writings by Inchiki


hello wand'ring friend. here it is. a poet made place:
ForkWord the internet space where i publish my poetry fresh from the flutes mouth (of my wandring mind). First of all, an exegesis:

♣ yesterday

was there something in the air that day?
in the bookshop next door we bought three books
(as i write, a rising wind cools my back, a drop of rain)
having read the three i conclude
the common man has everything to say, the uncommon nothing
(so i bought a notebook to say things
to try and catch the thunderbolt
to try and catch a whole storm!) it only requires a frame
i don't know but yesterday art was in the air and i wanted to catch it
this book is the trap that i will lay quietly open in the corner of one room maybe
wide spacey pages that will encourage things to flow in
faeries won't be scared to pay me a visit i'll be friends with anyone
(hope cools my wandering heart) (like the rain)

who is art?

advice for visitors: please just step over the mess and avoid any broken floorboards, as with life, and many of the good things in it, this is ever a work in progress.
what is forkword? //forkword = forked food for the mind.. a forked tongue spinning rhymes.. forked insights lancing through an inert frozen brain can take from it whatever you like.

a word about where i came from

Art finds herself in old notebooks, scraps of paper washed at the bottom of a pocket, forgotten conversations sprinkled with herbs and wine, torn pages from lost diaries. Some are resurrected here for a flash in the light of eternal time.

My earliest inspiration was S T C:

Hear, my beloved! an old Milesian story;
High and embosomed in congregated laurels,
Glimmered a temple, upon a breezy headland
In the dim distance, amid the skyey billows,
Rose a fair island; the God of flocks had blest it:
From the dim shores of this bleak resounding island,
Oft in the moon-light a little boat came floating,
Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland,
Where between myrtles a path-way stole in mazes,
Up to the groves of the high embosomed temple.
There in a thicket of consecrated roses,
Oft did a Priestess, as lovely as a vision,
Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea,
Pray him to hover around the light canoe boat,
And with invisible pilotage to guide it
Over the dusky waves, till the nightly sailor
Shiv'ring with ecstacy sank upon her bosom.
Now, by the immortals! he was a beauteous stripling,
Worthy to dream the sweet dream of young Endymion.

('Catullian Hendecasyllables' c1799)

Other influences have interfered with this traditional romantic stream within my writing - Hafiz, the Persian poet who wrote in an era of tightening religious puritanism, Basho and Ryokan the wandering childlike Japanese poet sages, old Vedic texts and the Guru Vachaka Kovai of Sri Ramana Maharshi, the Dhamapada with its words of chiseled diamond. These writings attempt to touch something beyond words and beyond thought. My other influences come from the beat era - which was itself influenced by much of the spiritual literature of the east. I suppose we are all influenced by the various rivers and streamlets of dialogue that have flown from all the revolutions that have shook the earth and the mind through modern times.

I am trying to do a lot through Forkword. Maybe some glimmer of the truth will shine from the swirling facets of verbiage that is heaped upon your screen. If you do see something sparkle, then you will recognize yourself in that light.

Inchiki 09 09 09