A few posts back I showed a photo and poem of one of the Order’s ‘Honorary Bards’ who have astounded us over the years at our Glastonbury gatherings with their poetry. Here’s another, Barry Patterson, with his poem about William Blake:
Big Bill Blake
Blake’s chest is filled by a wind roaring through time that does not heed convention or calamity
His mind knotted around a divine pressure behind his eyes, like a hangover or a coming fever
Face, frowning & laughing at the same time & no-one knows what thoughts are moving there
He doesn’t care what may or may not be visible to his audience, only that they understand.
His hands move suddenly, then they are still again, he can’t remain motionless in this atmosphere’s gloom
Head on fire, eyes burning, voice rising & falling in the song that he must sing
Everything alive within the horizon is stretching into the light, but we don’t ever see
Some say he’s crazy, but they only see danger in feelings set free into the wild of nature’s embrace.
It’s the Garden of Eden, every day, but nobody wants that to be true right now
A rat race run by parasites all too scared to wake up now & see the sun
The impossible is commonplace to them & innocence & freedom are hopelessly overwhelmed by their serious intentions
If someone mentions the war in heaven then they nod so wisely as if they really understood
But there is no war & no wall to contain the soul, only a down cast gaze in the heat of the mind made forge
Where chains of belief & disbelief are equal in their power to condemn the human race to slavery
& a chain is a chain whether it be forged from iron, lead or uranium, titanium or gold
Mere words you have been told are not enough to show the unseen landscape of humanity’s true heritage.
No ghost, no machine, no animal red in tooth & claw, no root no vine, no precious race
Only a heart beating light, a mind made transparent, unimagined, untrammelled, set free
The guilty globe of waking life, roaring with the primary pulsation of the senses is burst open
Like a soap bubble peeling itself apart from the point of penetration setting free the refractions from its surface
& a red haired man shouts & waves his arms about, he jumps up & down pointing at a wildflower, he says:
The cistern contains; the fountain overflows. One thought fills immensity.
What is now proved was once, only imagin’d: every thing possible to be believ’d is an image of truth.
I say: we are enslaved by an idea that we have about ourselves & we mock those who dare to question it.
Barry Patterson, June 2006
From the Collection ‘Nature Mystic’ published by Heaventree Press, 2008 See Barry’s website.