I met a Muse who sent me back
To the hall of poets, bearded painters…
I live with a musician still,
Yet I left them in my mind;
Left for the realm of Insubstantia,
Dwelling where it’s not substantial,
Doing jobs that have no substance
With the worldly kind.
Where to go that’s free and open?
Go to the Bohemian crowd,
Join in with the voice they speak in
When at last they’re skilled and proud.
See the world the way they see it,
Be the change the artists wrought,
Linked to them in their endeavours,
With them once again in thought.
Weed under the duck pond: twisted, strangling, dank.
I dived beneath the surface, and it tugs and grabs at me.
Ellis sent me down here and told me to stay under.
As this is meditation, does that make it a dream?
I drew her by the pond and I meditate here sometimes.
She said I need the other aspect: swimming underneath.
The languid, shadowed water fills my mind with green.
I love the green in plants, but slimy pond bed green?
it slaps against my face, so I feel but cannot see.
I count the moments under here, but my time sense is gone.
Is she satisfied? The surface looks so far above.
The pond bed has so many bumps- they feel so slippery;
It seems too thick and soupy for a fish or newt to live.
Now I will associate the pond with murky sludge
As well as sunlight sparkling on the ripples at the top.
Is that the other aspect that I’m supposed to see?
I’ll have to break the surface now; I’ll start to feel I’ve drowned.
Cinders sounds soft and brown
Like cinnamon and cocoa.
Words are musical notes that tap:
Icing sugar, circle, sprinkle.
We are baking gingerbread men,
Softly sifting words.
Curl them round your tongue and speak:
Poem crumble, crust encircled.
Take the biscuit, spell out purpose:
Teatime number crunching verb.