In celebration of the release of "Yeah!" by Def Leppard, here's one from Poems from the 90s -
stamp upon the stone an’ dusted earth
run ahead with your arm outstretched
finger pointin’ towards the sun,
halo light falls upon your shoulders
as you kung fu flick you way
into the primary blue of borderless space,
all physical aspect dismounted
infinity signposted an’ death well done,
no trace left behind whatsoever
water spirits applaud the act
mountain gods take off their hats,
for they see well from resting high
in the league of universal knowledge,
banners flutter lightly in the breeze
an’ butter lamps flicker to the dream
of a thousand holy meditations,
symbolic of the fact you didn’t jack
Guru Padmasambhava Invocation Hill
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Huge Forest at the Foot of a Mountain
Here's one from Poems from the '90s -
think i’ll head for the back roads
take in the wonder of a faint yellow sun,
green hills and snow
gently rolling thunder
passive triangular monuments
and the beauty of a town
bathed in studded pinnacles
all so far away now
like a memory from a century
300 years in the past,
when the country was host
to brutal warlords
and feudal provinces
who ruled the lives of everyone
under a quasi-unificatory banner,
like a huge forest
at the foot of a mountain
think i’ll head for the back roads
take in the wonder of a faint yellow sun,
green hills and snow
gently rolling thunder
passive triangular monuments
and the beauty of a town
bathed in studded pinnacles
all so far away now
like a memory from a century
300 years in the past,
when the country was host
to brutal warlords
and feudal provinces
who ruled the lives of everyone
under a quasi-unificatory banner,
like a huge forest
at the foot of a mountain
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Yak
Here's one from Revised Rudeness : Poems 1983-1991 -
old yak of the mountains
sits with crippled antlers
whilst he sings
from the last staggered trade post
to clouds of bluffing willow,
just Everest’s lonely pillows
in a vast and empty parish
old yak of the mountains
sits with crippled antlers
whilst he sings
from the last staggered trade post
to clouds of bluffing willow,
just Everest’s lonely pillows
in a vast and empty parish
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