Mountain Path

Why I'm writing about this is an incomplete mystery to me;
Three times over I've tried not to, and now here I am,
At Fool o'clock at night, not listening to any rain
And having to wax helical.

The first part:
Walking down the wide-to-narrow, grey becomes green road
Toward the River Cam with Mr V, glanced right
Guy wire on a telegraph pole, dayglo plastic twist-snaked around it
(wasn't there later, just to wind me up)
Calling: “Look at me! Look at me! Simple! Simple!”
Why I enjoy so much these somewhat elegant plastic Telecom spirals escapes me
But enjoy them I do - “Watch out, there's a wire here” said with uncomplex craft -
I'm happy, when I see them, for whoever invented it. Yes, odd.

The second part (which followed quickly):
On down the hill, just pondering on the above, this time glanced left
A wicker basket in a living room window
Top looped with the marvellous matching glossy cane spiral round the handle
The two twists pulled, with me in the middle of the road
Loving the absurd tension in mind and street:
Orange plastic, split branch, Padmavyuha,
Seeing them in my imagination dangling spring down
Like graffiti sideburns from a Jewish zealot.

The third part, later, later:
Found myself halfway through scribbling this poem's prototype,
Interrupted by a few hours in the company of our friend anachronistic
Me, Mr V and the Devapalita Bird, the three of us end up in the kitchen
Watching the earth move around the sun, turning the air yellow;
Me, playing with fire, I permit myself to hear the setting sun music through my eyes' ears
- great orchestral golden ships iceberged slowly -
Wondered (wandered) about the music of Mr V, then reached for the sound of
The two bright helices gently laurel, laurelling down,
Clarinetting down, depth charging my tight-fitting heart, driving a fist
Through my defence against mad music, making lovely painful demands
Which might take me Who Knows Where?

The last part is being written now:
If I walk up the twirling music, I know I'll meet them, coming down
What is it to be - the life of slurry, or the life of shatter?
They will have an answer of me, and I'm scared, and how does their music sound?
The thing moves full spiral
I can't come to the end, which leads on and out,
Brilliant out
Into the Blue beyond the blue Beyond.

© 2000 Dharmachari Padmavyuha back...