Guest Authors

George Jisho Robertson - Poet - Author

passing moments [deceptive cadences]

                                                                            (for Lois)

 

I

 

in a post post world

untagged among 7 billion + strangers

ants at his feet

taking no notice at all

whatever next? he asks them

leans back against the wall

watches the ball of his thumb

where a cohort of busy cells

are isolating a splinter

under the skin

 

it only hurts if he messes with it

thanks guys he says

he drips the last drops of beer out

for the ants: there you go

he says: enjoy

someone goes by some one else goes by

he says god bless

 

as if he were a shepherd on a mountain flank

he might gather sorrel and thyme

and learn the ways of sheep and clouds

or maybe sing an ancient simple song

and watch the hawk stoop to a trembling mouse

 

we drop a penny of our life

into a old cup

he leans against the wall

 

II

 

Shall we play passing the time

you know like passing the bomb?

 

Or shall we pass on that…

 

Meanwhile

 

look! a rain drop on the window glass

 

III

 

I meant to eat you brother melon yesterday

or the day or in the days before –

I forget, I sleep a lot

 

In age new forms of growth appear

Unforgiving

I see the extrusions and the ribs of time on you

I too have extrusions and the ribs of time

 

We are invaded, brother melon

I dream many voices

 

Time alone may interpret all this

 

IV

 

I wonder at the expression ‘making up for lost time’

This making up has subversive implications

like telling little lies or applying cosmetics

– in mafia talk it means an evil empowering

but usually it’s ‘I’ll catch up when I can’

Well I can’t

 

Who can catch time?

But nothing is lost:

each moment is a seed

each seed a moment yet to be

 

Today little griefs break from the grass like daisies

and seem to search for the sun

 

Unsure why they are here

they stare up from the grass

whiter than clouds and gold at heart

 

None of which gets us anywhere

But that’s fine

(all day idle in the grass

writing among the silly daisies)

Then the clouds part briefly:

the sun calls down

 

‘what if making up means reconciliation?’

 

Be careful where you tread

 

 

V

 

yesterday the wind blew down

our old purple-leaf plum tree

 

old men dream waking

they smell different

there’s an undertow

 

many old men

many old women

many worn armchairs

many dusty shelves

 

they’ll grind it all to sawdust

cart it away

 

I’ll sweep up

 

VI

 

mind says the light illuminates

the structures of growth

 

hearts say living things

gather light

with living hands and eyes

 

when time sweeps through us

we are breathed

 

VII

 

memories

rise and fall

fall and rise

 

on ocean floors, detritus

wonders unfold from the slime

crawl devour divide

a turtle grazes there

for a century or so

 

our visions sway like seaweed

harvesting light

jewel fish swim among

our wavering memories

 

will you sing this with me?

 

when reflections of the moon dissolve

the water changes to a song

 

 

VIII

 

Sometimes I work from the words to the meaning;

sometimes I work from the dream towards the words.

Until both are clear I feel worthless.

I have seen the moon rising in ocean mist.

I am in love with the luminous.

 

Sometimes I work from the flower to the theme

Sometimes I work from the theme to the flower

Sometimes the image gathers meanings

Sometimes uncertainties echo with meaning

 

Sometimes the mind is like a scree slope

And in the dream I have to carve every pebble

If I can carve one right, it will breathe

 

Sometimes I find a flower among the pebbles

I am not to gather it

I am to bow and learn

 

I would sit by it forever

But the wind builds up

I begin to tremble

 

I cannot shelter in my bones

I dig into the pebbles

Until my fingers are bleeding

 

Sometimes the dark is too luminous

There are craters

On my arctic skull

 

 




Note: ‘deceptive cadences’ (in music) - A chord progression that seems to lead to resolving itself on the final chord; but does not. 
George Jisho Robertson is 77 years old, a father and grandfather, a poet and photographer. In 1989 he retired from his work as an English teacher and headmaster and became a Zen priest. In 2007 he retired from that life to devote himself to developing his life-long practice of poetry and the study of many religions and cultures, currently focusing on creating an informal community through Facebook, which locates the creative imagination as the heart and eye of spirituality. He feels that his work is now both mature and ecumenical enough to begin publishing to a wider audience.

http://www.facebook.com/georgejisho
http://www.flickr.com/photos/george_jisho_robertson