In my dream
I entered a temple
dimly lit, perfumed, golden.
Among the shadows were many figures.
Seated.
Rooted.
Grounded.
Eyes closed, robes wrapped around them.
They looked like mountains,
more rooted than trees.
And everywhere the dim and golden light:
candle light,
incense burning.
And the statue of the Buddha,
serene,
there and otherwhere.
And the silent figures,
poised like mountains,
each of them deep
within the heartscapes of the mind.
24th December 2001
I drive around, with second sight,
these places I have lived for years;
and jet-skis race where birds took flight
in a double landscape stacked in layers.
These places I have lived for years
where past and present inter-flow
in a double landscape stacked in layers
we make our mark and come and go.
Where past and present inter-flow
new bridges leap from ridge to ridge.
We make our mark and come and go
and buy a new house with an ancient hedge.
New bridges leap from ridge to ridge.
They sell cream teas at the sacred site
and buy a new house with an ancient hedge.
I drive around with second sight.
13th January 2002
A pantoum is a verse form from Indonesia, presumably imported to Europe by the French. It has repeated lines and an optional rhyme scheme. A palimpsest is a manuscript in which old writing has been rubbed out to make way for new.
From trains you see the backs of things,
the working world,
the naked places.
The public view is seen by road
with polished glass
and formal spaces.
From trains you see the washing lines,
the children's toys
and packing cases.
While round the front a business-man
puts a Volvo
through its paces.
From trains you see the loading bays,
trash piled in skips
by men in braces.
The receptionists are on the desk,
those perfect girls
with perfect faces.
Trains slide between the here and there
where real life
interlaces
with spin and image; here you see
exposed to all
the naked spaces.
4th September 2002
(Note, this is still very much a work in progress, to the extent that there should be a fourth stanza, as yet entirely unwritten, and the second stanza is in the process of being entirely redrafted. And then round the loop of reviewing, testing, editing and change again.)
I have two muses. One is strict, precise.
She works by numbers, uses each device
with calm detatchment; dissects the light and shade
of mysteries, clear-eyed and unafraid.
The other muse
is simpler
more direct.
She trusts the silent process,
leaves the heart
and mind
alone,
and captures thought
when
finally
it has to be expressed
in words.
I sometimes feel that perfect structures lie
in the endless choice of words. My muse and I
work line by line and, questioning the truth
forensically, reveal the double proof.
October 2003
All poems copyright © Beth Cargill, 2002 and 2003. All rights reserved.
If you wish to contact the author please email: [email protected]
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