Darkly Bright Press presents a new poetic odyssey from Phillip Neal Tippin, the author of Ordinary Time. According to the poet:

This series traces the path to Mystery. The lines, while carrying the hope of the “through-ness” of space, frequently align with the fractious flagstones on which tread the day. Their ways and turnings followed where I went, because I go where they are heading. They have yet to come to their end.

The Pilgrimage / Phillip Neal Tippin

          Part 1

I hear a sheaved wind,
A wind that haws,
Furrows heaven’s row.

Big Dipper banners the sky
Before the reading porch
Orion lifts bow above the walk
To Ladder’s prayer door

I appreciate not growing more
If only to get to know my clothes.

Tailing winds rail this airy space
Place of passage, rutted through

The trees grow by reaching.

Leaf through a thought as on a walk
With the mind boughed aloft.
Midst cold and cloud,
Life burrows.

Attent I follow with vision alight,
Seccant I follow slinking askance,
Alas, twain I follow, begging
Bind up what lags behind!

If waters of the mind’s day are foul, brackish
So to oily, myriad will be its film, foam, froth

Nativity restored,
Integrated, First Person
So second person, we
The spoke, may speak

Not so much when as why

Dancing in Your art,
Under Your song
Elation of concert.

Lord, let me be
Glad to rest, rejoice
In second person.

          Part 2

Historical scientism 
Beguiles, dreams subjugate 
Fallen reason, fallow imaginations
Of future, project.

To delight in the face of it

Take to the oak hills partridged aloft 
For there are quiet sounds to enjoy

Ruminating floor and walls
Which grant my passing frame.

Noble blendings

I fish, follow, reflect in
The streams of 
Persons and place.

Avail myself of this wind
To sail past the point
I meant to make in turn.

The soft green scene
Is no careworn thing.
I had morn’d the dead-end
Trodden sod, which is lost 
Upon the all-willing Spring.

I have received that cup 
Of cold water as one 
Of the least of these
By one who would ask

Diviner of feeling, so gives
Both air and skin
Takes up the gift to bear
Both lash and tear

If hands are left the crust of the day
And with that lay a table for two
What does one expect
But to mumble
At best

          Part 3

Living the tech throws of engine
Mistake made, confusion of birth
Labor missed by trying to enter again
Pain gained not a winded wisp worth,
Nicodem us.  

Reinventing the wheel is abasing, futile
Rediscovering the wheel is world’s apart
Child’s wonder in a father’s affirming
No rebuttal, nor worthless, amateur muse
Each may delight to find out the marvelous

At April’s Pitch,
Daffodil and hyacinth spring
As also the softwooded do,
Beguiling even a maple or two,
Yet, I wonder if it’s too good 
To be true.

April is the snowiest month 
For it blows and blooms in white.

May upon April
The year grows
And finds its life
On the bud of the fore.

Whetted thrum of a rain finch dart.

April weighs winter wanting.

From winter day, May
Jumped straight to summer
With only spring in the eves.

          Part 4

To survey my Babel, Babylon
To be scattered, dew’d

Fleeing Forward
Hounded and harried
From behind the time

June sallies forth
Humid helmed and swarthy
To meet the heat 
Of a beast belly’s riven flame

A strawberry moon
And Saturn to boot.

I should speak rather than write
Unless writing is speaking.

I must live into some things
Quite extensively,

Science tyrannized
By Language
Language tyrannized 
By science
Nobody wins this time.

When eyes are drawn
To the brink dark ink-well
Drink blackness peering
Back flows the seeping tears
That would smear the pane.
For the light looking out
Is also looking in, through.

          Part 5

For want of words
To write the line 
Bounding beyond me
The bells of St Mary
Ford the river, toll
The gifting sound.

The little lane’s lithe quietude

You are like a pebble tossed midstream, 
Passage, water over passed, more or less
Yet, as the source roles the weaving shore
Feeds the flow of our known, shaping stones.

When one wakes past changing
Wakes at last to a growing

That which is born to me
Is born to thee
By being born of thee.

The Poet’s rhymed lines
Their texture rising to a sign
Of nature in the brailled eye.

Go out into the neighborways 
Compelled, compelling

Hoist the sap sodden section of
Fir so to foist upon the sod stack.

Sleep, futile, toil.
The mourning dew 
Glimpses the Morn
The Maiden Voyage
Upon the shore
Flies to Him from sea
To hear the call
Feed my sheep.”

The Pilgrimage: Part 6 – 10

All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2020-2021 by Phillip Neal Tippin. All rights reserved.

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