Other Poems
Michael Cope
 

Poetry

Rain
GHAAP
Scenes & Visions
Some Examples of
       Silence
for the time being
Crossing the Desert
back view
Other Poems
Song Lyrics
A Virtual Anthology
YouTube Poems
Cautionary Verses


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circle of silence

it conspires the new beginning
it flies with the cloud
it becomes the page of the book which is itself
it is a dance which continues
it is a very small scrap of information
it is an enormous monument
it is in a dream
it is a long chinese scroll painting by an old man whose beard is a wisp
it is a joke that cannot be comprehended
it is a vector
it is a whorled touch
it is an arrow that is static at every moment in time
it is an enclosure
it is your destination
it is in a house with ten doors
it hides in eyes
it is the internal combustion of the machinery of death
it pleads
it has no accent
it is in transit
it is an utterance
it is sweet
it is the very tip of the furthest growth of dandelion fluff
it is the only self-portrait
it dances across divinity
it plays on a soft skin drum
its left foot is carefully poised on the back of a demon
it emerges from the ice black of space
it is a palace of delight
it vibrates through the scattered tinkle of instruments of sound
it rises from the east
it proclaims another day
it chases after poets
its head is a nebula
it indicates a direction
it heralds an arrival
it corrects all errors
it resides in the blossomed cage
it is aspected
it is an endless end
it makes love
it is unique
it talks in tongues
it confounds theologians
it pierces every womb
its exhibition is the hillside
it amuses the patriarchs
its buildings are more intricate than a spider’s web in the dew-thrown dawn
it is structured like mist
it is banded against the cold
it is a route-map of the head
it is a monolith of unworked air
it ends its journey into the expanse
it waits in the sky
it shines along the edge of a new leaf
it is thought to be insane
it is forever and ever
it is the only one
it is beyond belief
it is the desperate lizard caught
it is beautiful
it is the wishbone of the phoenix
it is the only possession of mankind
it is the pristine benediction
it is a one-way cul-de-sac
it is a test of faith
it is a symphony in three-four time in a major key
it is the result of every prayer
it is a dying man perpetually engaged in writing a will
it is an ethereal ecstasy
it is a command
it is supreme
it is a garment that must be worn
it is a depth that cannot be attained by endeavour
it is richly inhabited
it is behind a lead wall of fantasy
it makes real
it kills
it shouts the way
it waits
it undoes all knots
it judges itself
it summarizes all conditions
it sees through vision
it hovers motionless sixty feet below the quicksilver surface of the sea
it takes you closer
it warms the fire on cold nights
it uncovers
it protects
it delays
it displays new wonders on every side
it relinquishes thirst
it beats
it lifts its head from the bed where it lies dying
it stalks deer through the unbelieving forest
it enchants the moon
it takes you to your father’s house
it is the teacher of all knowledge
it is enthroned in the highest court
it is the death tooth of every shark
it is far away
it is a private cosmos
it is immediate
it continues
it is the immutable myth
it breathes into clay
it rules by force
it is the philosopher’s stone
it is streaked with life
it provides meaning
it wears the gaunt face of starvation
it is a bright flower with a thousand petals
it is plastered with stars
it lives under a bo tree
it ceaselessly decays
it is purged
it is laid bare in music
it looks up into the sunlight
it prays in a cloister
it is perceived as a complicated mosaic
it is the subtle flavour of an unknown tropical fruit
it shows itself as sound
it appears on the road to galilee
it is in love
it is cast out
it sees no evil
it is splendid permanence
it is eaten by microbes
it causes that which all fear
it refers to itself
it is pregnant
it is our mother
it remembers itself
it advises the rulers
it is a liar
it is a new angle of insight
it hums down wires
it inspects the creation
it is not yet bourne
it contemplates contemplation
it has strong bark
it offers riches to the poor
it carries the sun on a yo-yo string
it asks no price
it distributes precious gems in the early morning
it exists by hearsay
it has no pockets
it changes its face at every moment
it springs a hundred fold from nowhere
it invests in love
it reshuffles the calling cards
it recalls the distant future
it lives in a well by the side of the road
it grows old and dies
it crucifies its martyrs
it comes from the cardinal points
it prepares
it breaks when dropped
it never falls
it happens while you love
its kingdom is deity
its food is return
its beginning is nameless
its shuttlecock is a galaxy
its struggle is with defeat
its end is humanity
its children play with thunder in the green
it is the sky-unleashed lightning speed of the leopard of death
it is the grand destruction
it is the phallus of the earthquake
it is the fool
it is satan’s best friend
it is the convulsion of the body
it is held in a copper lamp
it is adorned with a turban of silk
it is a product of belief
it is the intention of the wise
it is all the knowledge of the circulating wheel
it is the hessian boot of the cold peasant
it is the spoken word of the usher of love
it is malleable
it is time-consuming
it is a mantra
it is a giant transformer
it tabulates the hair in all beards
it publishes the balance-sheet of hatred
it tarnishes the leaves of summer
it predicts itself
it is a speculation on the precise nature of nothing
it is the price
it is the payment
it is the donor
its name is ransom
its mutability is permanent
its face is a blasphemy
its love is a sacrament
it plays among the hedges in the garden of despair
it delights in the particular shade of red under a bird’s wing
it holds a planetary carnival
it plunders the cosmos
it plays bridge at parties
it hides in the tarot deck
it distinguishes nothing
it is the true sound
it is the melody
it is limitless
it is that which is unutterable
it is the truth
it is the unbroken singing will
it is the eyeless sight
it causes all forms to appear
it sustains the nether world
it is soundless
it cannot be left
it has no gate
it is no-thing
it is a fruit ripening in season
it is a trap out of grievous error
it is a glazed error
it is a relentless pursuer
it stumbles down hillsides
it grows
it is the flaring of a match
it is the voice of a dying valley
it is the gesture of a young girl who hides behind a narrow pillar
it is uncertain
it is never quenched
it is the softest hair on the inside of a thigh
it has a gun in its pocket
it is convoluted grey
its somnambulism twists the course of the wind
it cheats at cards
it unlooses a poem
it encloses surprises
it recreates recreation
it rearranges the constellations
it has nails in its hands
it bombards the retina with the too-long day
it drinks hemlock in the forum of clouds
it uncovers the hidden flower in the thicket
it instructs
it alters its own destiny
it lives in all lands
its labour-pains are immense
it has a secret purpose
it rides invisible vehicles
it learns a new way of life
its brushstroke is three-dimensional
it commits suicide
it wears a silver bangle
its gestures are mystic
it is older than itself
its torque is matter
it causes disease
its agony is evident
it is the smoke from a chimney in the frost-sparkled morning in winter
it pervades the globe
it proceeds at all times towards annihilation
it catches pox in a house in paris
it has a brightly coloured face
it includes you
it flies past
it is like the blue-grey eel in water, folding back on itself
it lies asleep
it causes a dream awakening
it begins in a manger
it is a predator
it is the next stage
it belongs to a child who throws it into the sea
it savours the delights
it constructs radio-telescopes to scan the void
it carries a full bowl of milk
it studies a crystal ball
it is the thing that makes you hungry
it is the word made flesh
it is the unheard sound
it is the unknowable knowledge
it simply is
it is the promise of things that were
it is the knowledge of good and evil locked in a casket and cast into the sky
it is narcissus with no pool
it is perpetual motion
it is the bright machine of light, breaking the inner eye
it is the cause of sin
it is the source of redemption
it is the air made fresh after rain on dust and tear
it answers the summons
it spaces out at even paces the measurements of the sky
it causes silence
it is metered out to those who wish to die
it denies itself through man
it surrounds
it radiates
it outweighs the fear of death
it encompasses the compass
it is closer than a lover
it saves us from itself
it is most elegant
it wears gloves
it is a cartoonist
it emerges from a seed to set fire to the sun
it plays a harp
it is the gramophone in the sky
it points a finger
it slanders goliath
it chants om
it is the sound of a half-remembered flute
it is unlike any other
it is not subject to relativity
it is the quiet movement of light on the silvered underside of a leaf in spring
it is the king returned to his country
it is the quality of colour that is caught on a gold tooth
it is a servant
it is beyond
it is within
it is the mirror on every scale of the dragon
it is the writer of strange fiction
it is the maker of universes
it is an explosion in the night
it is a statement concerning
it is the feeling of two become one in the dark
it is lighter than the fire of hate
it is the star itself
it is the hard shiny back of a beetle in the rain
it is the light from the sun that has not yet reached the planet
it is the glowing tip of a cigarette that ignites the world
it is the fuel
it is the prison-house of refuge
it is the drooping of the seasons
it is the miasma of every city
it is the bane of victory
it is the antithesis of passion
it is the heart of desire
it is the container of the planet
it is a yardstick which is engaged in measuring itself
it has never started
it is a thief
it possesses the dispossessed
it is perpetually unlacing a corset of steel
it manipulates the end of all that is indestructible
it is the silent crest of the wave that has not yet broken
it has armies in preparation
it returns through the dew

circle of silence was written in 1973

the only other extant copy of
circle of silence
was typed on an old underhill
onto several pieces of cloth,
which were then stiched into a loop