Visions

a cycle of poems
and transitions,
mostly about trees

Poems written during 1998 and 1999. Some aren't for sharing (or aren't ready for sharing) so you will find gaps in the numbering.
Images are almost all from a recent trip, and do not necessarily bear any relation to the poems that they are near. Several of them are of one particular yew tree -- to which I have no poems, and which really has no connection with anything at all in this poem cycle -- except that I liked it (or it called to me) and talked with it for a long time. Indeed the poems and images have few direct connections, except that the hawthorn near the'maze' poem was indeed physically near the actual maze that I danced around, and that the trees overshadowing standing stones of a circle, by the poem about the necklace, do grow only a few kilometres from where the necklace was found

The first image is of the yew tree that's said to be the oldest tree in Europe, in Fortingall, Scotland. It's in decline, now, the centre is quite rotted away and there is no longer a complete circle of yew left, but several pieces that are growing all from the same root system. The photograph was taken several years ago. (You'll have gathered I rather like yews. For a good article on yew trees, much more sensible that many of the Pagan writings about this, see At the Edge: Old Yews.)

Most of the poems were written in Nova Scotia.

I

tree standing alone on moorland
trunk twisting, I lay hand to bark,
feeling boundaries,
sensing spirit within
brown/gold soft fuzzed
slanting simian brow,
snout below, jaw jutting,
gold eye, profiled
alien questing
'who wakes me now?'

then turning, the broad forehead
unlined eyes, quizzically watching
over high cheekbones,
in puzzled recognition, as
eyes elongate,
face structure blurs, shifting

taking now a human form, plucked
from mind's eye
or soul's imagining

my open eyes see bark, and twisted trunk,
boughs rich with dark green leaves,
few flowers yet fading fast --
another summer's meeting
as petals fall to earth

III

ripples on the water fade
in darkening calm
as calls echo, lake to lake
untraceable, disembodied
high fluting messengers,
heralds of the God
of this place, and here
am I the intruder
as aspen leaves whisper
prayers to the deepening skies.

this day stood the lovers, bright
in sun's eye, rejoicing, who
wept their gladness as they swore
their troth, vows layered in Wyrd's well,
fabric of World's making. Now I sit
to wait for peace that comes not yet
in haunting sounds that call,
over and over, unearthly tones
wavering and dying,
in Kluskap's home.

IV

dust and heat, and city
sounds and smells, and sights,
street corner pigeons peck
for pizza scraps and folk
pass by, this table festive
with laughter, squid and beer
and ice-cream cake, so casual,
so friendly;

Then far above the shrill, thin shrieking,
the upswept beating wings, fierce beak,
suspended swift flight caught in air,
held hovering, while eyes seek prey;
now is the city spread out far below
uptaken, I gaze out, in fleeting glimpse,
beyond the shore, beyond the water,
soul flying free and far;

a word, a laugh, recalls soul's flight:
amid pizza and pigeons, I smile and talk
to greet a friend's birthday

V

a light sweat slicks my skin,
as summer heat settles
in long warm days, humid
dusty air beneath canopied green,
a feast for inch-worms;
ragged leaves shiver, caught
by the small breeze that whispers scented
air across my arms, a moment's
cooling, and I sense this skin
shared by myself and air, awake,
aware, and find myself
new-born, emerging,
vibrant with life and touch,
as I dance in a waking dream

VI

long, slow, warm days
move by, month on month, earth's
turnings, each one
hundred thousand heartbeats
slow aging, counting out
the end of youth,
of passion, love and life
in the sweat of summer's heat
that trickles slow sliding on
arm and brow
as I walk, move and turn,
drive, go on my way,
have my half-hearted being, thin existence,
in a world lessened, smaller,
de-magnified, diminished
half-seen against another place,
landscape of tree and stone
clear water, singing air

so wait I in the half-world, for
heart's death to bring soul's ease

VII

thin fine silver
windblown streaks misting
hair and face,
glancing from wet leaves
to drip and land
lightly on parched earth

so little to fall,
a promise, a whisper
before the heat returns

VIII

last night I danced with the women
to earth's drum beat
bare feet on dust and stone,
brown needles on the thirsty soil;
around, children of earth, small
creatures of the forest, scuttling beetles,
birds, squirrels, web-weavers,
predators and prey, above, within,
beneath deep-rooted trees where met
earth and sky, a turning moment,
dark and bright together, growth and death

as a wolf runs in the forest, and stands
in starlight, and howls her song,
feeling the pulse of earth beneath her feet.

IX

calm lie the waves now, blue within blue
under a deep blue sky, cloudless,
azure paling to the horizon, where
sky meets sea, blue in blue merging
becoming as one

the ospreys circle, wheel and hover
on beating wings, waiting and gazing out
on endless ocean

Njördr, a vow I made
to know you better;
is it you now who sets before me
a sea too wide to cross?
or your sun-bright daughter,
radiant, fair feathered flyer
whose shed tears fall as gold
or amber, on shifting seas?

X

sultry oppressive august heat settles
around, over, through these rooms
where people sit and talk, resolving
another day, another year, the lives
of those who come to them, the meeting
rooms of this retreat where people plan
and file and timetable, discuss their points
as the sweat pools on my arms

outside, a small breeze stirs the heaviness,
lone caterpillar loops a lazy way
upon the grey bark, white-patched, channeled
with flesh-hued crevices, earthenware
stripes upon the oak, deep-cleft, forked
female and male together as one tree
and the brook sings its busy way
lakewards, by maples, oaks, small
rowan seedlings, grey paper-wasps'
nest overhanging on elm branch

as I pause a moment, in my fragmented life,
to breathe the air, rest a while, harmonize
my thoughts, re-create my being

yet a ghost is in the trees, it fills
the singing stream, branches shape
a face, even, grass-hidden, these small
gold flowers of wood-sorrel

peace is not here

XI

I listen to the women
sound and silence, movement
slow or swift, to stillness turned
playing with play, words
become toys tossed
one to another, dropped
on the waiting ground,
that echoes whispers

then leaving, see the faces
street-blind, eyes unseeing
women who walk without recognition
and now I lean my back
on rough elm-bark
to wait and watch as words, sounds, spirits
fall on grass
fall to grass
fall
to be trodden by so many feet

XII

rain on windows
and few leaves that lie, gold
green, red, brown, stripped
from their trees by wind's whips
as I walk on wet grass, footsteps
amid the small plants, the last
of summer's flowers among the blades.

cold rain for autumn fare, cold
clamminess of maple
leaves, rain-sodden, that slap
their greetings to unwary passers-by;
green summer's end.

XV

today I saw the old woman
my past and future
new remembered
in her forgetting

alone and lonely
in a strange place, bleak
with its busy staff,
this institution, so concerned
with friendiness, so unaware
of isolation, of the loneliness
that only remembered
music will relieve
and the thirst for people,
human knowledge, contact
for those who mattered
so long before
now immobile, yet
speaking memory
of events, of action,
doing, agency,
and tears burn
behind my eyes

today I saw
my self

XVI

black, gleaming
strand after strand
coal and jet
beaded, strung and restrung
in beauty, opulence
you wait now, silent
whose tale do you hold?

woman or man, or passed
through the generations
one to another, to lie
upon their shoulders
over their breasts,
above their beating hearts

four thousand years, and now
you lie, encased, lights
upon you, as people
pass, exclaim, move
on, and do not
wait
to know your wonder,
to heed your tale

(Poltalloch necklace, ~2300-1800 BCE, Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh)

XVII

cold blue sky over bare
branches, and the bright
birch trunks, white between
pines and spruce,
and sparse snow like powdered
sugar lies on frozen
earth
as crows and gulls stoop and wheel,
and call, and the sun, blazing,
declines towards sunset, on
this day, the last of the
year
while a world waits in frozen
wonder, as the cold wind
gusts among branches
that sway to mark
its passing

what lies beyond?

I stand at the turn of the year,
janus, gazing before,
behind,
bearing all my days
that made me
who I am
to take this step
into the unknown

XVIII

hair snarled, I stretch,
turn, lift my arms
high overhead, easing
cramped back and breathing
deeply of crisp
air with the scents of
garlic, leaves crushed by my
feet as I pull, rake,
gather the leaves of least year's
falling, heap and carry,
another offering on the pile
of memories that will decay
to earth.

beside the tree, I touch, wait,
closing eyes to see within,
without, into the heart
of being, the red, bright
velvet softness of flame
that warms this new spring
with life that, darkening resolves into
eye, eyes, face coalescing into
image, scene to one who sits
to wait for images

seeress, what do you see?

XX

where now?
to walk on, the path lined
with fires, passions
unsought, in this body
aging, to a time without
desire, without
touch or warmth,
where there is only
memory
and music, and the knowledge
of what lies beyond
ecstasy of being,
passion and despair,
and silence.

XXI

stepping
bare feet on earth, chalk
flint hard-edged
slowly, with concentration
grace of movement
focused intent
a slow dance of
meaning
in channels turf-
cut, old
older
oldest were here three
thousand years before this
maze/path
stepping
focus
intent
dancing wolf-woman
bare feet on earth, chalk
flint sharp-edged
whirling, spinning
wordless thought clearing
chanted song
stepping wolf-dance
focused intensity
question and answer
desire and demand
lightness and darkness
singing
air
önd
Woden

XXIII

a flurry of wings to the scattered crumbs
feathers and calling
and I am taken back to childhood when I stood,
bearing bird-food in a tin
to feed the doves at Nelson's column
entranced by wings, and flurried
flusterings, pushings and claimings;
pleasure in childhood was simply gained.
here a tiny child runs to the ducks
calling, pleasure-tranced
as the bread-giver moves on, scattering
crumbs across paving, grass and river
and all the noisy flutter passes by

I will become an old woman, and sit
in the park
to watch the children feed the birds.

XXIV

how will my journey change me? I asked
the seeress, and she replied,
sitting on Hlidskjalf:
'I cannot see beyond the trees
but they are calling you,
only the trees.'

XXV

bird calls, flutings, and a swan
white on the river, as I sit,
bags packed, to take my last farewells
of Woden's country
here where the trees cluster
to the water, and a duck
swims, followed by her brood.

I will walk on, in greeting and leavetaking.
Where I live now, trees speak
with different voices;
yet here they call to me,
beech and ash and hawthorn
rowan, yew, tall
sycamore;
their voices say 'remain'.

along the path, by river
twining bindweeds, comfrey
and clover, nettle, sorrel
plantains, and a drift of yellow
flowers unknown;
grey cygnets, downy amid
the noisy ducks
alders here, and willow
as I walk on, past elder
through the sycamores, aspen
and now the air is fragrant
with scents of buddleia, privet, and small
roses in the hedgeway by the road

Woden, you set before your children
a path twisted, convoluted
as roots of the great beech;
steep
yet lined with trees.

XXVII

the great tree stands:
my arms reach not around
for I cannot encompass
this age
this knowledge
wisdom, standing
tall, taller
as I sit on these twisting
roots, face pressed to the
bark

and the tree
tells of those others through the years
who bring their offerings
stories, tears
or laughter, voices,

silence

as they sit to wait for rest.

XXXI

here the ground is hard, earth sun-
baked, dried with grasses
that yet cling to life,
small trees, bushes with
deep roots, growing
as I planted, their leaves
turning, turning in the wind

why did I not realise
that time's changes do not touch
the soul, that gilded shapes
of clouds remain the stuff
of visions, that the trees'
singing stirs my heart, the leaves
that spring fresh, green, to blaze
their colour on the autumn breeze?

XXXII

swirling spirals colour wheeling whirl
within, beyond
the way the circle turns
and out, in opposition
bright flowers, expanding
exploding music of
rhythmic drumbeat
soul/self soaring
in melody above, that
dances, turns, spins
to rest again

as my mind
returns, new-focused, reflecting:
why do I write, why
sing, why take this
walk downtown, to
see the crowds, to hear
sounds, drum riffs,
blues band? why sense
chattering folks around
to know I am
alone;
yet seek connection
of mind, spirit, communication
communion with merely even one
other who knows, sees
hears these swirling patterns, blue
on green that is
essence of greenness?

and feel my self bare,
exposed, a device for
recording, a means to scan
the air, the sounds, and
all the manifold dimensions
of this place, sending
feelers of astral stuff, tendrils
sensing what is and what
is not
no one
until I blend again
with sound, this music
that carries me
solely into
psychedelic visions, coloured
sound, ecstasy beyond
enchantment, to last
such a little time

XXXIII

echo
sound
word dense
packed meaning endeavour
write again
spirit-calling
ancestors to construct
today another
world, way of being
in time and out of
time wandering
social meeting, joinings
tears waiting
remembrance
meaning
self in other
self, creation
ongoing accomplishment of being
in relation to that world
discourse construction
phrases in mind, haunting
perception that echoes
sound, image,
vision of words,
dense-packed accomplishment of
meaning
in time and out of
time, place here
now
without
you

XXXV

gleaming of white, bark that
peels to reveal brown-grey roughness
to contrast with this smooth glimmer,
shielded strength as I lean my
staff against trunk, and sit below
in meditation, seeking, asking, until sounds
of road and traffic blur to distant haze,
shouts of playing children fall away.
In meditative silence, then I greet
you, white lady, birch queen, your four
trunks grown from deep
roots that tap the wisdom of earth.

You will remain here, and I shall go
leaving a life behind to seek a new
beginning, quest for self, re-shaping
the unknown to known, stepping into dark
from this bright October sun that warms
my being, lends its strength, gives light
to carry onward.

Sorrow and gladness now I lay before you;
then leaning forward, touch fingers to
bark, eyes closed to see this small, white
creature, snout questing, tree-fylgja;
transformed, lady into beast with cream-white fur,
silent, round eyes bright, intent, watching
my passage as the tunnel whirls before me, and my soul
enters its path within tree-growth, and stands,
branches extended, with browning leaves,
in the warm autumn sun, as dimly heard
the children's voices echo

and all around I feel
life of the tree, sap still running,
small insects moving in the bark, and lichen
a community that grows as one.

A moment or an age, and I return,
drawn by the day, the hour, my body's hunger,
human need: the guardian sniffs my hair and face.
I breath, relax, give my small offering, stand
and stretch, take up my staff, salute this fair
birch-sister, turn to go.

In autumn sun, the children's voices echo.

XXXVI

three ravens wait on wet grass,
then rise to fly before, on blue-glossed wings
as I cross this fading green-ness.
one flies along the path and cries, landing
to perch on stripped birch branches:
leaves all have fallen as I walk below.
path steepens, winding to sea-strand,
stone beach, pebbles, boulders, earth cliff
tree-crowned; slow wing beats as heron
flies, legs trailing, out across this bay;
all while above, far-turning, wheeling, raptor
circles, and gulls fly white-winged, dazzling
in sunlight that warms beach, leaves, trees,
and I who watch, embedded in this scene
that is becoming part of my own knowing
of life, death, living transformance,
accomplishment of self in change,
of movement, turning, walking onward:
a new path
a new future.

(on the beach at Digby, October 22, 1999)

XXXVII

I stand on the border to look
around, ahead
but not behind
waiting, a frozen moment,
in change and stillness
of white landscape, un-
familiar, untracked by my
feet that move not yet.
a waiting landscape, empty
page to write upon, vellum
tempting virgin, blank screen
can this become known?

return to list of poems

this geoguide is so you don't have a 'popup' in the way of the page.

after all, that wouldn't fit, would be the
ultimate post-modern
insult
to your sensibilities,
gentle reader,
now wouldn't it?

so, let's put it
right at the end.