Celtic Radio: Image 17

XVII.
{A.}
(Minerve)
“And have put on the new man who is renewed in knowledge according to the image of Him who created him.” (St. Paul Colossians 3:10)

Poetry---after swimming in cool waters
Past channels of marble boulders,
Through fishwater like a frog.

Dry wind blows the scent of boxwoods through the valley
Cicadas chant like summer monks
And a dry lizard slides so high above the canyon wall.

My method of picture taking is simple ‘reportage’---
Simply describing what I see and hear.
I have no pretensions of rare things or exotic birds,
My perspective is not exalted like the young poet.
I am simply in the middle of the day
And this is what I speak
This I broadcast.
Perhaps you prefer a distant dialect.
I have no sleight of hand
Evenso, when I see the red willow roots
along the edge of the canal dangling in the green stream
I want to sing like a child.

I am not a slender root but have my root within.
I am alive in the root that enlivens me. I am a branch.

To look back on the photos of my youth and realize
It is not me.
I am being recreated from the ground up.
Pure joy follows as I climb my Self step by step
And stone by stone.
My wall is renewing with stones of life.

I have found wings to fly
But the melancholy troubador sings a weary tune
In the ancient tower below.

Passing on to a new day.
Who will I find there?

The young girl’s round breasts delight me
But there is another breast
Another milk for me.
There is another food for another life.
Not a belly
But a temple filled with knowledge.


Little boy sits at a restaurant table smiling, singing and painting pictures.
The parents are too busy talking to notice his art.
The boy is forgotten.
This is not his father but his mother’s new lover.
He is a young artist
Who sings and creates without pause
But they cannot hear
Or know what these pictures mean.
I see and hear him
I am the poet of hidden meanings
Like the boy who realizes that words don’t work
Because the new word he is trying to say
Has no home in this old world.

I know not what else to say,
I have been that child.
This poem is just, pure and honest.

{B.}
Clacking red rocks against green rocks
Rock bridges and rock walls
Clear water over marble channels
In an orange canyon.

I am not really interested in the knowledge or science of nature
Everywhere I find life is its root.
Life is inexplicable.
Life hidden within its source astounds.
I see the face of life
It is the house I seek. ‘

Water plunges along the valley floor
beneath the ancient bridge
endlessly asking:
“Why am I here?”
“For nothing, save the joy you bring to my ear,” I whisper.

“Where am I going?”
“The river bends and disappears into rock. After your long sojourn you simply blend in,” I answer.

Last evening two guitars played flamenco
While gypsies danced near the lake.
Beneath the full Andalusian moon.
Hands clap in syncopated time,
While the old poet rolls out another crying verse.
This dancer is a powerful mystery.
Throws up her arms,
And turns stomping her feet defiantly---
Her face a challenge to the night.

She asks, “Why do I dance, what is the meaning of my song?”
I answer: “You are a flash full of color and personality.
Living stones cannot stop from dancing.
You are a living stone.”