FOUR SEASONS

Four Seasons

Spring

This springtide was not something
to excite the senses
but an overflowing of the heart.
Pure joy.
‘Love thou the rose but leave it on its stem.’

An overflowing of the heart
which sees its images,
reflected everywhere,
existing nowhere
but in itself.

Always the sun shines
in Portsonachon,
in Wien,
in the silence of the mind.

‘Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage.’

This voyage
(with Rilke’s Silent Angel looking on)
was it a beginning
or an ending?

‘Les vrais voyageurs sont ceux-là qui partent pour partir.’
No beginning then.
And no end.

Summer

But Ulysses in his boat
is vulnerable to a sea world
of storms
of voices
of rocks
and all the subtleties of time.

And not all voyageurs
complete their voyages.
Ulysses, too, returned alone.

The summer sun is hot
and yields no shade.
‘Chacun jardin a sa particuliere fleur’.
But  this summer
the whole garden is alive
with a cornucopia of flowers and fruits.
Cornucopia,
the sign of the Goat.
The overflowering energy of the goat.
Everything ever sown
struggling for instant recognition.

La particuliere fleur
is there somewhere.
Somewhere.
On its stem.

Autumn

This Autumn was not a season of mellow
fruitfulness.
This Autumn the sun burned
with a heat not felt in history that can be
recorded.
The garden gave up fruits from plants
that had slept for millennia.
Ulysses and Circe,
The Mariner and his Albatross,
Michael and Lucifer,
The Wastelander.
All play out dramas in a desert painted by Dali.
In this desert even Rilke’s Angel cannot stand.
Nothing stands here.
The building blocks of Greece and Rome
are made of the dust
of this desert.
Hot, dry dust.
This desert awaits the fire that burns
at the end of a kalpa.
All lose their way here
because all ways lead here,
the good, the bad and the uncommitted.
The rose and its stem are made of the dust of
this desert.
Children build their sandcastles here
and mouth sounds to give them names,
“mine” and “yours.”
No-one’s.
This dust belongs to no-one.

Winter

Winter comes
with A Winter’s Tale
of all that has gone before.

Ulysses toasts his feet before an Ithacan fire
dreaming of Ilium.

Letting go.
Letting go gain and loss.

A winter’s tale –
words upon a page,
ripples upon a mind
like ripples upon a sea.

The wind drops
sea becomes calm.
Where are the ripples then?

Mind lets go.
Where is Ilium?
Où sont les neiges d’antan?

Did anything happen?
Does anything happen?
Où sont les neiges d’antan?

In this flat calm of total peace
can anything exist?

Brian Taylor

 

 

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