the body is taut, taut skin
he is waiting for my signal
arms lifted
full length and the emperor’s
cymbals are there, poised,
impending sound
he is waiting for my signal
a nerve taps in my ear
he begins
the sound of creation
the sound of death
tons of tones
and tomes
all matter disappears
I’ve grown accustomed
to my cabin moving
under the weight of massive freight
rolling through at night
like approaching cloud banks of sound
thick and ready to drop a monsoon
lead weight at my feet.
These night noises
are tunneled, they trap
themselves in a vein
of concrete entrenched into
my two hills, pukerua
and as the volume and mass
extricates itself
from that belly,
the sound explodes
like a broken damn
down into my valley ear.
The vibrations are swollen
and rouse me
like the earth
absorbing all that static.
Into its own wave
I feel my cells reach out and
disappear.
these trains sound
like mountains moving
exerting so much will
and I can’t help but feel their efforts
I feel run over in the morning
as I wake up to another
gut-guzzling wall of sound
crushing me
into the physical
A man is shouting outside
down the hill from me
it is an autistic sound
like an argument with the wind
the voice is strong
and tunneled
A soft sheeng of a bell
peels the distraction away
I close my eyes
and lean back into my spine
My mind
holds space together
dependent on my ears –
constructing what is still
or moving or hard or distant
These sounds give space away
The fireplace tinkles shiny metal
within a room.
The carpet sounds old, little filaments
stuck to attention. Rubbing.
A bird reaches a tree – wood and song – soft
like a diminished presence. Closed windows.
The man is shouting, heavier –
climbing stairs – words becoming clear:
if you are going on a journey
…
I am sitting on a cushion, eyes closed
and I know there’s no one with him –
this man is shouting at the air, which does not contract
like a disagreement
there is no rebound
there is momentum
there’s inspiration, singularity
forceful conviction
a cat pouncing
a shag diving
a man running
a red light
if you are going on a journey
you must look at the signs
My meditation teacher giggles.
There’s two hours of daylight left
and a three hour tramp
there’s a river, a constant sound
to the right telling us
what staircases sound like
There’s a palace of bush
with many entrances
and archways
There’s the servants’ quarters –
the laundry room that got boggy
there’s the tea room, with the
excellent view –
the tea is green and hot
There’s the path covered
in matted mosaics
spiraling off …
The guards dim the lights
no one says closing time
we are ushered on to a board walk
a bridge a bridge another bridge
the fountains are many
the sound gives them away
We walk in silence and
see stars in puddles
becoming galaxies
There are no shadows anymore
only dark rooms
I have come from
the pit of an aboriginal
fire dance, in spirit
it is a healing
where I make the sound
of my liver
it comes in an out pouring
of breath
from a belly that’s never
exhaled. First it is tribal
pulsing muscles banging the drum
throat vibrating to its own echo
it’s magical and unexplored
I am prompted again
find the sound of your liver
a raspy wheezy hiss and hag
escape, I have jumped into the fire
burning the witch
It’s not a willing exit either
whatever it is
that’s channelling through
my throat irritates the sound
bitters the sound
angers the sound
this body is finding expression
and release as the balance
for healing and consciousness
I just met an extra terrestrial
(that sounds so sensational)
indeed the sensation
had me sitting next to you
wanting to know you
further than your name
wanting to know how you
came to be
in a woman’s body
in a man’s voice
on a suicide pact
that failed and here you are
talking with a small wry smile
talking about the sensations of sound
you call it a new language
you call me to speak from my heart
I feel sad as I utter my hopes
I am unable to tell you
what makes me tick, these words
are inadequate, a contradiction -
the distance between meaning
and sounds become vague and invested stories
you ask me to try Kojsh
the language you learnt
to speak to your goddess
the source of all, the light
that brought you in to being.
You lead; confident, self contained
lying on your back
and out you breathe, throwing
your limbs with the sound
it’s playful; you are earnest
I want to talk with you (and her)
so I lie back and breathe and stretch
out my reply; short, punctuated
crisp, like my gesture
- this helps you say
You lead; moving your limbs out slower
your language trots through
that space. I follow; my arms
flowing, my sound breathing
and now introducing my self.
You speak again, clicks
inhabiting syllables and glottal
stops pregnating the sound.
My hands conduct this
language, hitting a bubble of
laughter. We are talking!
I am talking more likely a truth
that meets no contradictions, language
that is not squeezed through
a tiny channel in my brain
this language has no attached
meaning – only
I understand that I am passing
information; the important stuff
like there’s a complete
auto-biology that I wear, and it is asking
for expression from within
by way of service; a contribution
to all efforts in raising life’s vibration
let me be of value
something like that is transmitted
through my conducting hands
my swirling signal of sound
while the tears loosen
in my eyes. You take my hand
You understand
You tell me my way
of existence is to arrive
where time is art and not money
~
In the freedom of our life
long conversation, I think I
sent my first totally unattached
prayer; a prayer in the
language of angels where
no-words are a flow of sound
the sound of creation
feeling oh so tangible
and so immediately creative
