A Tendency of Concentric Rings: Violin



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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.

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.




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.

This blog is  a vehicle to promote my published work – The Sacred India Tarot (with Rohit Arya, Yogi Impressions Books) and The Dreamer in the Dream – a collection of short stories (0 Books) – along with many other creations in house.  

I write, illustrate, design and print my books.   Watch this space.