A TENDENCY OF CONCENTRIC RINGS: VIOLIN
I Spun delicately before dawn, God's patient web on the window pane for catching flies draws rings of the seasons' turning wheel across the stem of a tall and flowering tree through gold star-born sap to wooded coagulant, the furrowed bark to touch; so also, the Sun's magma caught within the ore within earth cools to the planet's floating continental crust; so also, sailing outward, the ripple of a leaf at fall onto sombre water dropping, draws concentric spheres into itself, like sound, to melt. Under the gossip of alders by an arched stone bridge, those melting crescents of brief sky glide as boats of mine afloat. Their ripples borne are brief chambers of a mandala catching time. The grain of the wood is a river caught in flow.
II The song of the maple wood was planed and painted with petal on petal coats of varnish, each to each year eroding until by the brook, it heard and played itself. It came from an Italian valley across centuries, to a Devon dingle. Why? Who know why the instrument finds that place to sing? A violin that sleeps without hair or strings upon it vibrates the beloved silent sound and from its velvet case awakes. There is a curved hollow, whose strings have that tendency of concentric rings by wide and questing finger tip touched, to sing. If you live in a Devon dingle the secret life of alder and chestnut tree - (whose rough dark leaves with starlings mimic chatter and crowd the stream) - is rooted in the silent minim like a dew arising. Your roots, awakening pass above and below the lane which rumbles from time to time a truck across the water's song.
III There are roses on my window sill at fall this morning. Rose, around the petal crisp, is rusting and petals drop, soft touch on wood. Wood grain in wood plank flooring polished, and mirroring deep light is the petal of my sight and being, and I can go no further than this unbordered edge of things which cannot repeat. The story of my mind is based on repetition. The art of seeing has no memory, nor anything that ever was not seeing. The grain of the wood is a river caught in flow ...
From Poems of Eclipse 1999
an elder brother
My adventure invites fellow travellers. I am a poet, an artist and a seer. I welcome conversation among the PHILO SOFIA, the lovers of wisdom.
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