A Spoken Voice.

Past and this morning mixed in a landscape and music.

I first heard this during a snowstorm. When white fell with the music. Trees hung bound hands down to the loch in storm reverence. Touch the water. The sky was washed without any other sound but plucked strings. Pieces fell.

A brief silence.

A line was drawn across the dark by a water bird sailing. A ghost hunted, quartering my personal landscape with a prayed map of prey. Silver light was married briefly to the board washed morning sky.

Tones played across white paper. Writing began with a lack of colour but brought with it a joyful dance.

Across my footprints in the snow.

A spoken voice in the language of these small islands

And a seabird wind fighting the shore

Mountains far shouted

To a mourn of the sea

Drum sounds hanging in time then falling

Around a rush of stone

Where worship wept

And a carved wooden cross

Was fixed to the sky

A cry in the seal voice on these rocks

And the piping of the small ones

Rising from the falling waters

Grasses that flow as your hair

Fine washed with face mist cleaned

Land that folds as you do.

A shawl that panics about your head

And a brief squall that falls across the water

Wet that cleaves to your body, darkening your clothes

A buzzard that echo mews in a depthless sky

Hanging in the world moving beneath its watchful circle

As a word presumed spoken direct to your mind

In the language of hunters and islands

Heather scratches its purple marks across rock and mountainside

Writing the words you say but cannot hear in the arguments of the restless

Hinds gather in command at the top of a lower hill.

Swept of its loneliness and sun shadows

Suddenly bright as laughing

And the owl ghost of you flies beyond me and into soft wet light

You rest silently into these stormed landscapes and love your present thoughts

Lingering in the white spinning air

 

 

Author's Note

The music was the late Martyn Barrett The Wedding. Listen to him if you get the chance.
The image is mine and is the view at the back of my house as I write.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

"the cross fixed to the sky" is such a cool line....again you mix the idea of writing, with nature so well...

the stormed landscapes of the mind rest silently waiting for our pens to linger.

beautiful write.

jacob

[Ken Simm.]

Glad you like it Jacob thankyou.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i always like your voice, Ken.

[ANTO]

"Heather scratches its purple marks across rock and mountainside
Writing the words you say but cannot hear in the arguments of the restless" - knocked me spark over!

Your a cut above Ken and Im really enjoying getting into your poetry.
Thanks for the RR my friend. :)

[Ken Simm.]

A sincere thank you across the Giants causeway from Staffa where I was a couple of days ago and is not so far away.

[TL Boehm]

A surreal, chilly poem that shrouds the heart as it's read. That quiet space where shadows breathe and the earth shifts at the periphery. A magic write.

[Ken Simm.]

You do say the most amazing things about my efforts Tammy. I am eternally grateful.

[Angi]

Ken,
I find myself (once again) tiptoeing around one of your poems. The first lines whisper for me to walk softly as the snow falls upon me. The trees bound to the loch in reverence makes this place feel holy. The spare notes seem to echo off the flakes. This draws me in. I can almost feel the chilled beauty.

I like that the Narrator is sitting quietly, observing. The bird drawing a line across the sky, calling to an old ghost or ghosts. The flash of silver as the light shifts. Very haunting scene. The Narrator is using the place to pull memories forth. He is a writer, an artist. He begins to hear an inner voice and he writes.

The sensuality is weaving through the words. I feel like the N is not a young man. The "buzzard echoing mews" and "hanging" as the world slowly spins its way with it's ageless mountains, stones and the sea lends this feeling.

The N is remembering his own life and love. He is also feeling a stirring in his blood that speaks from the very land. This poem calls to me the ancient battles of the heart. It is an old place.

In the end, N struggles to capture the essence of the feelings struck upon. The light shifts, the ghosts drift and he has but a taste of what he feels and what he wants to capture on his white paper.

The last line has me seeing a ray of light or mote, the tiny specks spinning and dancing inside. The N is still sitting and is moved all at once.

You make me wax poetic every time I read you, Ken. Beautiful stuff, man. Angi~

[Ken Simm.]

That exactly Angi. I love it when reviewrs show me more than I've seen myself. I cannot thank you enough.

[h d e rushin]

I cant tell where the voice of effusive (archaic) love ends and the spoken voice begins yet they
both flow out of you Ken with brilliance and effulgentia. When Dylan Thomas wrote "Fern Hill"
he was attempting to recount the childhood visits to his aunts farm while being oblivious
to the passing of youth. If we all could just capture the beautiful for just as instance,
then write about it as it's happening in the vision of God then the sacred would be far less
mysterious. And youth would be less distant.

Like your poem "Dreams and Reasoning" there is restlessness you speak of my friend.
A restlessness that says, "its not good enough to just see or watch a thing. You have to
feel it against your skin...

wonderfully written....dana

[Ken Simm.]

That penultimate line "its not good enough......" says it all Dana. There are only two others besides you here who can tell me what and why I have written something.

[Jimmy Yetts]

Both poem and landscape certainly say something: misty musical murmurs make mountainsides mystical.
Your work--in both arts--Ken, is exceptional--and, frankly, regularly embarrasses the rest of us.
Dumb down a bit, bro.

[Ken Simm.]

Er..... sorry I'll try. Thank you in the meantime for such a great review.

[~]

And what an image! My goodness!! There is so much life in this poem!!!! I love the contrasting colors and the sighs and movements in nature. I tried to listen to the song you suggested, but I could not find it on youtube. Instead I listened to another song of Martin, like his voice.

[Ken Simm.]

On his last album before he died, Grit, Martyn used traditional Gypsy voices in his multi layered songs. If you can get hold of it well worth a listen. He has been called a sort of Scottish Moby but I think he is much more than that.
I am honoured you like the above ramblings, thank you.

[Lydia Shutter]

You must live in an idyllic setting to be able to write such glorious words about what you see out the back door. Music is such a large part of our lives. It can bring us to the heights and lift us when we are in the depths. Mother Nature dances neath your pen. I especially enjoyed these lines:
"Grasses that flow as your hair
Fine washed with face mist cleaned
Land that folds as you do.
A shawl that panics about your head
And a brief squall that falls across the water
Wet that cleaves to your body, darkening your clothes"
The sensuality of these lines...the romance....is brilliant. Wonderful work, Ken. Lydi**

[Ken Simm.]

Aw shucks is all that is dancing neath my pen this evening. Thanks Lyndi he says scuffing his toe and looking downward.

[Lydia Shutter]

I only say what I feel when I read your words....you deserve the praise!

[LJW]

I have just read this during a snowstorm, a storm that is adding another foot to 2 feet of snow that fell a few days ago.
The wind is howling.
Your words are humbling.

[Ken Simm.]

What great things to say my friend. And I am honoured.

[Leslie Philibert]

What I like here is the form, this is a fine mix of lyric and prose, written in poetically impressive language.

[Ken Simm.]

You spoil me Leslie. Thank you.