BY CANDLE LIGHT ON A SUB-ZERO WINTER'S NIGHT

I awake out of terribly real dreams,

drowning

in a sea of loneliness

where memories are ghosts

and God takes on such a fearsome aspect that He is afraid of Himself.

Being becomes panic and I am alone in my self-made

20th Century dungeon,

this wintry, northern, carbon-monoxide night of cold madness

in our civilized nirvana.

After Eden we scream to run free

-such winedrunk anarchy!-

to escape our self-imposed shackles

which we accepted like beasts of burden,

destined to end our servile days without ever questioning.

I stagger in the haunted Hereness

bang on the walls of the cell I made

through cleverness and knowledge:

"Is this what everything amounts to

in Final Sum Totality, is this what it's about, God?"

But God does not answer and the Northern Dawn is unspeaking.

"O sub-zero dawn, why don't you speak?"

I am its unwilling prisoner

and the night, not satisfied with mastery

of fleshly dimensions, hints at monopolizing my soul;

those softer memories, so elusive,

its frozen nature demands a negation of life.

Here I am then, a sleepless wreck

trying to disown my muttering ghosts

and a final rhyming of knowledge.

The eternal skypilot tries to save his airplane

from a drop into chaos: "I need to stay high!"

O gentle, magic man who walketh on the waters,

your soul so light it defies earthly gravity,

I cannot ask your help because I must find you tomorrow

again and again,

And you must have another name.

Bringer of the Light,

I'm not sure how to understand you.

Yet, everytime I turn away in hopelessness,

your mythical figure returns and the clinical silence

is full, once more, of your remembered Name.

At last, the secrets are lived out

though there are only the sounds,

coming from the headphones of my friendly hi-fi,

where Roussos sings, rich with Greek meanings,

and brings the Message to life

through a most unlikely electronic source.

My rational mind still gibbers on about

the Occidental Myth,

superstitions and cult figures.

Yet, my heart responds and asks no proof,

no explanation of the mysteries.

Already, the educated shriekings are gone

and the idiot returns to the sound of water flowing

and life which is happening

like the flame in the candle which flickers slightly

but stays clear this cold night.

How good the welcome is!

I am quietly returning to the silence

which knows how to speak without ever making meanings.

The Wise Man inside me says:

"Friend, you were never alone,

you just played your clever little game of hide and seek.

Now, go to sleep until it's time to wake again."

I find I can sleep now

and blow out the candle, feeling glad in a quiet way.

RW, 1st draft, c.1977 - 2nd draft, 17.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

SUNCHILD

Looking for freedom in my prison

I found you in yours,

Looking for the same hope.

Two children of the light,

wanting to fly free again,

Looking for the sun,

two Geminis on the run.

Looking for something,

I don't really know what,

Looking for Utopia

can be a scary kind of game.

We talked and talked

about our lives and hopes,

Talking of things that

others don't always seem to understand,

We found two minds so very much

the same.

Sunchild, I know you very well,

admire the way you fly,

the rainbows shining in your wings!

Sunchild, your hair glows bright,

is there a place for us here tonight?

Sunchild, in this Age of Aquarius,

my mind's so high,

flying into the stratosphere!

But flying so high into the Sun,

my wings begin to burn,

My mind is overcome with fear,

the dangers of finality everywhere

And wings of wax are frail things

to travel on so far!

Science, whose creatures we became,

made us into what we are:

Too controlled, too alone in a Heroic Future

that never happens,

Will we ever learn?

Our Age is now Aquarius

who bears the water so lightly,

Flowing drops, gently,

feeding the forests and the seas,

Flowing through our minds and bodies

the Symbol for a change.

Sunchild, lend me your rainbow wings,

I need their strength today.

Let's fly together for so long,

let's go together,

Find Utopia in the Here and Now.

Waiting for Utopia is a hopeless cause,

waiting, instead of flowing,

In the waters of our Time we can only drown.

So meet our future here today,

though looking for freedom's never easy,

Even though the change is begun.

Sunchild, can I tell you this

in words that know no fear?

In looking for another hope and freedom,

instead, I found you here!

RW, 1st draft, 1984, 2nd draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

SOLITUDE

Sitting here,

in times of unwanted solitude,

wondering why,

what has brought me here?

The walls do not answer

... sitting here,

In these strange times of solitude.

RW, 7.V.84.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

THE ONE YOU'LL NEVER GET

This is the one you'll never get

written this empty day.

Suddenly, the world dissolves in tears,

not dewdrops.

This is the one I had to write

to stop going out of my head;

Jumping off another cliff

when I'm getting too old to fly straight.

This is the song you'll never hear,

an unfamiliar tune meant only for

The crazy one wandering through ...

RW, 30.XII.84.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

STRINGER'S CANDYCOLORFUNPOEM (1968)

ZRINGDANGG! It's happening all the time!

AND YOU STILL GREEN AND HATLESS!

These are the signs:

today Herr Stringer (poet extraordinaire)

returned from his mythical city,

bringing with him a golden cageful

of superintelligent parrots

ALL SECRETLY TRAINED TO SING THE MARSELLAISE

IN TUNE WITH THE AVERAGE CATSYOWL

(accompanied by pianoforte).

ZRINGDANGG!! IT'S HAPPENING ALL THE TIME!

I have noted Stringer's musical talent

AND THE FACT THAT HE'S BEEN IN EXCESSIVE CONTEMPLATION

FOR THE LAST FORTNIGHT OR SO ...

Don't let out the cat tonight, mother, something is in the air!

RW, 1st draft, c.1968, 2nd draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

FALL, 1967.

1- Bushey Park, Tuesday.

leaves on naked trees

fly with autumn gales

but do not forsake branches yet

2- Hampton Court Bridge, Friday.

circling below black clouds

a flock of seagulls waiting for

white rain

3- By Tagg's Island, Saturday.

deer nuzzling grass

under redden'd leaves

turn round to stare at strangers

4- In my garden, Sunday.

the last swallow

is not flown south -

fly, little one, before the snow!

5- "The Nelson".

at dusk the lights

are lit

to save city dwellers from the night

6- For Sonja.

love made

on a cold, rainy night

is forgotten, now we're apart in daylight

RW, 1st draft, c. 1967, 2nd draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

NOW, WHEN I HEAR THE "ARANJUEZ"*

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",

a midnight fountain

spills its crystaldark ice

into the streets of Granada.

Lit by a halfmoon,

slanting its gold against this winter Nevada,

I hear the words of my dream.

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",

I smell the green scent

of oranges we stole

from the groves of a real castle in Spain.

Walking in the haze of December,

I hear the words of my dream.

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",

the broken steps to my life

wind back through the dusk

And I wake to the swaying cypress tree

which lies between me and the song of my dreams.

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",

I hear the songs from my plain,

the plain which, before, was less than a dream,

the words of a dream which were less than a song -

Now, the song of my dream which I hear in the hills of December,

the real dream of such a winter as this,

now, when I hear the "Aranjuez".

*The "Concierto de Aranjuez", by Joaquín Rodrigo.

RW, first draft, c.1967, second draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

HEROIC IMAGES I: SO YOU THINK YOU CAN FLY, MR ICARUS?

How far we have gone

into the collective myth

where Icarus,

flying into the Sun,

burns his wings

at the hearth of Creation.

Icarus, gone mad,

inside his flying machine,

Technology promising to keep us going

so long as we believe

in its magic.

In an enormous lift of bootstring faith

we swoop and fly

over a horizon fit for heroes,

over a deep-blue sea full of

long-forgotten beginnings.

But now, in this created future lies

a more awesome mystery.

Already we stand in awe before

the fireball

in our feared vision, consumer of creation.

I sit in the kitchen, nowhere to go,

listening to Pink Floyd.

Outside, the summer rain turns the garden

into a jungle beyond control.

A sparrow peeks in at the window,

beak all quizzical

at the man locked inside four walls:

"So you think you can fly, Mr Icarus?"

RW, first draft, 15.VII.82, second draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

THE DAWN OF 1984

I was the bringer of the dawn,

I came this way before.

One morn, so cold and clear,

early,

before the cock crowed thrice

and the Sun -betrayed- took refuge

behind the dark sacrifice

of Armageddon's night.

So here we are again,

here come the blackshirts:

multinational thought police,

Capital's new global Gestapo.

The bad dreams come, like skeletons,

crashing through the door.

But these times are not the same,

things are rearranged;

though Caesar's on the run again

his slaves enchain'd in fear,

these times they're not the same,

no need for ritual sacrifices to appease the dying Sun.

Find Utopia in the here-and-now,

seek the New Land

and we shall surely find her soon.

Krishna's a woman now,

changing the world, turning it upside down.

Her Land is our land here,

Jerusalem's quiet forests ours,

her lapping waters reflect a Magic Moon.

In this land we've poets by the million

looking for the way.

No need to bear a lonely cross,

no need to dally in the prisons,

lonely, lost and shivering,

waiting for the Dreadful Day.

Now the Revolution may be won or lost

around the barricades of thoughts, words and feeling,

political communication means a process of healing!

Resistance begins at the barbed-wire fences,

their crown of thorns

calling for yet another sacrifice,

the price we're asked to pay:

"Don't pay!" the message must go out,

"don't pay another sacrifice!"

Lovers of the Dawn won't pay again,

So cosmic children, everywhere,

unite:

and prepare to be reborn!

RW, 1st draft, 1.I.84, Düsseldorf, 2nd draft, 7.VIII.87, Scotland, 3rd draft, 15.XII.92, Scotland.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

DIGITAL CONCEPTIONS

Maths all day!

Communicating numbers off the page,

Programming the younger generation

for the Electronic Age.

But computers need a very

special tongue

That the Language Department doesn't teach.

Computers deal with digital conceptions

that human feelings can never reach.

So, feeling somewhat alienated,

Teacher sits and ponders.

Puzzled by the mystery numbers,

Watching the smiling children

While his imagination wanders ...

c.1983

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

GO SOFTLY

Go softly among your stars

for tonight we are together.

Trip lightly across the Milky Way,

spilling your glittering laughter

as would a child,

delighted by joyful

Raindrops falling to the waiting

Earth -

lost in the mists that surround us

here in the Timeless Moment.

Again! I draw my breath

in wonderment,

across the sky in cloud-patterns.

Finding each other anew,

here we are on the Eternal Way!

Go softly among your stars

for tonight we are together ...

c.1984

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

YOUR WORLD


You were painting the deaf scene colours that you could know only;
my hands explain, caressing the light open like a lotus,
the time, late, you wander about, I in the armchair wondering, speak
and listen to the wandering thought brought into this room; I lose
you then, I lose you
wondering.

c 1967

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

LARCHTREES

Sitting on a moonlit rock

surrounded by these tall companions,

meandering, creaking avenues rediscovered;

stretching, unmoving,

they lift up their branches

and bear witness to the lonesome moon.

I must be dreaming!

c.1973

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

SIBERIAN SONG

Was I the hunter who came down the valley's winding road

to thy door that icy night when the frost lay hard,

Glistening in the moon's windless kiss?

Were you thee who, sitting by thy fire that still evening,

heard my numb knocking?

And, on answering, heard a lame apology muttered into an untidy beard:

"I was passing through this valley

And chanced to see a candle burning in thy window" ...

You bade me enter and -unrecognized- I stumbled in,

awkwardly brushing off the hoar-frost, grateful to be

In thy warm cabin, smelling the pine needles scenting the logs

burning redly in thy fireplace.

Standing here, it seems so long ago now,

my wanderings through the taiga,

And the unending forests of Kamchatka;

countless days the journey,

Hearing in the pine's sweeping whisper

the splendour of thy name.

Those pitch-black nights with only the wolves for company

and blind faith in the guiding-star above,

Travelling the rapids of many rivers,

chilled to the bone -so cold, the soul

Would crack and be lost in swirling icefloes ...

thus I made my way through these lands,

Alone.

Now it seems so many moons ago

when first I saw thy lighted window

Glowing from afar -so faint that, in the misty dawn,

I may have blinked,

Mistaking its shining promise for another's guiding star.

Much time ago now -yes, beyond the world's beginning-

when first I set foot upon this Clear Land

By the green forests and the bubbling shallows of the river Amur.

That evening, when I heard thy sweet song

Echo in the valley; when I saw thee bathing there,

the sun's last rays playing on the violet foothills

Of distant mountains ...

Now but a trick of the mind -returning to thy arms-

there to be lost in endless joys!

Then! O, then! I brought thee furs and fine things

from wondrous places!

Siberian gold and amethyst, silk from China;

fabulous tales from ancient Samarkand

And wild stories of the Kamchatka;

amber from the Baltic coasts

And the undying wisdom of Himalaya!

Then! O, then! We were lost in such dreams!

But, today, what have I for thee?

Only my old fur hat -once the pelt

Of an unmourned bear- which you don so prettily now,

so innocently beautiful that my heart burst with adoration.

Yet, what art thou but a fleeting dream of many pasts?

Having lived many another time,

Hearing many another song,

what is this strange melody I hear now in unseen skies?

Empty-handed, what may I offer thee?

Every gift wished away recklessly in a thousand brawling taverns,

My soul trodden under their dirty soil? What may I offer thee

but wild-eyed reveries and misremembered memories

Still unredeeemed?

What right do I have to stand in thy door,

unsure in sense of place,

Yet drawn here to proclaim, flatly, my existence

as if it matters that much now,

My mind lost in many pasts, floating like so many felled

logs to the ocean?

Sitting by thy fire, o golden one, I sought

answers in thy numbed heart

And feigned surprise, not finding any.

Tongue-tied, dry-mouth'd heart-shackl'd,

I wondered how brief was this respite

before the weary journey and the searching must go on.

We sat like this, deep into the night,

until you yawned and felt sleep approach thee.

Knowing that the time had come again

I thanked thee and bade farewell.

Then -before facing my wilderness home- I kissed thee awkwardly,

as one might shyly kiss one's first love ...

RW, first draft, 29.XII.84, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

RECUERDO #I (Granada Blues Deepinthenight)

1- Tapping of the inevitable dawn,

spilling wooden petals into dawnfire (A RED GLOBE

FLOATING ABOVE: A DECLINING MOON)

the dwarf,

Señor Mundo, climbs the rotted stairway,

staggers -old cat, violin in hand- this house darkly blotted

in the grove of pale cherrytrees.

Whispering,

not knowing when the door had closed.

(ARRIVAL!) the barrier presents itself.

Standing, mouth agape, the captive

does not foresee the aftermath,

(SHIMMERING HEAT OVER,

OVER)

away from the circle beyond us

waiting outside the moving, horizontal stageset,

his eyes drawn, glancing toward the parched stone hill,

he raises his head, a man returning.

2- (A DRUMROLL

SHATTERS THE WINDOWS) Raise my head in the old way,

the violin squeaks, the cat yawns, lonely dwarf turns to

the cornerplace to speak with his vision.

(LA SIERRA NEVADA: THE PINK FINGERS ACROSS!)

gaze faltering,

covered echo, gaze melting, receding, creeping obscurities of light,

widening, flowering circles: violin, cat, dwarf

(MELTING THE CORE OF MOUNTAINS) watch the departure of three friends.

3- Tapping of the insistent night (A RED GLOBE DECLINING:

MOON IN RAGGED ASCENT)

RW, first draft 1969, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

RING OF THE HOURS

1- The oldman in coat-tails

is beyond the reach

Of purring sundowns;

he, in the tropical cemetery,

Is contained in convulsing circuits

of decaying reality.

So many giggling hyenas gnaw out his brain

while he lies on his spine

And imagines the celadon wastes

stretching their deeps

To a placental journey's conclusion.

2- This fervent youth throws bricks

at a hairless statue

Which falls classically, cracks empty.

The temple door shuts and opens

to close again.

In this far emptiness, the defeated genuflect,

the altar, the volant sword,

Is lost in delusion.

Here, the living heroes are bestowed with pain,

they howl repetitively over loudspeakers

Amplifying their condition.

Receiving signals from Aldebaran,

a twittering blanker than riveted stars,

The defeated shoot their sperm,

Jerking off across the vacuum in vain.

3- The young hero is an old man returning to stone,

with muffled steps in retroaction,

He carries the weight of his seed,

his body is always heavy.

RW, first draft, 1967, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

BEFORE THE GREAT DEPARTURE

The trains are crossing the river, we stand outside the steam,

they howl with purpose

and, believe us, we try to listen by the bridges

of many bellowing heavens.

Sleep! Casey Jones makes it to London town, catch the echo

and switch off the countdown,

Cold waters pour onto lighted avenues.

Whisper!

The trees are falling with the mists.

Listen! Behind the mind's closed corridors,

The falling glow sweeps over the city

as many screens of interdimensional reality revolve into understanding

From within the crackling vision of the last explosion.

So the clouds sway open, so the hearts are radioactive,

they rock, rock, rock,

But our eyes will not open, myopic children borne into self-fulfilled

disaster

With the souls that passed this way before, before ...

And we may not anchor our desires in the old forest,

nor trust our seed to the lifting missile,

Searing through the first loneliness

toward the blues in endless retrospection.

The hunter and the wolves have met again,

and when we awake

To the sound of our pulsing fears, the Final Place

will spring into full circle,

The Great Departure begins to tick with energy -

and you have forgotten to weep and scan the spaces ...

The trains are crossing the river ...

believe us,

We try to listen, we try to wave goodbye.

RW, first draft, 1967, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

WINTER RECOLLECTION

Now, when the trees stand silent,

the dead, winter scene

Stretches beyond the creaking snow horizon.

The awesome caw of a lone crow's

call

Is all which exists in the world,

of the moment

Of recollection and no other.

Now, when the horizon lies silent,

the trees creak in recollection

Of the moment when the crow flies away,

and the cold, pure vision

Of a white moon, growing bright in its ascent

through their branches.

Now, the scattered magic vision of the stars

glistening,

mapping out the Universe!

RW, first draft, July 1979, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

MIRAGE

He sits

crosslegg'd

under the only tree for miles,

his skull full, dizzy

on the unmoving

deserted

scape

of a dry day which splits and burns into

view.

Highflying

kites draw shimmering circles,

ringing round a giantblue dome,

falling into their own hollow spiral of sky,

to swoop against

his lone, smoke

silence:

He sits

crosslegg'd

under the only tree for miles.

RW, first draft, April 1967, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

SPRINGTIME

Gentle as the summer rain

are you.

Soft as the final kiss

of sunset,

You walk, enchanted,

among the lights

Playing down through the

branches

In these smoky, blue woods.

I follow you,

watching your hair toss and flow

As you walk.

O, Child of the Sun,

I admire your freedom,

You travel on,

but where is it you go?

I observe you from afar,

knowing that this distance

Will always remain,

howevermuch

The soul cries out for its banishing.

Two galaxies of being,

we spin through the Universe,

Touching each other lightly with a smile,

then letting go,

To wander on in separate freedoms.

And, as Spring proclaims rebirth,

where do our old souls take us?

Here comes that time again!

that warming drizzle

percolating through the heart's petals.

Golden is this time, holy this moment!

I would like to tell you this

as a child would,

As you go lightly by me.

But the butterfly moment

comes and goes,

And I am left old and tongue-tied,

watching the new life of Spring,

trying to forget the cold winds gone.

Now I sit here, wondering how long

before the time comes

When I fly free once more,

returning to the Summerland ...

RW, first draft, 21.IV.85, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

A STARRY NIGHT

That night you raised your eyes to the stars

and remembered another time -

Distant recollection of a southern constellation,

soaring dome of ancient memories!

O, Cathedral of the Indian night, now magnificently unreal!

While, here we find ourselves

before the Aquarian magic of this winter solstice

Where time is balanced still,

poised between a strange heaven and

The barely-remembered memories within us.

Return to the Dreamtime Vision

that flies here from nowhere!

O, golden-maned Lady of the Dawn,

are you she I saw travelling through the Light,

Mending my wings, clearing my heavy heart,

burning back the night?

Bringing, once more, the silver gift of timeless sight,

whispering gentle music and long-forgotten stories

Such as only the trees know to tell the wild skies?

So, breathless now, timidly I peer with my dark eyes

into the windows of your soul.

Finding courage, I dare to sweep towards you,

like the questing falcon.

But you glance away, as if to fend off,

saying, "How may I answer you? For the stars

Are in heaven -and here I stand."

Then, brushing your arms with my wings,

in this blue moment, I see the Goddess shining,

Offering me a glimpse of other dimensions,

healing my dark wings with her love,

So that I may fly, once more, up into the

starry December night.

And as I climb away silently, silently,

into my sharp vision is borne,

The flicker of a cold-breath'd dawn,

born below the night-blue horizon.

And in this vibrant prayer of freedom regain'd

I thank the Golden One whose bright magick

Has returned to me my flight.

Ascending ever higher, towards the astral light,

my heart swims warmly in the midnight sun.

Flying through these visions of the night,

I know that I may return to your call many times;

Forsaking my burning, wilderness sky.

I will return to you,

Should you raise your eyes again ...

RW, first draft 20.XII.84, latest draft 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

COSMIC DANCE

My Soul is the Light in You,

You are the Light and the Dark.

In the Dream that was Mine,

I was the Sun, Moon and Stars

And You the Light Supernal.

In that Dream I dance alone,

The Dance of Life and Death.

And though I cry out for Life,

Only emptiness greets me.

There is only emptiness,

Yet the energies are all around;

Their patterns scintillate,

Making waves abound in the dark.

They call a new tune

Whose lilt I cannot resist.

And, still, you are there,

So let me fill the silent sky with Love;

Let me sing the Song of Life again,

My hands moving through

the irresistible rhythms of

A Cosmic Dance,

As I sing my Song of Love,

Waiting to begin again.

RW, 30.XII.84.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

NORTHERN LIGHTS

The Northern Lights are burning,

and My Love for You

comes sweeping across starkissed Midnight Skies

yearning to be together again!

The Northern Lights are turning

once more into wheeling, cosmic lightshows,

as our guardian angels celebrate with fire,

lighting a billion touchpapers

while we stand in wonder, watching.

The Northern Lights are dancing,

they call out across Hollywood neonscapes in the sky:

"Spread your wings, babe, spread your wings and fly!

Dance, dance your lovesong like you never did before!

Don't let this sacred moment go by!

Let your ecstatic body burn free,

This time it's now, it'll never return!"

They flicker, shimmering strobelights discodancing,

conspiring with my soul to hit all the right

galactic chords in unison with some

Great Synchronized Orchestra.

The Northern Lights are flaming!

they signal to those

who listen in lone vigil:

"God! Here we come! We hear You come!"

I tremble as Your auroras shoot and roar

across glittering, thundering horizons,

echoing, lighting up a billion nerve-ends,

synapses just waiting to be turned on

as Your lunar bride is consummated

on Heaven's Flaming Altars tonight!"

The Northern Lights are singing

but what song do you hear?

When they reach you in soft intimacies,

whispering of Tomorrow's Dream that draws near,

what will you do? Will you listen,

even if you're lost, afraid and earthbound tonight

below these Northern Lights?

RW, 21.XI.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013