After posting long and possibly boring deposit here last night I chanced
across the writings of 59 year old Sanderson Brett, who must be one of the
most knowledable people on the planet. He is a world peace campaigner and
preaches following non violence and love. He has been in prison many times
for following his beliefs, recently in 2003 when demonstrating against
Bush's war.
<li><a href="http://san.beck.org/index.html">SANDERSON BECK</a></li>
His website is all one needs to learn the basics of humanist theory fast,
and it struck me that we have a real life saint in our midst, as his words
and actions prove he is at one with the higher power some say poetry is all
about.
Reading the spats today here threw Sanderson into sharp relief, as I mused
on the force of ego talk
Another event last night was hearing my unique tune for the very first time
as I cycled along the coast from Sutton to Dublin. It was dark, around 1am
and very windy, but I heard a tune out to sea, but it was so soft and the
wind so raw, that I could not sense where it was coming from. I thought
maybe it was coming from Howth, 1500 or so meteres to my left over the sea.
Maybe the wind was blowing it over from there from a session on the
hillside. After a short while I began to suspect it was not originating from
an outside reality, but from the otherworld. Sirens communing out at sea to
sing first glimpse of a blueprint delineating what score beyond human
consciousness my soul is tuned to and plays in this world.
I was hearing a tune - no doubt about it - and whilst the two first notes
where always the same, after they sounded the tune played a few more - very
swift notes - and then trailed off beyond the edge of hearing, but kept
returning, never playing the same snip of tune twice.
Once I passed Bull Island I sensed the force disappear and it only came
again once more, twenty minutes later as I was moving out of a wind swept
Dublin bay and into urban shelter - after I thought the episode had ceased
- and I took it as the sigil for me to engage in the act of gifting Mark
Madden upon you - as promised.
Trackmarks
Linear stigmata of addiction
Tomorrow's scar tissue constellations
disfiguring the body of work
Phonetic glyphs
of abstract correspondence
Their outlines traced in blood
Shrinking from the spike
or splattering across the page
A ring a ring o' rosies
Moments when the final things are said
Exposed in a brutal waterslap of clarity
In the coupling of the sinful
and the divine
There's a fine line to be crossed
Sequences of discrete
but regular consummation
inter-penetrating the punctured bodies
with the syrup poison
of transgressive desire
Wasping decorations
Fading in time from some
Long lost personal campaign
Along cablestitch flesh
Lesions where the world
has entered us
These tender spots
Rubbed by unconscious gesture
Til they stand chafed and pert
Prized in their shame
Less they scab over
With our ability to be touched
Behind the scenes of the crazy ward
in all cried out lucidity
Doubting Doctor Thomas
Pressing our wounds
in the chemical light of analysis
The marking on our skins
The words we choose to speak
The nettle of awareness we nurse
Haphazard paths through the wilderness
Creasing the undergrowth with bruised stalks
Discernible only by the spoor
of some animal long passed
Tiny clues to unknowable awareness
Patterned sigils in the drying clay
Trackmarks
Mark Madden
Trackmarks.
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