrant flower
man's desires scorch his furrowed brow.

Onward their hearts all chase the things they chase,
ever onward, faster, at faster pace,
rushing swift like moths to the flames they race,
being their objects fleeing face to face.

To this way or that the balance swings,
hard is it to keep straight mind's thought that wings,
wrapped and twisted as eternal change wrings,
love well the ways of truth for love it brings.

Man's loves are many like the grains of sand
all swept from the beach by the ocean's hand,
like fishes are hearts caught in truth's net out fanned,
homeward soars this love into love's true land.

[5] Saturday Night (6/12/70)

Thin men drinking,
fat men drunk,
the young smoking,
the old wheezing,
the senses drugged
and sirens sounding,
to the scene of the careless
goes the ambulance.
People made up, 
all painted faces,
hiding behind masks.
All created things 
are so superficial.
When you look 
you do not 
look inside them.
Scratch the surface
all is empty,
what reality 
is there out there
when you seek
and forever search
and cannot become
what lies inside.

[6] Daylight - Nightlight (24/9/70 - 31/10/87)

O harsh meaningful sun
under whose dispassionate light
our faults and virtues glare out.
O soft grey light of dawn,
O fire red of evening,
O black light of the night
you dissolve visual imperfection
can inner faults follow far behind?
O black light of the Soul
can'st thou resolve 
the inner dilemmas of mind.
O dark night of the soul
can'st thou dissolve
all knots that have us
in this world entwined?

[7] A Haiku On Love (1970's)

Like morning dew drops,
meeting sun's reality,
love flashes away.

[8] Growing Old - An Existential Poem,
			or,
Looking At Myself In A Mirror 
			or,
Reflection Upon A Youthful Lad (1972-1976)

  What manner of a frame 
    art thou
O efflorescence of
  youth's flower;
thy naked pristine form to see,
how I long to embrace
    a time
forever unchanging 
   like thee,
so enter in unchanging 
  O Eternal Now
for then,
         I am freed,
and blessed, 
  by the touch of Thou.

[9] Against The Grain -
(With The Poet Sam Hunt In Mind) (-/9/75)

Complains the drain,
the rain in Spain,
the worms be slain, 
always their bane,
their bodies lain, 
God's will ordain.

Uplifts the crane,
now tense with strain,
remove the stain, 
ruins remain,
so smash the chain,
grow trees again.

Poets are sane,
words wax and wane,
verses refrain,
sounds from the brain,
against the grain,
must catch a train.

[10] The Moon (-/9/75)

Shrill
sounds the bell,
away with the ropes,
O sail away O ship of hopes.
Still
is the swell, 
from the clouds elopes 
the moonlight, to bed it slopes.
Will
it now sail
below whitened tops
dreaming of love until it stops.

[11] Saying Good-Bye Without Words (10/9/75)

With me he tenderly turns and 
looks, amid our thinking 
he comes closer and touches my hand.
The stillness of the night harkens,
soft veils of light enshroud
the twilight sky as it darkens.
Now that time has stopped and is still
what can separate when the
psychic distance of space becomes nil?
so farewell my gentle friend,
our times together have no end.

[12] On My Way (27/12/79)

One good friend and folks
have sent me on my way this far.
As I sit on my pack 
the midday storm breaks,
parka leaking, with a time learnt
smile that sneers at 
thoughts of the unpleasant.
The rain wets the 
gravel beside the curb,
then forms puddles,
makes bubbles and just as quick
takes them, knocks them out.
Even in the rain I saw something 
in a way I hadn't seen before,
learnt something new.

[13] You Waste Your Time (1979?)

You waste your time
as I am not straight but gay.
I am sick of those hot women
that look me over,
for I am not straight but gay!
I am sick of those closet men too
that look me over but
do not seek me out!
Why not get to know me
and find out if our relationship
is the better worth in knowing?
You honoured me by your invitation
and I took you up on it
but don't let your doubts
come between us!
I have seen deep inside you
and love well what I have seen,
I accept our relationship
or the lack of it,
in love I shall take you 
as I find you,
leave if you wish to be left alone.
Alas your sweet looks
have touched me, left their mark,
and now I am left unbound.
Now your sight haunts my path,
my mind is close to yours, O Love,
but our paths are still far apart.

[14] There In The Cold Of Night (1970)

There in the cold of night
two lovers of sound and sight
and into each others' eyes
we could see what each for the other felt
but into words we could not speak
where our hearts and minds did meet.
Like a magnet coming together 
and yet cannot embrace
my heart feels sick'
my stomach turns 
and forever feels emptied.

[15] My Eyes (1970?)

My eyes dart about the world,
time has taught me to see
but not to be seen seeing what I see,
what I would seek to perceive.
Now I am careless where my sight 
catches me but have learnt
that what people don't know
they don't need to know.

[16] Was I Sought By Him Who Now Knows Me Not? (1970's)

Does your girlfriend know
that your thoughts have sought elsewhere?
I believe you do accounting
or some other business-line,
a night of passion you planned for me
for your dark eyes told me so
but an intervening friend let you shelve that
project sweetly planned.
Now you reject such a dangerous sight
and don't let on we still see each other,
alas, for I still love you so...

[17] Triangles (1970's)

My married friend 
would like to be free
for I know he loves me
and it worries me 
as it worries her 
just where things will end.

[18] An Existential Poem (31/12/75)

The poor person said
"nobody loves me
including myself,
nobody trusts me, 
I trust nobody 
including myself.
I am a nobody
like a thing on a shelf.
How can people know me
when I don't even know 
my very own self!?
How can I become a person
when trapped like this?
So helpless am I 
for I am always 
used by the world,
when I myself 
can make little use of it.
So poor am I that 
I own little more than 
my name and thoughts
and yet for all that 
my mind is cluttered up 
with all sorts of things.
Like a graveyard is my past
for so buried within am I 
that through such thought
I am left helpless and stuck.
No selfless enfreeing love
was ever shown to me,
no being ever showed 
their inner being to me,
for I am a nobody,
like a thing on a shelf
for nobody loves me,
when I can love no one,
including myself,
still I cannot learn to see 
how to love in freedom
my own selfless reality".

[19] The Seasons 
(Four Poems Originally Set As A Song Cycle But The Music For Three Of The Songs Lost)

1. Autumn (13/11/71)

O autumn leaf thou floatest free
guided only by the moving wind
in thy travels I envy thee
and yet a branch had once thee pinned.

If only I were a small leaf
that could wander free as the air
across countrysides, seas and reefs
unrestricted without a care.

My heart could then be far away 
in unseen lands of joy and peace
where heart and mind could think all day,
O how I long for such release!

In whole universes of thought
could I begin to move about
and ways of truth could then be sought
with which to free the mind from doubt.

To death is thy journey now sent
O autumn leaf thy days are few,
all scattered at wind's enjoyment,
many shades of every hue.

O float away O leafy boat
and sail the blueness of the sky
for when the wind forgets its throat
thou shalt carpet the ground and die.

2. Winter (23/12/71)

Although the scene be of these dismal forms
accept the winter season's winds and storms
for what beauty would there be then to find
when natures rests and hides its living mind.

Athink while elements rush past and hurl
way out above the rugged bays and coasts,
wait while the winds and darkened clouds to swirl
for they shall cease before flowers unfurl.

No summer would without a winter peak,
a winter comes and a winter passes
and they that pass as fit can summer seek
for each season sorts out the strong and weak.

Seaward the storm begins, waves thrashing rocks,
the land becomes wet as the rain now knocks
and while great lightning fires dart out and spear
thunder bellows and claps the shaken air.

So like a great wheel the seasons revolve
with autumn then winter to dissolve,
with spring greeness, summer's fire this cycle
proceeds until the circle is broken
while found in each all seasons a token.

3. Spring (1971)

O heart don't cry,
O mind don't sigh
the day grows light.
O wake O night,
O wake O sun
and gently wash away the season's gloom
and dry thy hidden despairing tears
for it is spring
and now sadness should be nowhere seen.
O wake O winter's mind of saddened plight,
the grass is green, 
the trees are seen
with blossoms bright
while day birds sing 
the end of night.

O clouds don't mourn,
O wind don't warn
your time has come
to now make fast 
all nature's joy,
to peacefully becalm our troubled times
and clear all disturbed and angered thoughts
for it is spring
when now nature wakes its inward life.
O seek and see the way that all things last,
when times go fast,
with things to past
so rise O calm
and it let spread
to be my balm.

4. Summer (1971-72)

Through these summer peaks of delight and play
when autumn nears all gently slips away
for each season is without perfection
bound to suffer out the year's election.
So extreme is each season and its change
that rare are the days forever so strange
when weather's extremes merge and fade in day
to mix one morn with eve and peaceful stay.

A gladness is this season's second name
and despair a third when no rain there came
but in this fair land of cool streams about
amid all this green I here can see no drought.
Now air is fresh and scented in delights
and mixed in sweetest song that life recites
for what great joy is such a season's fame
to this half unknowing our hopes 'ever aim.

Drifting butterflies dream of love and flight,
ten thousand insects hum all day and night,
softly the birds sing from the trees hither,
while the young grow old, old relax, rivers
flow from small streams like branches on trees,
the grass wavers like misty smoke in the breeze,
flowers open and smile to the falling light,
such warmth to the skin, such joy to the sight!

O what joy, O what great joy that there be,
in the air and in the sky and the sea,
on the land and ev'ry where, here and there
for what great joy appears; so much, so rare!
O what joy, O what great joy that there be,
in the air and in the sky and the sea,
on the land and ev'ry where, here and there
for what great joy appears; so far, so near!

[20] This Is My Secret Poem (1970's)

	This is my secret poem,
I promise not to swear, 
at least not out aloud,
but damm it I'll write what I please!
This grey day is how I feel,
misty clouds enshroud my
thoughts of happier summer days,
alas, the sun shine's on forever.
Who is the better poet now, 
and who does not know how?!
"In the autumn showers
the rain drips off the flowers...
Finding tender features
facing the elements,
sheltering small insects
among its filaments.
Designed for the passing day,
resigned for better weather,
letting those leafy tears fall,
in falling, fade away..."

[21] Twigs Floating Upstream (10/12/69)

A willow branch draws water
among a grove
lost peacefully at rest,
yet all this stillness 
confuses me!
One river of rapids,
whirlpools in motion,
twigs floating upstream,
yet all this motion
confuses me!
I stare at the river
and the river stops,
I look hard at the trees
and the trees swirl into motion
and float away into the gravel.
All this confuses me 
while I stand here 
stick in hand,
thinking and dreaming,
becoming, ceasing...

[22] Mistress Bess - In Remembrance Of My Pussy Cat Pandora Elizabeth One-Eye Who Died In 1976 (10/9/75)

God bless ourness,
careless I press,
caress her dress,
I meet kindness 
with mistress Bess.

[23]Ships In Space (1974?)

Is the sky an ocean
like the sea beneath
with birds like fishes
that swim in its deep
and clouds as passing ripples
with fleeting shadows sped
that dart to and fro from
yonder unknown it is said?

Rising gulls speed upwards
chasing plaintive airs,
racing like thoughts in 
this blue dome up there,
a wide horizon span
bends beneath like a bow
shooting back into space
all things that come and go.

[24] Shock (28/6/70)

The shock can drive 
the sane insane and insane sane.
Be shocked you people of the world
for sex drives you from the child,
and love guides you to the parent
and faith sends you to the Godhead
and there to love all life as one.
From faith bliss shocks you to the truth,
be shocked but do not fear
for things can deceive and imprison you.
The mirage is drunk by the fool,
form is without true substance like foam,
the lightest brick will still
fall through the thickest cloud.
Things can be said but meant to mean the opposite,
look at yourself for you are not what you seem!
I tell you God is meant to die,
may shocks widen your views,
deepen your many insights
for misconceptions can kill as well as free.
Let misfortune gladden you,
turn it into a source of great joy
fear not the living paradox, accept it,
let it widen your insights on the way!

[25] Rigid People (A Fragment - 1970's)

Rigid people you waste my time,
you forever try to mindlessly bend others
but never unbend and free yourselves.
Bent double like a bar of steel
that never bends back, stuck where it stays,
I find all you rigid people
trapped in empty posturing, you hide 
behind all those false self-made images
that seem to me to be like concrete ghosts,
ever brittle, ever ready to snap and shatter,
buttressed up by fearful fears.
There I see you clinging on blindly 
to yourselves like one hand holding 
onto the other forever more tightly.
O smell the clean over soap washed people
as they pass like scented tv ads.,
all reconditioned in their body fresheners,
have you no inner substance,
no longed for humanity to tear away
the tired old rituals that mass produce 
the same old public faces.
Speak, speak, please speak, 
have you no open voice of your own,
no inner conscience to escape 
our commercial market place stereotypes.
Alas, few put freedom into their speech,
replacing thoughts with monologues
pinched from the living dead as they
float about us, alas, alas,
more often than not, alas,
being all those mirrored images 
of ourselves!

[26] In The Oneness Of All Such Things (4/10/69)

I see a butterfly
or does the butterfly see me?
I look down into the pool
and see a world beneath,
or does this world see me?
Do the clouds pass beneath my feet 
when my head is looking down
or does my head pass 
the passing clouds when looking up?
The wind flows through the trees,
the trees flow through the wind,
the flowing surpasses even
the wind and trees,
O what joy it is to be lost
in the oneness of all such things!

[27] The World Its Greatest Peace (5/11/69)

The bamboo sways a little
but never breaks.
The grasses waver just a bit
beneath the tree 
struck motionless.
In the wind 
the ripples
then quick,
like a snapping twig,
completely clears.
All movement
is the motion of thought,
all ideas
the spark 
that lights the fire
that destroys 
all things real.
But such a fire in the end 
cannot compete
even in its derivation
to the greatest depth
of sky and sea,
the mind its clearest vision,
the world its greatest peace.

[28] The Candle (28/6/70)

Seek light and the way is lit.
Enclosed in a locked room
the light of a single candle
can light up all within.
When the wasted candle
seems to die
the flame when nowhere
can burn on forever?
But the Buddha told us
to where the dying flame will go
does not fit the question.
No analogy then to nirvana
other than the ceasing of desire -
that thirst continuing becoming.
Will the end of ignorance
open the window 
to the brilliant rays
of an endless wisdom,
like opening up 
the endarkened room,
death visited,
flooding it with a greater light
yet leaving everything
within as it was
and still remains?
Rethink your thoughts
before you kill again
what precious jewel of insight
you might possess,
that precious possession
that lets intuition tell us
that we know well this room,
this classroom prison,
this house of earthly delight
that reflects palely
our heavenly home.
Why bother with candles
when we have the sun and moon
and all the many stars 
to many to name but few?
But why then bother
with all these natural lights
when the light of the mind itself 
can see the even greater.
But why then even waste 
time over the thought of this
when you can drink 
the nectar of life
in any proffered cup of tea!

[29] The River (23/4/70-30/5/70)

A symphony in light and sound
and the smell of damp grass, gorse and wood.
Encompassing all things at the same time I look,
into the pool, its shiny surface, sky and trees.
Down into the world about I watch, fixed,
the surface disappears and with it the sky, 
the grassy bank disappears and with it all sense of time,
the gravel fades away within the water
and in a flash all thoughts, all things are gone.

A flash and there the fool must jump
before life's cliff at the river bending.
With shock the mind becomes all wet,
I think while yet wetness was there before,
water drinking water becoming as such,
a drink and the water swallows itself
before first sip, a thirst and now a taste
in the purest joy and peacefully
I let the wetness drop and slip away.

Out there on the water the fantails fly
chasing shadows, in reflection themselves.
A sky and three worlds in water merge 
and into it flicker some ten thousand lights.
I look again and golden trees appear
and here alight and overlay beneath
the watered surface these still stones and weeds.

There just above this treasured sight ripples
move about as if clouds upon a sky,
and like the wind the river moves down from
mountains to sea for reasons barely seen.
The sun from horizon to horizon
in mountains ascends and then through the valleys
to yonder blue heavens above helps those
clouds to arise, dissolve and wash the earth.

[30] The Gravel Path (28/6/70)

The clearing of gravel,
the banging of wooden doors
and my mind openly reverberating 
to the wooden sound
going out to nowhere,
going up to myself, 
twenty feet above the rake.
The gravel is smoothed
while the dust is settling,
a long noiseless peace 
and yet so short and quick
bangs about again -
the dust swirls around
only to settle once more
on the smooth gravel path
to the banging of the door.

[31] That One Thing Beyond Thing (1/4/69)

The trunk and main branches
have smaller branches
and these are attached
like the leaves, and on some trees,
the flower and seeds.
Break one branch from a tree
and place it upon the ground
from whence it arose.
Thus in the end does on that
one ground everything arise
for everything is inseparable 
and nothing in truth is where?!
Here I see no one tree
but soon I hope
that one thing beyond thing.

[32] The Perfect Person (28/6/70)

A beautiful lake
lying in the wooded hollow,
a cloudless blue sky
lying over the rising hills,
a steep soaring mountain 
held up to the snow,
a perfect person is they who loves
more than this worldly show.

[33] The Butterfly (21/3/70)

The butterfly opens its wings
while the whole world dreams.
In the smallest drop,
in the grain of sand,
in the fleck of cloud,
the reality of life 
is an illusion.
Thick clouds
glide and part
and the moon slips into the water
and falls downward
and sinks even further
into the muddy depths.
The sun burns amid the fire ,
ten thousand colours,
three in one
all issue from the numberless.
Out there a shaft of light,
behold, a vision of beauty
beyond the beautiful,
highest than the highest,
an unending peace 
without a beginning.
In nature there is no real pleasure
and there is no real pain
only an illusion of suffering.
In nature there is only
its divine nature - 
like a gentle dream
that wanders down to the sea.

[34] The Bush (In Three Sections) (1967)

1. Evening

Tui sits and sings,
fish sleep,
dragon flies hover,
plants creep
the sun sets.

Wet green bush fades,
insects,
birds and plants just drowse,
a deer treks,
home to rest.

The dark blanket falls,
owls cry,
on stark tree tops glare,
a sky, 
stars unveil.

Thin clouds glide and part,
bush drips,
falls softly down slopes,
time trips,
night draws on.

2. The Morning

Thick slopes wait, time waits,
still air,
the sky is silent,
dawn's near,
mist thickens.

Hill tops sparkle green,
valley
is mist enshrouded,
birds flee,
all's awake.

Warmth touches the bush,
branches creek,
insects chirp, birds sing,
pigs shriek,
the mist melts.

The owl sleeps hidden,
birds wing,
a deer slowly roams,
sniffing
fresh green shoots.

3. A Little Lake

A small lake wavers
amid ferns,
banks are dark and still,
leaf turns,
dropping in.

The tree ferns dripping,
just stand,
a fantail appears,
tail fanned
disappears.

The creepers cover,
fronds lie,
a bush of colour,
Kowhai
in yellow.

A black eel twists past,
flies flit,
among the weeds fish
just fit,
the banks - mud.

[35] The Seal Near Where We Dived (20/3/76)

O lonely seal upon a wave
you waft away the day
there so happy on your back, half asleep,
so contented with your head held high.
What is there that could worry you 
as you flop together those fins
and gently sway.

[36] God Is Both Formless And Personal (A Fragment 1970's)

I believe that God is both formless
and yet personal,
to oppose one you must include the other.
A beautiful jewel is only perceived 
from the outside but its substance 
can only be known inwardly.
Become that jewel and 
you will come to know true value
more treasured than all treasure!
God is One and Many,
immanent and transcendent to all reality
yet structured by the same.
There in the highest,
there in the lowest of the low,
by any path the Divine can come to be known
as that already known.
When you go forward something 
will go backwards, forwards and backwards
is nothing when added together.
Thus it can be said from nothing 
something can be produced,
for nothing and something
forever complement each other,
form One - the Other.

[37] My Retreat For Eleven Days In 1972?

Below sheltered in a mountain's fold
a pleasant place despite the cold,
with aging pine-like trees that care
for fire and guard this private lair.
Water runs of the steep slopes to spill,
to pass near-by below so still
to the inlet's tidal to and fro
moved by the moon up there aglow.

A sad place to see I declare
for what will come of this house here,
that vandals might come to wreck it,
or in slower death to fall bit 
by bit, O weather will you win 
with rain to wear the roofing tin
and mould and winds to meet in squalls
its slightly seaward tilting walls?

[38] A Free Poem (1981?)

On my couch, forlorn, I wait with no good reason
but the merest possibility.
Each passing car seems to herald thee my love,
the night passes me by 
with each lonely moment unshared.

I grow weary, the thought 
that I shall see thee not
leaves me too sad to feel such despair.

Sleep is like an open curtain to our dreams,
who knows how well we meet in that hour.

A new day had woken when I awoke with thee,
a moment of joy is shared in tender touching,
a swift kiss seals our silent pact of love, timeless, 
before the tide of day again flies thee far away.

[39] Haiku (1-2 13/11/87, 3-12 29/4/88)

Ranks of people move,
black and white now intermix,
time to say checkmate.

Many people make money,
one's loss another's profit,
the fortunate few.

The distant mountain,
humble soil beneath one's feet,
the river washed rocks.

Books are to be read,
like people and their motives,
known by their libraries.

One television,
the short-sighted need glasses,
for this "far seeing".

A drop of water,
forming a lake of sadness,
tear drop by tear drop.

A second unheard,
minutes pass on unnoticed,
but hours are sounded.

Greater lustfulness,
that lust that lusts after lust,
first passion then lust.

One black cup of tea,
a simple delight forgets,
taken through labour.

The straight forward path,
one round about objective,
never realized.

Metaphor informs,
through virtual analogy,
like the hand and glove.

Time is straight forward,
recurrent patterns reform,
moment by moment.

Supplement To Book I - 

Early Poems, Miniature Poems and Fragments

Earliest Poems

[40] The Ghostly battle (1961 or 62?)

With eyes as big as saucers,
frightened as a sheep,
I watched the dead
while all were asleep.

They rode on gleaming horses,
riding all the way,
up and over hedges 
as if by day.

And glowing in the dark
from their ghostly light
the soldiers travelled on
in the middle of the night.

Onward they rode 
to re-enact this strife
for again they would die 
from pistol and knife.

And going into the forest 
of birch and trees
the horses trample on
from the window one sees.

Then out on the other side
from the forest dim
they now travel up the slope
to the coming rim.

And to a gallop
to the enemy near
on the yonder hill
for their king they cheer.

Then rushing like the wind
as a black cat snarls
they rush on past 
to defend their Charles.

And spurring their horses
they thundered on quick,
the other side following, 
the dead making me sick.

The battle roared on
upon this field,
the dead dropping quick
as if cards were dealed.

And when the battle ceased
with one last roar
the lights went out 
to come on no more.

But perhaps on this day
at the same time next year
the soldiers will again come 
and do battle here?

[41] The Last Weeks Of Term (1966)

On, ever on, eternity this lesson is wrought
like rolled steel tempered and taught,
suspended on one chair grey and cold
like the adviser, angry and old.

I wonder what object that is, or is it the subject,
what language is it then this tongue much wrecked?
Verbs, written answers neat and wrong,
answers sung to an infinite song.

A sound rings through glass and walls,
signifying and end to a start it calls.
Tired life awakens, vibrates and clatters,
like trains at a station noise matters.

Suspended again on one flat board slumped,
figures, questions, over papers humped,
calculations, equations, dynamical motions
up planes, down planes, hopeless commotions.

The sound breaks once more all studious silence
adding one more sound, its time for science.
Down grey passages, we rush and stand,
doors open and shut, incessant chatter banned.

Anchored to stools, papers on wet benches seep,
unbalanced formulae, moles buried deep,
endless titrations in a glassware maze,
while expectant faces wait for those twenty-three days.

[42] The Silvery Stream (1963/64?)

From those silvery peaks
from mountain rain to sea
this silvery stream seeks
like the branches of a tree.

And from those creeks that fill
through this valley of green
this lazy stream doth spill
amid this picturesque scene.

And from the trees the birds are singing
amid animal and insect chorus
and from afar the notes are ringing
blending sweetly for us.

And before, where valley turns to a rolling plain,
where the stream still turns like many snakes
the water makes its hissing aim
towards these pool-like lakes.

And centering one of those pools 
is an island of grass and stone
and from the depths the eel rules
making itself unseen at home.

And by those pools surrounded by a cliff
there is this green bush with yellow blooms
and from its pleasant incense we sniff
we find the gorse bush looms.

And through this flowery maze
past yonder bush and broom
civilization wends its way 
passing with a zoom.

And down this valley past pine stumps
out onto a plain of tireless pace
it turns around its flattened humps
away from its distant race.

And now passing towns and streets,
the railway, houses and odd tree
it goes speeding to a river it meets
and down its swerving course out to sea.

Miniature Poems

[43] Miscellaneous Miniature Poems

1.	A famous painting 
has yet to inspire the same 
picture into life.

Can inspire no life
but can create its own world,
a famous painting.
				(3/8/70)

2. Some people are born
and some people die,
some people walk 
and some people fly.
				(1970's)

3.	Sonorous sky sounds,
blank ground withdraws,
the one tree trembles 
leaves drooping
				(1968)

4.	Cleans its small front legs,
back into air - hind feet,
down and flies away.
				(1968?)

5.	The clouds move onward,
the sun sets,
the mountains and hills 
disappear.

The river surges onward,
the wind blows upstream,
and the trees stand still
amid the noise of rustling leaves.
				(26/11/69)

6.	On one door a notice read...
"This door is not a door",
perhaps there lies the truth of the matter?
				(1970?)

7.	The sun sets as it rises,
it all depends on where you stand.
						(1970?)

8.	The lecturer lectures to themself,
the listener listens to themself.
						(1970?)

9.	When I move
I go nowhere,
going nowhere
I am not bothered 
by getting there.
				(1970?)

10. 	The cool pure air after the mist,
the heavily scented pines,
the crisp crackle of the path underfoot,
the silvery due on fine spider lines.
				(1970's)

11.	The changing of the waves goes on
and yet the roar of the sea never stops.
				(10/11/70)

12.	Walking through a cemetery
watching the changing of the clouds,
the fineness of the sand with 
the waving of the long grass
all teach me a great lesson
while listening to the distant waves.
				(10/11/70)

13.	Lost in the clouds that call
like the sun that swirls in upon us
free as the leaves that fall.
				(1969-71)

14.	The joy of finding myself
and loosing myself is heavenly.
				(1970?)

15.	Things are not perfect,
you are not perfect,
so present imperfection must be accepted.
However remember complete perfection in things 
cannot be achieved
because perfection is only relative
never absolute!
				(1970?)

16.	Here a shell, there a piece of driftwood,
here a rock, there a piece of seaweed,
like a cemetery spread out on the shoreline.
Here a dead bird, there drowned an insect,
here a fish bone, there buried a sponge.
All this array marks out the past watered between
the tides for it is the way with all things 
that there be change, unceasing change.
Such paradox and contradiction everywhere like here 
where there is death on death there lives life beneath.
							(10/1170-13/7/71)

17. The horizon on the ocean
bends like a bow 
and shoots all space
back into the void
				(28/6/70)

18. The bird with two wings flies very well,
the bird with near half the wing flies better,
I with no wing fly everywhere,
when I fly everywhere 
I hope my feet are on the ground.
							(28/6/70)

19. A broom to brush the cobwebs away,
a blank page to stare at,
a dagger to kill myself,
a fire to burn a holy statue
and a woman to lie beside,
be shocked for things can deceive!
							(28/6/70)

20. How do you chop a tree?
You get the tree to chop itself!
How do you get the tree to chop itself?
You tell the tree to chop itself!
How do you get the tree to tell itself?
You just become the tree!
How does one just become the tree?
Easy, for one is forever that tree!
But then how can one chop down oneself?
There, it's solved!
					(1970's)

21. I see nothing
and I see not something,
immersed
I let the waves ripple away.
				(21/3/70)

22. I sit here
and stare
at my inner being
there in the water
going up and
going down.
		(21/3/70)

23. Calm trees in a grove,
contrasting in harmony,
all shapes and colours.
			(21/3/70)

24. All types, all people
to make a world there must be,
the good with the bad.
			(21/3/70)

25. Let us look at 
the heavily laden fruit trees
which sway so heavily
in the sweet scented breeze
but which crack, twist and crash
when the branches snap;
for too much
can trigger too little!
				(1970?)

26. Clouds form on the hills,
over the plain disappear,
in rain, wind and sun.
				(12/1/70)

27. From leaves water drips,
in the wind ten thousand seeds,
then disperse and sow.
				(13/1/70)

28. The mist silhouettes
lower peaks against the sky
like one vast painting.
				(22/1/70)

29. Silence in itself says many things
but many things when spoken
only lead to much trouble.
Then again to be in perfect silence
is to be sadly misunderstood.
					(1970's)

30. Like flowers that bloom
from seeds that bear
the beauty of it comes 
from much tender care.
				(1970's)

31. O beautiful fly
of golden light
you land on a stone
and then fly away.
			(27/12/69)

32. The trees draw water,
water therefore draws trees,
from one - the other!
			(31/12/69)

33. All sheep prefer tracks,
rabbits, men and mice the same.
Better is it to move along old tracks
for then no need is there
to move along or make 
those newer tracks 

which are always
the worst for wear.
			(31/12/69)

34. There in the cold of night,
under the starry sky,
I wonder for in some other
higher comparison might I be thought
less alive or awake 
to them that might be greater?
			(8/4/71)

35. I saw a small black fly
chase a wee red spider
around on my front path.
Together they ran but the 
poor flies legs were no match 
for the little red ones.
Perhaps if spiders can eat flies
flies can eat spiders,
such is natural justice 
found in the paradox!
			(5/1/75)

36. Gorse and sheep make the perfect maze
that pricks and hurts, and daunts and hides
the seeking person's path to find
amid these thorny scented sides.
				(1970's)

37. Some people are born
and some people die,
some people walk 
and some people fly.
			(1970's)

38. Cut things with the handle,
store drinking glasses in water,
see through your stomach,
defecate through your mouth,
for what is one is as well 
the other!
			(1970's)

39. Even the philosopher must eat,
'Tis noble of this man's soul
for him to fathom the depths
of the deepest eating bowl.
			(1970's)

40. (A Poets Criticism Of The Critical) (1969?)

He who writes this writes so
and he who writes not writes no
but to those who can write naught
no inscribed criticism is sought.

41. It is the unseen silent stream that runs on deep 
but ‘tis the shallow brook that keeps us from our sleep.
									(8/1/76)

42. Lost in the clouds that call
like the sun that swirls in upon us
free as the leaves that fall.
				(1969-1971?)

43 The waters blurred in mists subdued
veiling the very essence of tranquil life,
born of hills in pastoral hues,
continual death in ocean views,
changing each hour in this eternal life.
					(1969?)

[44] Ten Small Poems Written On The 4/9/70 Or Thereabouts

1.	A river to cross,
how impossible
when the river and I
are never the same.

2.	I am me,
two am I,
that I am,
all am I,
I and me.
		
3.	Two clouds
float freely,
inseparably
for without the sky
they cease.

4.	I sit on a seat,
the seat sits on the floor,
the floor sits on the earth,
the earth sits in space,
such space sits inside itself,
the earth sits beneath the floor,
the floor sits beneath the chair,
the chair sits beneath me
but what do I sit beneath?

5.	I am greater than a worm
what must be greater than me?!

6.	Going there is coming,
coming here is going,
how can one travel
when there is 
no true coming and going?!

7.	A chair with four legs,
a person with two,
a wall with none,
how many legs has a leg?

8.	One foot in front of the other,
one trips and travels no further.

9.	Four walls enclose a room,
sides enclose a window,
thought encloses its object.

10.	People now rush about,
everyday they go to work,
then at rest they yawn and chatter.

[45] Five Poems Written At The End Of An University Entrance Exam (1968)

1.	I sit on a hill,
here I stare outwards, sitting,
quietly below.

2.	I see my shadow,
"you are so perfect", I say
"why do you not speak".

3.	The uncarved boulder 
has greater beauty when we 
disintegrate it.

4.	Two willow trees stand,
one perfect forest of thought,
I shall chop it down.

5.	The water swishes,
the boulder sits fixed between,
now it floats away.

Book - II A Catalogue Of Meditative Bird Poems

	A catalogue of meditative bird poems, inspired by the music of Olivier Messiaen, being a series of meditations on reality both physical and metaphysical. This collection of poems is also a series or catalogue of studies in poetical form.
	I dedicate this second book of poems to those thinking people who like to read (and write) poetry and who can forgive writers of this art their stumbling and imperfection in their use of language, and who can penetrate through the use and "means" of language to the "end" and hence to the essence of what is being said, thought, implied, felt and seen.
	Meditation is the exercise of mental reflection. In that type of attitude we should find ourselves absorbed in that upon which we reflect and at the same time detached from the same as we equally enter into the ongoing process of reflection itself. This division of our interest allows us to attend upon the detail of that made the subject of our reflection and at the same time be equally attentive to the process of reflection itself. This division of our labours should find the aesthetic rewarding allowing us to reap a greater profit than the mere capital of our interest invested in the first place. From careful management of the process of reflection more is gained than the cost of our initial outlays and we should find a pleasant harvest evoked for us when the soil and seeds and weather of our enterprise are all controlled by a desire for quality. Alas, the reader of these poor fragments of my thoughts must not look too deeply into them for then I fear their exposure will reveal a shallowness in the roots of this particular volume.

					     N.K.Tointon 29/2/76 (9/11/87).

1.[46] The Eagle - A Haiku On The Confinement Of Birth
									(26/11/70)

The eagle alights,
the infinity of grass,
then sees a fraction.

2.[47] The Town Hall Pigeons (6/1/76)

	"Coo, coo", the town hall pigeons sing
beneath the bells as the bells ring.

	...yet below the clock tower's sill
you silently beg from people
upon the grass, your wobbly necks,
and eyes, in trusting tameness plead.
What is within us that effects
us to give for on kindness you feed
and why do you like to beg when
the careless leave you what you need?

	"Coo, coo", the higher pigeons sing
throughout the hours as the hours ring.
"Coo, coo, nice to know you we sing",
beneath the bells as the bells ring.

3.[48] Thinking About What It Would Be Like To Fly (1971?)

	The bird whistles "come on chase me"
and away it went up an over the bush
and down to the river...
But follow I found I couldn't.
Then, in thinking, an inspiration arose -
in thought I could follow and away
I went up and over the bush
and down to the river, to float
up and over the leafless willows
to go soaring out into the blue sky.
O what great joy it is to dissolve
and surpass all such obstacles.

4.[49] The Bell Bird (11/1/76)

	Native forests here climb the coastal hill
past the deserted fields of pine and willow
while sycamores surround the fallen mill
keeping it well hidden from all below.

Up into the bush climbs the traveller.
Why is it, he thinks, that when you journey 
amid such entangled living matter
you feel so refreshed, so inwardly free?

A dense stand of ferns on the forest floor
now clutch the traveller, whisper like leaves.
Above him the timbered trunks climb and soar
echoing in their branches the tired breeze.

In with the myriad of lights from above
clear symphonies of bird songs rise and sound,
many calls, sweet proclamations of love,
then he hears a new song in joy overbound.

O melodious bell bird, queen of all
the birds, now you recite life's sweetest call,
skyward you sing your song like bells that toll,
such music, so uplifting to the soul.

5.[50] The Wood Pigeons (24/2/76)

The wood pigeons swish through the air
and hide among laden plum tree
branches to eat this delicacy.
Green plums are never seen up there
but bright red stand out brilliantly.

6.[Vol II.3] The Swan - A Sonnet To The Distant Beloved
								(15/1/76)
See "Sonnets" Bk.I.3[3].

7.[51] A Family Of Ducks (17/1/76)

	A family of ducks on a shimmering pool
sailing around, enjoying the gentle breezes
the mother and father all careful as they play,
their wee ducklings following on the waters cool.
Amid these tree enshrouded fields this scene pleases 
the spirit that joy is felt that in its own way
one comes to share in the life that is here about
giving meaning to this life, dissolving all doubt.

Why is it that all mothers bother to mother
when not all the fathers bother to do their same?
What is it within us that stirs us to protect
our young when we could so easily them smother
and then go back to enjoy this bodily frame
and all its selfish pleasures our minds could effect?
Why has living nature been led to take this way,
such love, so selfless, I saw on that summer's day?

8.[52] The Gulls (20/1/76)

	Do you still hear the crying of the gulls
O sailors as you go about the day's 
fishing? What strange harmonies these birds sing
yet the calls they make are ever pleasant
to me as I contemplate their strained art.
Neither melodies nor pure notes arise
from their outstretched beaks, nor are there speeches
yet they tell us what they mean without words.
Here they hover above the nets
sailing below the marshy mudstone fields
as darkened shoals of fish swarm upon the seas.
Gliding they imitate the blue ocean - 
swimming in the air like fish in a pond,
rising and falling as if whitened waves,
squawking, screeching like a cloud of banshees
as they come in to snatch their easy prey.
From the cliffs in the long grass where I lie
I can look down hidden upon this scene
now near enough to overhear the men
as their boats come in closer. From the gulls
sweet dissonances mix in with long cries
of deep consonance like liturgies from
the orient as skyward to this dome
they now levitate, a high towered choir
with their unearthly psalms, so much freer 
than I who can only gaze from below. 
Then, like bright diamonds, I watched in awe
as I see their wet feathers glistening
in the sun. O travellers on the wing 
when you look down upon man do you find
just reason beyond their ways. Long you spend
your time in distant lands, ever in song,
like heavens' pilgrims that skyward belong.

9.[53] The Wax Eyes (28/2/76)
                         
	O little birds of waxen eyes
so small and slight in frame how can
such smallness inhabit the skies
and are you here not fed by man
like friends from heaven in disguise?

10.[54] The Dead Bird (1971)

	A small tear
			  drops
from the corner of one eye
for I see a beautiful bird
at my feet
		lifeless
			   like a 
				     stone.
	Saddened for a few moments
I
stand.			  above
	then in the trees
I hear a song,
unceasing, in parts it is sung,
ceaseless to the end of all time...
	Stones and trees and 
all ten thousand things
all weep in life's cheerful song.
	One last look,			    pass over
I sadly leave				  I           a
now thinking of my own death as			 bridge
on my way
	deeper
	 into
	 the
	forest.

11.[55] The Owl (7/1/76)

	Mysterious owl you travel the eerie night
seeking what you want to find, seeing without light,
somewhere up there I know you are looking at me
for I feel your glance, hear your hooting from the tree,
O ghostly one you sense what others cannot sight.

12.[56] The Thrush And The Hen (28/2/76)

	I am useless and see out my 
days O stupid hen, you will die,
you cannot escape, you can't fly.
	All to their own level, O thrush,
I enjoy my existence as such.

13.[57] The Crows (14/2/76) -  A circular poem to be read 
	sentence by sentence, clockwise or anti-clockwise, and 			to be begun at any sentence desired.

Well we watch you
plough your fields each
row upon row.
	   O farmer sow		We are friends, we
	your seeds in each		only keep watch
earthy furrow,				over you to
in their good time			self protect all
  your crops will grow.			ourselves from woe.
 We only eat						Have pity on
that which we need					us cries each crow.
and that is no						 Only when the
crime before God.					master himself
 Do we not show			    		   has gone to sleep
that images 						do we faithful
of men don't scare					servants high on
us coarse birds so					the trees half go
why waste your time					to sleep ourselves.
cries out each crow?				  Beneath the moon
 Now we help thin					we watch it flow
your fields before 					waiting for the
new seedlings show,					sunrise to show,
we are agile 						then later we
and will miss what					again call to 
your kids will throw				sweetly pillow
but don't shoot us 					the dying sun
we be not foe.						as it goes low.
 Are we not your					We announce to company when						you the sunrise
you work your hoe.					and set so that
 Do we not sing						from the sky's glow
and talk to you					you can tell the
and keep you from					coming weather.
getting sleepy,					No trespasser
tired and all slow.					can quietly 
 Like whitened clouds				walk onto yours	our droppings help us				fields without 
 the soil below help.				letting you know.
Gliding above					And in front of 
the fields we show			every storm
	the way the winds			we wail and moan
come in to blow		eerie woe.
 	Before it rains
we tell you so.

14.[58] Two Lovers (1/2/76)

	O loving birds, sweet symbols of the soul,
what lessons in deep love do you here teach
to all the world before time takes its toll?

	You immerse yourselves in love's deep light each
thinking of the other so close in thought
that small hearts beat the same as if to reach...

	the very depths of communion. Now naught 
but death will keep apart, so unworldly
is your love, its joys so nobly sought.

	O constant companions what do you see
in the other that leads you to be so
selfless, so close, ever joyful and free?

15.[59] The Peacocks At The Zoo (6/2/76)

	O beautiful peacocks of this zoo
how free you are as you wander now
on the cool side of this city hill
as they let their gorgeous feathers spill,
enchanted, like a floating flower.

	Daily each leave from the walls of a 
cage, useless like a Taoist sage,
as if noble spirits in habit
this heavenly park without limit
to air their celestial corsage.

	From the depths of darkness the days come
to be welcomed by the waiting few.
Open O cages of our hearts, be
freed O Soul that waits so patiently
and let us be like these peacocks too!

16.[60] The Fantails (1/2/76)

	O friendly fantails of the bush
show me please my way out from here
for I am lost on the forest 
floor so far from the rest I fear.

	Well is this place home for you but
hell now for me, should I then judge
how such a place is to be for
now so tired am I as I trudge?

	You fly so close with your tails fanned,
two dear lovers ever in flight,
reach my outstretched hand if you wish,
each of you have no need for fright.

	Are you here to guide my way for
far have I come and far to go
before my day is done? Above you
see all - so tell me what you know?

17.[61] The Small Bird (1971)

	A small bird chirps at me 
and I chirp back to it,
The small bird chirps twice,
twice I chirp back to it,
the small bird whistles a song
and again I follow suit.

18.[62] The Black Bird (28/2/76)

	O black bird, black as soot, what great
skill you show in this grassy court.
Here you catch worms as quick as thought,
like a machine you hardly wait,
so fast no worm will know its fate.

19.[63] The Unknown Bird (26/2/76)

	O small bird so still and unknown by 
name to me when will you start to move
on this cathedral lawn?

I watch you while I eat my lunch and
you move not nor sigh, motionless you
stand I no not why?

	For what reason beneath these high walls
do you stand tiny statue like stone
that seems not to see?

	I look and I know not if you are
inside or out, so awake you look 
filled with life's bright glow.

	Here upon this hill sheltered from the winds
and rushing people in the midst of
all this there lies stillness.

	I remember now the saying "In 
the centers of power is non power,
there in things art thou".

	The lawn is edged with flowers and I
gaze upon each different rose and go
to each one and sniff.

	Not waking my friend I leave, to him
this poem is penned, meditating
I know not to what end.

20.[62] Feeding The Birds (23/10/69)

	The wind penetrates every corner,
the wind passes many things
where the many things surpass each other.

The net of thought is spread forth,
the catcher is caught
like a fish in a growing pond.

I feed the birds and feel not hungry,
lost in all space the wind rushes past
where the many things surpass each other.

21.[63] Two Poems

To barren islands,
birds are the first to appear,
bringing life with them.

	The grey blanket spreads,
		about fleeting specs.
					which dart,
							and
							 sink												  in 
							    i
							    n
                                       f
							    i
                                       n
							    i
							    t
								y.

22.[66] Bird Calls In The Dark (12/2/76) 	Sections to be arranged as desired and omitted or repeated as wished.

The mournful mist mocks man's way.			 You		Under
									 close	the
Your disembodied bird calls only laugh at us.  in	    disap-
											pear-
									 around	  ing
Only the traveller		Now there is only	 us		trees
who knows his path		silence, where have	 with	the
will find his way.		you gone O wind?	 only  swirling
									 our		mist
As if in a trance we pushed our way through	 consc-  touch-
ever curious, ever alert to what may lie		iousness     es
ahead we fill ourselves with anxious dread.	 to		us
									confront   with
From where does the mist come,			 	us.		its
					to where does it go?			icy
Even        				       			    hands.
the		Each bird call appears to come from all
birds	around us and once begun it seems to cease.
are
subdued	Have		The		O		O sun will you not
by		you		outline	diffuse	resolve this mist
you.		no		of		light	hides you from us?
		form,	birds	from
How		you 		cling	what		Which way is the 
can 		have		to		direction   right way, we here 
we		no		the		do			cannot tell.
grasp	name		trees	you
you		yet		as		come		The mist clouds out
O		you		if		from?	all other objects
mist,	touch   harbingers			but ourselves.
when   everything	of 
we 		with	    death.   The mist rains under the trees.
catch	your
you		breath?	Here a shriek, there a click, there an
you escape?		echoed last note as if our fears are
				orchestrated by the unnatural.

Every step forward is like being reborn.     
							Ever close we 					cling to each other, the only contact with the
Our  			outside world lies with each other.
wet feet
sink into		Our faces brush past		Numb we feel naught, 
the   		the branches of the		without feeling we
bog.				trees.			are caught uncaring!

23.[67] Man's Dream Of Flight (21/2/76)

To be begun at any verse and to be read from there in any direction until all verses have been read then to be finished at the desired adjacent verse.

O God
as I look upwards I
see the birds in the sky
becoming smaller, what
lies beyond appears not?

  Ascending to the skies		   Descending the birds glide
the flock chase plaintive cries	in spirals ever wide
as if thoughts returning			and wider, ever free
they go to Thee and sing?		they travel peacefully?

What inner innate sight
drives man to dream of flight 
O Soul,
what hope, I know not why
leads man to want to fly?

It is good that we fear 		   Why are skies called heaven
falling and death and care	 and why upwards do men 
to spend our time living 	     who pray hopefully sight
outside dreams of flying?	 	as if to be blessed by light?

The thinking question life
and all this worldly strife,
‘tis beyond our power
to answer "what art thou"
O Man?

24.[68] The Hawk (5/1/76)

         hawk
  lonely      circles
The             
				around,
                                    again              more.
					  circles         and       once
									  around
     up
High    you
		stalk,
			espy	
Down				the              glen.
   ward			   ground,    the
	you				     watch
	  soar,
	   a 
		mouse    
	         you        in
                   fork
			           	your
 
				         		claws			
                            
								bound.	 

			    horror
		  then 	         I
	beauty,                     saw - 
Such						         in 
								  both 
									extremes,
								        is
									    each 
									     one 
									      found
										  in 
									      nature's		             										    										law.	

Book III - Odes, Laments and Miscellaneous Latest Poems

	In this third book a small number of slightly longer poems are built around the ideas of a lament or that of an ode. 
	In the construction of an ode I have attempted to return to the times of classical antiquity and produce a poem more in sympathy with those distant times and places. It would appear that an ode was sung by a chorus in their ascending the audience, traversing and descending the same on their way back towards the stage or more central region under normal focus of attention. In this regard these three sub-sections of the ode constitute one verse and in its passage the chorus would repeat, if repetition of their function was again called upon, the same structure with new content (or old). These three sub-sections needn't be identical in form although in the repeated passage of the ode the structure of the verse is repeated.
	In these poems I have attempted to write, in regard to formal matters, with respect to the use of rhyme e.g., in either a generally free manner, strictly, or not at all so ostensively structured. In a more freer use of sound combinations it has struck my ears that under certain conditions, yet to be elicited, that processes of rhyme can be apparently evoked without any exact basis for the same. This illusive phenomenon has intrigued me and in searching for it have let it make an occasional appearance for itself in these twelve poems. I have also adopted other experimental devices, e.g., permanent and ongoing chains of rhyme, the splitting of complex rhymes, similar word repetitions, reversed and changing rhythms, etc., but have adopted overall an attempt to engineer on the surface a less formal approach in the crafting of a poem. 
	To conclude I have written a lament after the style of Oscar Wilde's ballad of Reading Jail. In this poem I trust the use of poetic license will not be mistaken for some form of reality and that this poem is to be misconstrued as merely critical. On the contrary through the simulation of an element of realism it was my hope to evoke both a humorous response and a sympathetic one towards the plight of such a person.
	Hoping my poems meet with at least some small instance of your pleasure and approval.

 					 Noël Tointon, Sydney, 9/4/88.

1.[69] A Fragment From An Ancient Text (21/10/87)

Who gave us to our fathers,
who delivered us from our mothers?
Who illustrated pain 
that we should know suffering?
Who showed us the many 
that we should know the few,
who showed us the few 
that we should know the One?
Who told us history
is given by word of mouth?
Is not the soil of the past
a graveyard filled with 
the dust of inevitable death?
Is it not said that 
real history is as yet unmade
ready to spring forth
from the sweat of our brows
or from lofty reflection
upon the many labours of others
when held in review?
Strike fear in our hearts 
for the untold misery of the masses 
is yet to be unleashed!
Could sorrow be drowned
when the wanton waters of a broken dam 
fall upon the broken land 
of all our mis-spent being?
Thrust upon us fate 
shall stamp itself 
upon our foreheads,
about us shall seep 
the indifference of a silvery mantle,
with impartiality the flood will sweep
all preparation before it
leaving only those 
that can climb to a higher ground!
Gird we our loins 
for such helpless battle,
systematically all activity will be stilled,
all inactivity activated.
In silence find our patient response,
before thy call find 
our impassioned impatience,
in duty perceive our lustful thrusting,
that pushing forward that
in breaking up the ground 
before the planting
might see a bountiful harvest.
But drought and famine,
flood and water-loss
will soon embroil
the very growing center 
of our painful becoming,
creating being
being created,
history knowing
knowing history,
letting a love that loves true loving
love thy truth!
Center our hearts in true embracing,
render our thoughts graceful
with thy presence,
giving us,
delivering us
from the pain of the Other...

2.[70] An Ode To Ecological Sanity (28/10/87)

Rape the bush O callous cousin,
pillage and plunder 
what is our birthright
and not yours!
Sow your seed O heartless fool,
rake in a quick fortune 
but loose your soul
for you squander an infinite richness
which can have no price,
forever more valuable now
that you manage 
and husband its loss.
A wild hill pointed and conical,
almost like a pyramid,
stood on the horizon
proud in virgin bush
but a sheepfaced farmer 
sheared thy southern side 
and left thee bald 
before the cold antarctic winds.
Now on this hill his sheep 
chew the land from thy face 
and leave thee scared,
pock-marked and slumped.
Now only the scattered volcanic rocks 
protect thy top and cap thy head
letting a few dry bracken ferns
pass as hair, a dismal down,
fleeing before the elements.
Colder sheep with thicker wool
now reward your savage hand,
patronize your treeless fields,
rack and ravage 
this spiritual wasteland.
Thankfully the wisdom of the other farmers 
left thee free in sylvan green
on thy northern slopes
leaving us this sad testimony,
in testament to a selfish will,
a thoughtless imposition in power 
imposed upon the landscape,
a small bloody minded sacrifice,
a slipping and slumping slur
with little point
and each day
the lesser in profit.

Alas, the adversity of time
seems to wash away the rain forests,
exit these proud actors too.
Mother nature will soon 
forget how to bear thee,
an onrushing fact 
that leaves us more deeply lost,
self-abandoned,
abandoned without roots.
How can we persist without land,
must we process the soil
like convenience foods -
all fats, starches and sugars,
and artificial chemicals 
that would kill all life
that would try to live off
all such souped up
superficial feed.
Must the workers 
live by this bread alone,
have they no solace in their souls,
no sights to inspire 
their more fruitful labours?

Happy are the valleys 
left with tree shaded streams,
happy the hills with bush-lined tops
that let the mists marry the material,
happy the slopes that can still 
remember the beauty of trees
and can see them in the flesh,
either in groves or in woods,
breathing life-force back into the land.
Preserve the sacred sights
where the heavens meet 
and speak to the earth,
restore the harmonies of the spirit,
let future generations know 
that peace that stems from
an aesthetic presence
that can only persist 
in the self-expression 
of the natural!

3.[71] An Ode To The Great Person (5/11/87)

Thankfully few are those fine persons
who strut upon this puny stage 
with this pretension as to being great
for the truly great person must stride above
such a mediocrity and need not announce to 
the world that they are indeed just that!

Ah, but how these greater lesser mortals
noisily present such a promotion -
a successful P.R. is cleverly sought, 
such brilliance in the art of public relations 
must be displayed before us that even 
puffed up shadows can stake a claim
and place themselves upon 
the throne of publicity and 
bask in the adulation of a press,
which for a change has them able to tell us 
in print what they managed to have reported
no doubt through various tricks of the trade.
Tricks like explicit repetition, 
emphatic implication, invocation 
of a sense of duty no doubt subject
to their idiosyncratic interpretation,
the resurrection of baser emotions
through the skilful misuse of connotations
wherein prejudice over-rules all careful
well thought out reasoning.
But the perils of popularity need a
careful orchestration for the too profane 
will be quickly savaged,
whilst on the other hand the morally ravaged
can restore their tarnished virginity 
in the golden goodness of forgetful time.
A hint of the mysterious 
would also stand them well 
before the test of fickle fashion, 
then a dash of liberal absence 
would preserve them even better.
Never be too popular for 
they will make fun of you 
and take liberties 
unbefitting your short stature.
Remember the famous, and the infamous too,
are well served by the printed press
but best desert the tv barons 
for in that all too visible medium
repetitive interviews badly handled
will make them look 
all too human before us.
Remember before the cameras your wit 
must exceed the reporters 
well trained probing tricks.
Pause a while, the more important you think 
you are the longer you must make them wait,
and always enquire into what motivates 
their excellent questions, 
even question the questions,
forever appeal to your public sense of fair play, 
make propaganda by telling them only 
what you want to tell them in the first place, 
even question the quality of their inquiry
and expose their artful misuse of presuppositions.
Take a deep breath, sound only serious but have it highlighted through a touch of well placed humour.
A good and successful selling of yourself 
will in time invest you in the honours list,
have you in that hall of fame enlisted,
once known your patronized reputation
can then well celebrate its soon descending stardom.
Such a great person is a master of mixed media,
always a highly prized asset to be disposed off
in the right way, a person who can make 
a statement with all the hall-marks of
a genuine ingenuity and a fervently
protested faithfulness will indeed no doubt
travel far in this superficial world.

Thankfully few are those fine persons
who strut upon this puny stage 
with this pretension as to being great
for the great person must effortlessly rise
and stride above such a mediocrity 
and let the world announce this fact to them 
that they are indeed just that, letting 
such a natural accolade pass them by,
quickly returning themselves to all their 
many heroic tasks as they come to hand, 
as they make their way and their home 
in this world.!

4.[72] O Masculine Dream (27/1/88)

O Masculine dream, meaty and well muscled,
manly among men, a man's man
yet no servile servant this athletic lad,
a slave of desire, however,
and a true master of fashion,
a peacock in train heavenly heaven sent,
one heart-throb, the perfect model
who rocks the more real foundations
of my imperfect being being here.

O gentle youth well taught,
tight and biceps proud, bound in 
prideless affectation, sweet with thy kisses,
bountiful with thy tender caresses,
arms like pulsating anacondas,
fingers like feathers whose simple touch
thrills the undone man who
could not submit to nor resist
thy misled ministrations without ecstasy.

O ravaged land still left unspoilt,
sacked by a thousand armies
who thoughtfully spy upon thee, or rather, 
lust after thy newly recarved torso,
who prey upon thy very sight,
magnificent in its knowing innocence,
monumental in its hidden display,
unshaped by the hands of man,
manfully handled by this shapely man.

O man-friend belaboured by lustfulness,
besieged all around thee, bedevilled
by non-divine intervention,
convene this one convention that will 
set thee free, unshackle thy chains,
whip thy emotions, motivate thy devotions,
let unseeing love see thee seeing 
all our relationships being themselves
forever the more masterful.

O immanent man on remand, demand
from me that I keep to thy command,
regard me as thy land, guided by thy hand,
lost in the quick-sand of time's untimely sand,
give us insight to see that we may be quick 
to seize those momentous moments that are meant 
to seize us, free us, freeze us, let that love 
suspend us that love itself may express itself -
O beloved lover, O love loving love,
				being that love loving being!

O stride thee then across those fevered lands
earthbound and quaking, stamp thee then upon 
his breast this notice of thy impending deathful deathlessness, spear thee then this heart of hearts 
that lets unseen love love thee extra well, 
strain thee then upon thy chest this unstrung bow, 
employ thee then from thy quiver, well appointed,
thy arrows well pointed and sink deep
into well chosen flesh sent heavenward.

O sight not the worldly ground nor the sky
but choose the in between, there unseen,
manipulate those machines of siege, O rampant image,
O dream that murders the illusion of life,
O masculine visage behind whose ramparts we find
and leave the senses seduced senseless,
O spark of lust born and lost in desire, kindle those
fond attentions, fondle those thoughts that heavenward
seek such haven - from the heavens to the heavens!

O masculine dream, O perfection of genteel manliness,
more manly than man alone, O inner man,
servant to its soul, bold before thy many tasks,
lost in desire, propelled by desire
that fashions the mastering of ourselves through thee,
an infinite butterfly that must free itself,
open to the light of the day, the warmth of the sun,
help us to find and realize the real foundations of our perfectly presented presently imperfect being being here.

O savage land that sees thee not be sacked, be subject 
to the ten thousand things that spiteful thought espies 
for thee, let lust itself bring thee to wreck and ruin 
that it may profit thee, let time through time hack away at thee from limb to limb, disembowel all thy hesitation before the self-created chasm of fear, magnify thy immanence, recover thy transcendence, champion that revelation that
stands upon the uncarved block of stone that grounds thee
and grinds thee down, polishes thee, before 
					the unshaped face of the heavens!

5.[73]  An Ode To The Importance Of The Art Of Dance
								          (1/3/88)

1.	All hail to music born and lost in divine dance,
let such harmonies honestly entreat and seek
the ongoing resolution of wayward chance,
rise upward O soul and tear asunder those weak
bonds that bind us, prevent us from tasting such trance!

All hail O mighty lovers of earthly delights,
revive sweet movement to unseen spirits and sprites,
inspire music that it may lift itself in flight
and tempt the battle ear of those weary titans high
above us lowly mortals who heavenward sigh.

All hail to the lofty Gods who ne'er cease to hear
the dance of life, the surging of that ceaseless force
that moves the world, distils the hopeful heart in prayer,
restores enchanted being to its rightful source.

2.	All hail to music made greater through song and dance
that moves the soul to exercise this earthbound frame
of ours that through falling forward lumbers along,
such sweet harmonies made more tangible will drain,
reclaim this marshy ground, a better life proclaim.

Beat the drum and music make, conduct the singing,
announce the first dance, hear the music beseeching
an audience with our feet and hands now tapping,
our breath marking out time to a pulse fixed and free
while our measured bodies are left swaying gently.

Everything has its own rhythm, all things natural
postulate themselves with a tidal to and fro
on the stage of the world, behold at the peril
of our soul our failure to follow this lawful flow.

3.	The whole world dances before us, chaos itself
is structured by thee, fluctuates to reorder
the cosmos, recreating a new world of wealth 
every moment in the registered recorder
of this choreographed ballet of vibrant health.

Dance itself is the healing of body and mind,
a restoration of the spirits that rewind
a ravaged soul, sentic salvation in design
that unravels emotional knots that belie
the painted face that re-presents what we deny.

Affective balance is met when we entertain
the sounds of sadness and happiness, love and fear,
anger and frustration, and all other forms of pain,
marking out straight our path homeward in this world here.

4.	Divine Apollo could know thee not, the sweet flutes
of Pan could neither resist thy nimble feet,
the brave Orpheus sounded despair but the fruits 
of love immortalized him, if all the gods meet
with such delights could we forget our deeper roots?

Like a tree swaying in the breeze or leaf fallen
upon the ground the dance of human life swollen
with the insistent force of its own inner call
responds with the sounded movements that quickly draw
the many social dancers moving out onto the floor.

Around they go like autumnal leaves, on the spot
they then stand like tall trees shimmering in the wind,
unholy belief equates dance with death, cannot 
we say in truthful stead they that dance not have sinned.

5.	All hail to the transcendental delights of dance,
sweet forms that spell out explicit all the rituals 
that sacred make those relationships that enhance
our well-being here, and which through courtship reveals
to the earthbound souls of lovers timely romance.

As dancers how we long to hold his enchanted
hand, or the hand of she, in whom well implanted
we find the fruits of the heavens reverberant,
in whose simple touch we find the sure seal that can
link our love with theirs, enfold us within one plan.

No diff'rence then between lovers, family or friends
for the loving bonds of the relationship are 
met and sealed, revealed through the dance that attends
upon the way we meet all such phenomena.

6.	O Beloved, who dances divinely before
this humbled self of mine, am I not now through thee
made the more perfect from thy persistent touch for
through thy dancing onward patiently beside me
thy encouragement maketh me to step more sure.

From the naturalness of dance we learn how apt
is the well seized moment that comes before us, rapt
as we are in this frenzied world that would entrap
us otherwise, for as the free beings we are
should we forget to dance we cease to travel afar.

Hail, all hail to the wide world of dance that uplifts
the lower soul into the arms of a higher force,
hail, all hail to the ways of dance that heal those rifts
that direct all forms of love onto one straight course!

6.[74] The Happy Blackman On The Bus (6/3/88)

The day had been hot
and the late evening 
was now getting quite dark.
Travelling by bus the remnants
of the workers filed on and off
in a dismal succession well rehearsed,
dusty from a week's work,
dirty from a long lost carefulness
in keeping with the herd,
with little true esprit de corps,
in work clothes little washed
except in that sweat
that could not be avoided.
In movement they seem to swagger about
like ship wrecked cowboys,
the women folk having 
already made it home.
The bus stops once more
and the darkest man from all Africa
comes on board and 
moves down the aisle
with three white work mates in tow
following on in his wake.
Here nature has converted cheap coal 
into the toughest of diamonds,
but no rough trade this fine fellow
for a gentle manliness pervades
this unaffected person
along with the self-intoxicated
breath of a perfect physique.

The bus continues its uncertain career
working its way through the timetable,
making its passage towards the city.
Animated, full of life, this dark man 
jokes and laughs among his 
three thin friends,
every thoughtful thought 
is gestured without effort.
No signs of deception here,
all is self apparent 
like an advertisement 
worn on the sleeve,
what you see is what you find,
what you find is what you will get.
Like a refreshing breeze 
I see no dissimulation, no disembodied
diplomatic smoke-screens acted out
for the sake of superficial convention
(lest we offend the 
sensibilities of others
and stand naked before them
in a transparent truthfulness).
Neither be this man naïve
for he savours life from
the very depths of his being,
finding a natural happiness
in the unclouded, unruffled
flow of becoming as it floods
through the moment itself.

The bus comes to his 
self-directed stop
and at the front door 
he stands and waits
for those few moments more
that will let the bus come 
to a jerking halt. 
His thin string singlet lets us see
one jet black torso 
that glistens and sparkles
like ten thousand fireflies
as the lights of the bus 
and passing street aspect 
the many facets of his musculature,
a pure lesson in anatomy
for each new movement reveals 
the workings of another set of folds
and hollows that enfold 
the perfect proportions 
bedded down so well below.
Ever conscious that all eyes
are now laid upon him
a sea of flabby flesh 
sits cast in quieter conversation.
So close before me as if
from the front row seat in a theatre
I now see this noble man 
in passing thought,
a fleeting smile sails 
across his half-licked lips
and I am sure he says to me...
Don't snigger at this black nigger man,
I ain't no dumb ape swinging in a tree,
just a good man of flesh and bone,
a friend who bleeds the same as you, mate.
Down to earth and sure footed
he boldly alights, 
his three friends happy to follow along,
eager for the new adventures of the night
to be found in this well lit town.
In reflection it seems to me
to be one of the ways of the world
that there be they that lead
and they that long to be led...
need to follow that path 
where fine men tread.
The very shadow of such an heroic person
is all light itself 
like a lighthouse ahead,
aimed for but missed,
longed for but never reached,
like gold at the end of
a multi-coloured rainbow,
a promise that beckons 
as it arches before us.
Yet are we not witness to the fact 
that most of us upon this 
unsteady stage of the world
come on, say a few words 
barely ours, hardly heard,
and then take our leave, 
finding our presence to be
generally misunderstood,
finding our exit to be
generally unnoticed.
In our discovery that one moment has 
little inner connection to the next
we may well question 
that absurdity through implication 
of our being able to follow
in the first place,
through any act of will on our part,...
our lines, our heroes, ourselves?!

7.[75] An Ode To The Passing Of Lamentation. (-/3/88)

The mist descends upon the glen,
the lament sounds 
from nowhere in particular,
a student practises
and does well,
small errors in tune
accentuate the suspense 
highlighting the sadness,
the fragility of human life.
Sad is the world when seen 
to bare its breasts,
its bitter tears make 
an insipid milk for they 
that can see no further than
the chaos that predestines
the ruin of all compounded things.
What, we may well ask ourselves,
is the point of all this world,
this fragile facile reality 
that confronts us with 
no demonstration of either 
a short term or a long term memory 
in the very field of human endeavour itself?
O reality that cannot face us 
how can we lament thee
if thy existence is forever naught!

Rationality self destructs 
when cut off from its underlying 
bedrock of irrationality.
Logic itself cannot self-demarcate 
nor identify the world of opposites,
those polarities that unite and move 
that stream of essential flux
that recreates in the discretion 
of each moment the river of being
that courses all about us,
seeking out that one sea 
of intentionality whose horizon
is its own oblivion?
If reality faces its own self-destruction
what face has reality to present us
other the nihilistic mask of its own death,
a hollow concavity of darkest emptiness
whose eyes see not, whose mouth 
neither feeds nor speaks,
a nose that cannot smell its own
putrid, foetid odour of bodily decay.
We hide from ourselves 
such a spectre of reality,
without the decency of burial 
when we desire to penetrate the world
the merest casual look reveals
ever so painfully to us
the simulated pretence of such fake,
a concealment that cannot reveal,
a role without an actor,
a mask without a face beneath it
to animate it, give unto it, 
breath into it those forces that assemble
the living semblance of an enlivened being?
O reality that cannot face us 
how can we lament thee
if thy existence is forever naught!

The whole world stands in a relationship
to itself for otherwise 
there could not be the world -
that-one-world-for-us.
The oneness of this world 
forever reveals the one taste 
it has for itself
from the point of view 
of they that wish to taste,
partake of this meal 
that reality has to offer us.
This essential flavour mirrors
the one taste that lets us 
touch the roots of reality, 
the roots of our own reality.
O reality how can we see thee not
nor face thee not if that thou art,
can we not now lament the passing of
the lamentations of our soul,
seeing now the light of the day 
can we not plant all hope 
that joy may spring forth
and reveal to us that all is never lost
but embeds itself firmly within the all,
forever self-presented as self,
essential purity without the 
segregation of an absolute individuation,
spontaneous without thought of self,
there in the tiniest grain of sand,
there in the smallest drop of water,
fleeting as a cloud,
persistent as the rain 
that floods in upon us 
as in the mightiest of storms,
such sweet tears of joy,
surpassing all sadness...

8.[76] A Lament (-/3/88)

I lament the ways of man,
such persons that think not,
or I dare say think too much
of themselves, embodied 
in their own consciousness.
In such a state they contemplate 
their navels or there abouts,
this equatorial striation 
in material consciousness -
below the symbolic belt, 
perhaps above the belt,
on the belt or beyond the belt
when they think about
this belt placed upon someone else
physically thought and sought after.
I ponder upon such reflection
perceiving such limitation,
do we not see people
better fed but still hungry,
better educated but now
unable to think like robots 
rambling at large, aimless herds
whose hooves trample the tender
saplings of civility.
Which way will the world head
if the edge leads to the return
of another age of barbarism.
Meanings now no longer mean
what they seem to say,
without a rectification of names
how can we communicate
beyond the cross purposes
of an addictive exploitation 
of the one over the other.
Pacify the politicians with a fat budget, 
give poli another cracker,
let them rearrange a few more promises
or give you back a pleasant trifle,
a little of what was yours in the first place
before they take away some more.
Legalized theft knows no bounds
for all parties banquet upon the spoils,
what checks have we when 
they write more cheques
to underlie a system 
that feeds upon itself
like liberal fat upon the fire
well laboured by the winds of an
equal self-righteous pomposity.
No revolutions to be seen here yet
but seven years of plenty
lead to seven years of want 
and if we have no wit 
to exit from such cycles, 
through short term vision,
laid bare must we be
so that leaner times can self-consume
that flabby mass that chokes
at present all but the weeds.
Excess leads on to deficit
as sure as night follows day,
should we not take the bad 
along with the good?
No better be they that press 
upon us the stories of the day,
sensationalism for the sake 
of a greater profit but overlaid
with the garnish that this service
informs us for our own good,
the good of our own society.
Such unadulterated hypocrisy
leaves me breathless as I
lament the way all these forces
build up and display a collective
return worse than the investment.
What hope have we when the 
insidious attitudes perpetrated 
by tv ram down our throats
demands that are better met
in some other country,
or best not at all!
Alas, alas, alas... 
I lament the ways of this world 
and of all those many persons 
bound by the same who know not 
nor care how to free themselves 
and thereby remain upright standing,
touched and yet untouched in its midst,
they who lack that gentle 
transcendental air that puts back more,
restores all of what we take in and
take on in the first place.
Graffiti inscribes itself on temple walls
warning us that they too soon shall fall,
books then become treasured toys 
awaiting them who alone can read them,
ciphers to a past that too oft’ 
repeats itself, 
alas...

9. [77] An Ode To Togetherness (9/4/88)

Together we be
this band of three,
what care have we
of the world as 
arm and arm we
wander the roads
between the fields,
between the villages.
Visit the towns,
share some time together,
have a meal and see
the latest movie,
talk and laugh, maybe
dance a little
before the curtain 
on the stage of night
takes delight in
the recurrence of sleep.
Saying good-bye
with heartfelt kisses
and caresses mixed in 
with shouts of friendly
abuse find we
those sweet embraces 
that leave parted friends
forever united.

On the train I was 
alone without much thought 
when on the right-hand track 
a passing train 
came on past the same way 
and then keeping pace 
in an equal race 
I saw through the window 
one long lost friend.
He waved to me 
and I waved on back, 
so unexpected was 
this joy of meeting we 
both quite forgot 
our separate lots 
and winding down 
the window panes 
sounded our greetings 
across the narrow gap. 
Yes, both of us 
had shifted twice 
and as quick as a shot 
shouted one short simple 
address across 
the receding space 
that was growing 
suddenly between us 
for that second we lost 
our precious alignment, 
the serendipity 
of that passing moment 
in all its stark 
revelation. 
I wondered if he 
had heard me well enough 
to seek me out 
and if we would meet 
each other again, 
be again a band 
all together of friends 
who take the deepest 
of delight in the warmth
of each other's company.

A few weeks later,
after many 
pressing commitments,
on this subject
no longer thought,
again unexpected
the door was knocked,
one doorbell sounded
heralding one
calling comrade,
rejoining one tangled
thread to that long
living rope called
friendship, that world
of relationships
that weaves for us 
the true world of being,
that true world of meaning.
A dinner with 
other friends invited
reseals the flavour,
reveals the unique taste
this relationship 
has for the three of us,
opens out to embrace
those other souls 
also present and thence
through their friends
the entire world
called humanity.
A cultural horizon
that grounds all horizons
is the cultured culture
of all cultures,
such civilization
as we know it
is a tender flower
in the garden of life,
or like a small fish 
of wonderful colour
that must be cooked
through boiling, taken
with the greatest of care.
The three of us say
goodnight to each other
and to all the others,
before their sight
all is said without
the need for words.
Togetherness is
such synchronicity,
like passing trains
that seem to transcend
the passage of movement.
Then the moment 
reveals to us 
what cannot be said
nor needs demonstration,
when heartbeats are set
to move through breath 
to a common beat
allowing thoughts
to pass without effort,
letting self cross
the viscitudes 
of time and space
and pass through causation,
restoring a past
not quite forgot
and opening up the
future freedom of the
proceeding moment.

10. [78] An Ode To Tall Buildings (9/4/88)

O
What inspires 
our upwards sighs
when we sight those tall
church tower spires, 
those tall fortified towers
of chateau or castle,
the minarets of mosques,
the gothic fancies 
of public fantasies,
pointed fingers of the soul
resonant in sentic
sympathies that move
the inner depths of 
the spiritual person,
that transcendent part of us 
both private and public.

Hail to the well designed
building that scrapes the sky
in a careful harmony.
In this world naught
is good or bad in its own right,
the noble building is that 
which is a statement proud,
a pleasant place to be,
a blending with its landscape
yet maintaining a well
preserved sense of identity.
Petty minded are they that
veto this concept itself.
Have they no pride in their city
that all buildings must be 
as cautious as they that fear them.
Let the spirit soar
and stand aloof from the world,
high above the mud that blinds 
the vision of small-town men.
In the right place, on the right site,
a tall building symbolizes the 
aspirations of us all and through
inspiration drives us on to new heights.

Climbing up the mountainside
moving into the mountains blue
the city center still stands in view,
a soaring spacelike city of the future,
a density inhabited by bigger thinkers,
a mole hill of humming enterprises
that encapsulates all moving ambitions,
transporting the good and the bad
to better pastures, preserving the land
in the suburbs for more humble, 
more down to earth, more homely pursuits.
Stone age man sought their caves,
alas, some today have moved no further,
would rather destroy than build,
creep across the face of this planet
like some cancer, with no sense of vision,
what hope have we if we cannot accommodate
all the forces that make this world, fill 
this world with all emotional provisions
that recognize all divisions of the soul.

11. [79] An Ode To The Transcendental Dimension
				       Of The Absolute	(9/4/88)

1.	In reflection we look down upon the world
and with compassion in our souls
transcend the suffering of our ourselves
to comfort care for the welfare of others.

Through reflection there is that reflected upon 
and that process of reflection itself,
like a shining light and that lit up
the mind perceives what it sees and through such,
such insight created within its midst,
the judgment of the moment entertains itself.

Transcendent to the body in its sensation 
and movement, beyond pleasure and pain
and their synthesis in affective mood,
outside conceptual thought and perceptual sight
yet immanent to the subjectivity of all content
the transcendental remains in its absolutivity
compassionate in plight, passionate in flight.

2.	`Not this, not that' states the via negativa,
through such multiple negation the World 
describes itself to the finite mind
and all its manifestations of limitation.

Through the manipulation of essential thought,
the distillation of cognitive content 
boiled down to the bone, through the careful
control of the processes of judgmental neutrality
is born the spontaneity of that insight
searched for, longed for, treasured in its own right.

All Hail to the sense of the transcendental for it 
permeates all levels of life from its perch in life,
creates for us all all semblance of value,
that valuation valuable in itself but no commodity
this common varnish that garnishes and permeates 
the fabric of all our thinking and our acting, giving meaning to the onward flowing of our momentary being.

3.	The transcendental transcends the subjective,
the intersubjective and the objective too through 
the absolutivity of the spirit, thence it knows 
no boundaries between the logical or psychological.

The absolute cannot be thought, but is thought
thinking through itself revealing to the world 
the world itself, neither being pure body nor mind
it can spring into life as the purity of essence,
that collective summation of the monad under review
seeing itself from its own unique point of view.

All hail to the transcendental in all its facets,
a lifeworld of the experiential poised on 
the knife-edge between the tentative material and
the speculative immaterial, that amalgam of 
life and world too meaningful to fully behold,
through analysis let insight come bubbling forth
and wash away all fragmentary fragments of our thought.

4.	The transcendental powers of the mind constitute 
the being of judgment through the process of its becoming,
the collective unification of consciousness
progresses the mind through the resonance of transcendence.

The one world is one, one being becoming one,
a garden for the propagation of eternal life,
through the permeation of essence the essential
flavour of the world has but one taste divine
magnifying itself before the sight of all this 
significance signifies the divinity of this sign.

All hail to the one world of the transcendental,
that special unity unifying all disunity,
that Absolutivity transcendent and immanent to the world
of subjectivity, intersubjectiviity and objectivity,
experiential reality experiencing the reality 
of experience through the limits of critical thought
becoming that goal, being that goal forever sought!

12.[80] The ballad Of An Ex-Psychiatric Patient (3/4/88)

The world is a strange place to call
our home, what hope have we to feel
at ease when the unexpected
itself is the existential
order of the day, a menu
that casts fate as accidental?

The world is a strange place to call
our home, but our home it must be
for that unknown time allotted,
but know transcendence as the key
that reveals through our powers of
critique that one is always free.

	*	*	*	*	*	*

An old wizzen man wanders past
tripping step-wise, one small step per
step struck out in a shuffled walk,
out paced by a fast worldly blur,
an uncaring world sees him not, 
they done up in leather and fur.

A tall fellow thoughtful in looks
whose long life went on downhill from
the age of twenty one, alas,
now on mental medication -
a two edged sword, a pow'rful drug 
called modecate by injection.

Discharged last year he was, he could 
sign his own name in a slow scrawl
forever unsteady like the
rest of his body, feels the wall
for an unmet support, upon
the hard pavement would often fall.

"Look there, another drunk", says one.
"No, just an old tramp grown too old."
But if the truth be truthful had
too much modecate was now doled
out to this unwell man, weakened,
saddened through poor health, bitter cold.

To some lodge or other he was 
sent out, out to this half-way home 
for all gentlemen by the score
but ne'er making it he did roam
the gutters of those streets near that
hospital that gave him his comb.

A mental ward much over worked,
over run by staff, still under
nursed, a haven for sick and old,
files with names but more a number
now shelter by proxy, lit up
by lightening, shaken by thunder.

There one day each week he returns
to roll up his sleeve or just drop 
his trou a little for the nurse
to prod him once more, in the top
of his head his uninvited 
voices fade in and out, then stop.

"They be some of my friends", he states,
"although others create much hell
for me for real troopers they be
putting me under terrible
spells, persistent forces that my
walkman radio seems to quell."

"But my batteries are now flat,
a bit like me, and so this drug
does the same trick I will confess",
and with a noncommittal shrug
of his shoulders walks on, a sure
victim for the wandering thug.

Stiff and shaky he rolls on in,
one simple jab - its time to eat
that one real meal he takes each week
upon a plate, upon a seat,
walking beneath the table side
step, side effect his restless feet.

Harry or is it James, forget
they his first name without their notes,
one occasional figure in 
a meal-time queue who never votes,
a lost pension uncollected,
bonds and shares too, some old banknotes?

Then his father's legacy came
in time and now on the books waits
for someone else to take and spend
for our friend money irritates,
better to do without its use
for too much "the ego inflates."

Worth a fortune, without a cent
he dines on the best food thrown out,
happy to find a pie or cake
in rubbish bins or thereabout,
amid the smells of restaurants,
without a care, without a doubt.

A real old gentleman indeed,
a fine fellow who knows a trick
or two, alert and observant,
a travelling road scholar quick
in wit but slow in foot these days,
too proud to use a waking stick.

Being a person of the past 
some would say a `living treasure',
being a person who has well 
experienced pain and pleasure
more than us who are we to now 
deny some well deserved leisure.

Like a cat he watches us well,
meditating upon human
frailty, "here am I", he says 
to himself, "but for fated whim
I might be thee and thee be I,
would that not be the greatest sin."

"Judge me not by thine own standards,
I am happy still to be he
who well escapes that great rat-race
that so easily seems to mark thee,
detached from attachments I am
immersed forever more deeply."

A real scarecrow could scarcely do
the job better, old baggy pants
fall over just above the shoe,
an old silk tie to red enhance 
his blushing cheeks neatly falls from 
his neck in playful reverence.

A waist coat, or two, re-flesh out
a weary frame, a well cleaned shirt
swapped each night and sink washed, pocket
dried, with under clothes freed from dirt
on the other side in balance
puff him outwards and reassert.

The dux of his father's old school
he was, and cricket captain too,
but the war had come and so he
enlisted in the naval blue, 
then as foreign correspondent
re-saw the world each day anew.

Some love-life as well long ago
but before he could see it out
the onset of his illness came
upon him leaving him without
one more social aspiration
upon this worldly round-about.

"I lost my job, I had to eat
and so became a cook, or more 
an assistant, but being good 
at that one more job went the sure 
way all the others did leave me, 
leaving myself forever poor".

"Then one day a hospital did 
trap me, left me as good as dead
locked behind its high gothic walls,
round and around I daily tread,
bedded down in fine old linen,
ev'ry day a day over-fed".

"And so one wet day an open 
door saw me take off like a shot, 
no cosmic boredom for me there, 
that will not be my helpless lot,
but alas old age has at last
crept up and tied this other knot".

"Mind you I have seen much of this 
fine country through needed respite
in other hospitals, took on
some food and a bed for the night;
tired and hungry, I maybe, still
take my leave with added delight".

"But these days be very diff'rent
for the real price of admission 
is now much more difficult to 
obtain, one's stated confession
must more detailed be, one must now
improve the doctor's decision". 

"To be mad is not good enough,
to even agree with the same
will not open the door to your 
fresh waiting bed, no I must shame
him into thinking I be in 
danger or dangerous in fame".

"The doctor for admissions is
quite a misnomer, assessment
will see on home nine out of ten,
if to a home they can be sent,
you need an old file, schedule too,
some good reasons to sad lament".

"You see the paper work is so 
great that they don't want to see you
unless need be self evident,
then good care sets out to rescue
them for our diff'rences trouble 
more they that run the interview".

"At last some sweet reason prevails,
no longer can legally had
butterfly nets trap us free souls,
no longer can the merely mad 
be herded up for treatment or
be mistreated like prisoners bad"?

"The crowning irony of all 
this is the magistrate who sits 
in upon your fate like some wise
old owl whose training no doubt fits
in with this new role of expert
psychiatrist while he visits".

"Tell them what you will your fate is
sealed if you mention those magic 
words of `death and dying', an urge 
to see an end to it all, sick
as this world may be, be insane,
these words or like should do the trick".

"But don't try to overdo it
for in the morning E.C.T.
will plug you into the nearest 
power supply, quickly remedy
that slow passing depression through
electro convulsive therapy".

"Such a thought has been well known to 
discharge an intending patient
but don't despair medication 
can take on the same assignment,
taken four times a day in that
syrup disguised as peppermint".

"But there does exist one more way
to make a sudden entrance grand,
two ways rolled into one if wished,
first you kick cars, rich cars first hand
without a driver to be seen
but near other witnesses planned".

"Or be naked in a public 
place prominent before the plight
of all and there kick cars as well,
any time in the day or night 
will soon get thee a quick trip to 
the nearest psychiatric site".

"Getting in and getting out is
an art form I have taught to few,
few befriend me, alas, and they
be patients too, but they that do
will find this person has a heart 
of gold and mind honest and true".

"My latest friend was now met three 
years ago, a young man who would 
have been quite like myself when I 
was his age, now seeking some good
medical help, three meals a day 
and bed too, would stay if he could".

"Many nights get to say hello
when I pass this same ward and wave
to him through the high glass windows
of that bleak, empty day-room grave,
an unnamed prison with a big 
television set to enslave".

"A master too of that art of 
controlled medication, enough
tablets taken to keep him there
and stay much the same for through bluff
all the spares find their way into
the food bin, tea or pyjamas cuff".

"A master too of that art of
controlled madness, those specimens
of text-book behaviour well learnt
for that new resident who tends
an open manipulation 
of your illness to better ends".

Never something for nothing had,
a price has to be paid sometime,
all action meets in reaction,
o'er our heads it hovers this prime
law of nature, in kind remet,
scenes in a living pantomime?

The nights grow longer and faster, 
time seems to drag, the weather dulls
shorter days into a cold, grey  
oblivion, mocking the drab gulls
who relish the drizzle, our old 
friend waits whilst hunger self-annuls.

A short temporal break gives him 
some cover to scamper on down 
a winding lane ne'er before seen,
mounds of rotting rubbish now drown
the feet of dead-end walls, leave him
left hopeless like a helpless clown.

Then it pours, he stumbles once more
before he turns, for time is nigh,
into the rotting rubbish falls,
the wind emits one long last sigh,
the sweet rains washing well the corpse,
making clean, this fl'wer beautify.

Here he will rest for two days more,
for the rubbish leaves much later,
his simple presence enshrines this 
humble fact, this we can infer,
that all before the mysteries 
of death shall together enter.

	*	*	*	*	*	*

The world is a strange place to call
our home, what hope have we to feel
at ease when the unexpected
itself is the existential
order of the day, a menu
that casts fate as accidental?

The world is a strange place to call
our home, but our home it must be
for that unknown time allotted,
but know `transcendence' as the key
that reveals through our powers of
critique that one is always free!