One very sunny day an egg shall envelop my shadow. An eagle shall be overhead, perhaps a bit to the east or west, lowering into the updraft, on the hunt & returning to the nest satisfied.
A robin swooping into shade swallows a delicately tangled necklace of humming insects. A heron drapes her wing upon a sloping stone & swallows magnetic frogs who prophesize.
A hen clucking like a sticky typewriter key repeats the sound of curvilinear incantations, unceasing, between echoes of breath, sleep & a sudden kerfuffle.
Photo S. McCabe
Egg, tell me how we shall begin.
Photo S. McCabe
Egg, tell me how we shall accomplish our mission.
Photo S. McCabe
One very sunny day an egg enveloped my shadow. I was minding my own business. I felt my blood in the sun-blood of my ancestors.
I felt them go ashore. I felt them carve and chisel enveloped by shadows. I felt them carry fire. I felt them carry a weighted promise.
Photo S. McCabe
Egg, tell me who & what, alchemically one very sunny day, you shall become in traveling a distant path to yourself: An eagle, a fluent ballerina, or a sun-flecked tidal wave. An astronaut, cosmonaut or vimani pilot. A Spanish painter rising like cream in early Modernism.
Or the hen caught up in a sudden kerfuffle. Or the heron draping elegant ink-like feathers. Or the barrel-chested north wind whiplashing trees. An opera singer who resounds triumphantly or a trumpeter swan harkening. A blue parakeet, nodding his fuzzy head, asleep & dreaming.
Or a sea turtle diving in the dark. The Ice Age thawing, a solar flare consuming or a fairy-tale princess personifying an archetype. A sphinx-like barn owl in the rafters, a barn swallow exiting a hole, or an amber bale of hay. A cosmic chant vibrating hearts. Fire-flame in a bowl. In a deep cauldron.
The language of trees. Dotted zigzags on grey stone carved with a chisel. A dotted triple spiral carved with a chisel. A feather wafting into a mist. A deer-god in a yoga position. The full moon fully incandescent. An escapee escaping hollow & corrupt civilizational madness. A druid-like hero, positioned in the now, opening portals to before. I promise I will tell nobody.
Photo S. McCabe
Egg, tell me where & when we shall meet again.
Photo S. McCabe
One very sunny day an egg enveloped my shadow & all shadows.
Photo S. McCabe
One very sunny day an egg enveloped salt & the volatile, shadows of the mighty & ancient world, honey & vinegar, shadows of this world in the light of this world, goats hanging in a market & geraniums in shade, clandestine meetings, the animated shadows we imagine spilling forward, the final page of a novel steeped in symbolism, shadows of a future dread we pledge to circumvent, sacrificing & shattering our personal selves to preserve, as guardians, the original innocent nourishment of joy & play, for all children & childhood, unfolding like the age-old unseen.
For the original brilliant sun. For the mechanics and gears of illumination, opposite to opaque – yet weighted with antiquity. Like an ancient accordion book, one very sunny day, unfolding & evolving.
Egg, show me those secret markings you made on the trees.
I don’t know how this egg came to be (unfortunately) on the sidewalk but the encounter stayed with me. This posting developed over a couple of weeks. First I put up ‘scene of the crime’ photographs along with the first draft of a poem. Then I edited the poem, with changes to the text visible in almost ‘real time.’ Then I created digital (Photoshop) manipulations of the photos using colour. Then it dawned on me to check a symbol dictionary for meanings associated with this entity and shape.
In The Book of Symbols: Reflections on Archetypal Images I read: ‘The egg is the mysterious ‘center’ around which unconscious energies move in spiral-like evolutions, gradually bringing the vital substance to light…’ If the egg had not been on the sidewalk (with yolk & egg white spilled out the cracked shell & spread across the concrete) I doubt I would have thought of an egg at that moment. Thus, my imagination turned synchronicity into images & text. One might also say sound. The egg, there and then in loss, became a poetic vessel for hope & empathy.
I said frequencies come into view roaring like a whip-poor-will.
To within hearing range.
Within broadcasting range.
Within a marvelous & manifesting zone.
Except I didn’t say tone. I said zone.
Investigate the marvelous:
Track back to
a pulsing frequency
imagined as gossamer,
like that clear syrup you poured on pancakes,
in the air & not even sticky.
Except I didn’t say ode. I said code.
Remember that old song about a tomato,
You say: toe-MAH-toe
I say: toe-MAY-toe…
Except I didn’t say tomato at all.
I said alchemical frequencies.
Dialing landlines into clay.
Calibrate a fine-tuning.
I heard the eyelid open.
How does one hear from such a distance
if there is such a distance.
Track vibrations to their source
to evolving devolution
to devolving evolution.
Morphing into law or code.
Law or code tracked to a source
follow a firefly spiraling.
The source of the code fomenting sound.
A whip-poor-will swooping in a gyre, invisible to the bird of prey.
Remember that old song about a tomato,
You say: toe-MAH-toe
I say: toe-MAY-toe...
Except I didn’t say tomato at all.
I said thrum:
Amber-golden honeybees
pollinate the sun.
I said hum:
Rapid eye-movement beep.
Divining rod-flicker beep.
Levitating hypnopompic sun-stone beep.
Translucent wing-sheath
humming.
I bought a boomerang.
Silence! Hush!
Let you and me (one of us the fool) embroider a spoon large as a tapestry.
To spoof high officials with mock Greek Tragedy: How to SpoonfeedHoney.
To perform the pagaentry with sardonic flourish and redeeming severity.
Except I didn’t say money. I said honey.
I practice hooking my wrist.
At the market, behind seven hanging skins, I bought a boomerang inscribed with carving.
Expect
OM.
Beep
OM.
Amber-golden sun-stream OM
beeping hum, beeping thrum...
I purchase drops of oil annointing the boomerang.
A tacked up handbill publicizes theatrical spectacle of the highest form.
To sound
OM
spanning divinity to infinity.
Eyelid ascending…
A whip-poor-will descending
glides into the window light,
scratches at the stone of night.
OM sounding gyres, OM sounding omphalos
infinitely divine.
Infinity sounding
OM,
One eyelid open,
fingertip
shiatsu beneath the soil.
A silence of soil
in divine science, divine omen
infinitely OM.
A thrumming bluebird, thrumming gnat, thrumming comet,
(infinitely divine)
thrumming the speed of sound tearing a hole in shrouded time.
I conceal the boomerang within the folds of my Turin robe: echo of the divine.
Echo of the divine – tear a hole in time,
hurling, aimed into the mission,
sailing to omniscient vision
& to return
& to return.
In Turin return to shrouded silence,
raise the eyelid,
visualize OM.
In absent space, in disintegration
visualize OM.
OM onward OM in hallucinations of the heart.
Investigate the manifesting:
Track back to
a pulsing frequency
imagined as gossamer,
like that clear syrup you poured on pancakes,
in the air & not even sticky.
Remember that old song about a tomato,
You say:toe-MAH-toe
I say: toe-MAY-toe…
Except I didn’t say tomato at all.
Beneath the eyelid all is silent.
Silent night.
Tomato, summer 2022Photograph in Wikipedia I digitally rendered for purposes of non-commercial commentary.
Philip S. Callahan, Ph.D, influenced this poem, if I may call it a poem, with his unique research, discoveries, and ideas about sound & transmission related to the Irish round towers.
9″ X 12″ works on watercolour paper from 2021. I’m not sure why the whales (in groupings of three) are looking at the iconographic images (on a shroud?) within eggs or stones. I discovered about thirty blueish smaller paintings on paper I did during the second lockdown.
I said ‘goodbye’ to a painting this week. Sprayed it with four sweeps of archival varnish half an hour between on a warmish day and packaged it the next. I wanted to write the title on the back but couldn’t find it. So I just started calling the painting ‘Goodbye.’
The canvases with blues I’ve done the last couple years psyched me for using blues on the 5′ X 33′ roll (scroll) of Italian paper I began in late April. That work is now 70% complete. There is no chance of forgetting the title because I rework it often. One word is Druidica.
As for Photoshop 5 and troubles with ‘scratch discs’ – if I save a simple GIF to Web & Devices at the first warning the program won’t shut down on me. But no large files and nothing tricky! So it goes.