Shape without form, shade without colour;
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom
Remember us – if at all – not as lost
violent souls but only
As the hollow men
the stuffed men.

T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men, 1925

The shade of trees left
on the ground
in the damp grass.

Speak in the thunder
of the mind.
I listen to the beating of your heart.

Rise to shape what is here
the mould of spring into earth-red mounds.

Alive to bound
the sky is mine
alive my mind
I cry to sigh.

I save the day
your purple rose
in Cairo we shall
roam the streets
of the Kasbah.

A stranger in a strange land
running to stand still.

Forming mind into words
puffs of smoke into thoughts
gin and tonics into kisses
marijuana into erotica.
The fur of the dog
in small moments
of glistening perfection.

The rug woven by silent
acquiescing hands.
Din in the thicket.
A flapping of wings.

Cry as I may
I dare to wonder
Does the thunder think as I do?

Is the taste of berries and skin
as good as it is to me?

Blundering sails along a ragged blue sky.
My words lost in the abyss of purity of feeling.

The sun beats on the old wall.
Apples fall from time to time.

Again the cycle forms
a never-ending ring
that rotates on my finger.

blue jeans and almond eyes
the girl is mine
slender and fast
springing into fire of gait

love as the expression of soul
fire of heart and food of hope
grasping the fruit of taste
crossing the bridge into time
when and how
an expression of the universe
unique and universal

the girl in red enters
slips into the chair
crosses her legs
and chuckles

drops of pink
small containers of liquid
emotion
starbursts of taste
in the palate of the mind

eyes that behold beauty
seek the crystal orange
to hold the body of the child
the face of the angel

golden cherubs on the sculpted inlaid columns
climbing the steps of the perspectival illusion
of depth and of center
—cathedral of time—
the theater where the action takes the world
where words no longer count
and neither their opposites
thoughts

tubes of paint spread across
the floor next door to grey tennis shoes
walking in a lit space
paintings in a row
crowding the wall
racing to the door
to exit into existence

springing into shape
before you can say now
the touch of the brush on canvas
where the mind has power of emotion
and its imagination is curbed only by desire

“To love someone enough to forget about yourself even for one moment is to be free”.
J. Winterson, The Passion.

Antigone speaks:

to laugh and to cry
cooing as doves do

as the wind and the rain
rattle the shell around my mind
the husk that is the body around my heart

rocking to and fro
repetition, a motion of conceit
movement, the eternal exchange of energy

molecules burning
created and creating
never more than there was

matter contained in the sphere of earth
gliding kaleidoscopic
the swaying shadows reaching the ground
the mountain and back.

puncturing the bubble
to the open world:

where car bombs explode
in ruins and temples
where people fight hope and pray
where others pay with plastic cards
for objects of whimsical desire
to feed boredom
and the laziness of unsettled minds

alive she cried
on top of the mount to the people below
and to the valleys of sound:

reach out
touch the cheek of the child
who stares into the void with lakes of eyes
of innocence and open-ness.

reach out
create the change of mind
of thought, of process

the parasitic system feeding off
thousands of millions of open mouths
toiling to stay alive

reach out
fight with words
with images
with actions

to change the course of the wheel
for the power of the suppressed
for the scythe
the land
the use of energy
for the Power of Man

to men, to women
to children
toiling, groping
reaching, crossing

the parasite feeds off its prey
the chain is reversible

all objects appear closer in the mirror
the fractured stained glass
in which we see darkly
the face of a child
the lesson and the innocence of humility

what you learn is for yourself
and for others
for the force of nature

giving is taking
learning to love

‘In passing a civilization was destroyed…’
(Arundhati Roy)

Antigone exits, Chorus speaks

outspoken
spoke
the spokesman
aloud she cried on the rim of the city wall
screaming so that the people could hear her point

pointing to the top of the tower
the babbling spiral of mankind
the echoing whisper of denial
covering the very evidence of truth

untold
unburied
laden with lies
scraping the bottom of the barrel
with a rusty ladle

open the door to reality
a soap bubble in the mist
reflected with pink and azure
shattering crystal in your face

Cassandra crossing
doves cooing
aloud in the stillness
butterfly wings clapping
to a distant drum

in the flotsam hum-buzz
of western realism
the drowning sensation
of having arrived
and risen to ones’ senses
to an overwhelming feeling
of uncontrollable desire

to slip a sling
past the bridge
to step a stride
past the dragging quicksand
into the singeing fire

to reach the bursting
bubble of life
water and earth
united into a flower
budding and shaping
reaching
into a life unknown

sheltered by fear or desire
stroked by the wind
and the swaying branches
hidden by time
as space widens

I saw the cliffs
the black sand
and the sweltering frothy coastline
in this opening in the forest
led by hippies
the alternative America
rests unheard

the choice to remain silent
a voice unspoken
an act untaken
a decision unmade

we lie in the eternal life of the spirit
our words as rusty tools
lying by the side of the road

but as we learn to sharpen
and whet our tongues
the sound of the scythe will hiss
at the back of the neck
and a stream of consciousness
will flow to accept or fight
for the battle of expression