Fickle Hill

Joseph Massey has another publication out – a broadside (one page fold-out) from Anchorite press called Fickle Hill. He very kindly dedicated it to me and below there is the correspondence that passed between us which may interest you. The pdf version of the poem Joe sent me for perusal was in a slightly different order to that shown on the link. The darker type which starts the poem and then continues towards the bottom was in fact continuous: “ripped against / brush / bunched at the hill's lip” and “What syllables” ran into “what light...” (see Joe's comment to this post – the change in sequence is illusory)

Steven,

First off: thanks for the heads up on RG's birthday. He's one of my favorites, too. I've never made personal contact with him but perhaps I should try. I'll send him a copy of Property Line when it comes out.

Attached find the manuscript of a poem I dedicated to you -- written last month -- that will be published soon as a decorative fold-out broadside by Anchorite Press. Hope you like it. I tried to do something formally a little different for me in this piece. The forward momentum I tried to generate, by breaking the poem in the way that I did -- the energy -- reminded me of your blog, the things you say about feeling, energy, power, etc.

Joe

Hi Joe


The more I read Fickle Hill the stronger it gets (it's alive!)

It's also just so pertinent to the work we do, especially the work we are doing now, that it almost reads like an instruction manual.

The exercise central to our present work is what my teacher calls the Salutation – a simple enough practice that involves engaging with the heavens, the earth, the horizons and the imaginary person in front of us (the other) with the arms and heart whilst standing and moving in our special sunk posture. Dawn draws out / the landscape's margins perfectly describes the reaching of the arms – not just describes but evokes that mood of respect that's required to make our movements meaningful. through fog is simply our sacred mist – the mist-like energy that rises from the earth when we soften and sink our own energy down into it. ripped against is my reminder that the movements of the arms need to rip (my teacher's word exactly) the heart and chest open – that my own resistance and tension (brush / bunched) must be violently cut into – engaged – for the movements to similarly bite into heaven/earth/horizon & especially the other. This is where our work differs most from Eastern approaches: we don't sit on our arses and pleasantly forget self – we engage it in battle, and this engagement mirrors our relationship with everything else – we engage as a tiger does with the prey he is about to pounce and consume. the hill's lip (a stunningly beautiful expression) is simply the battle ground. I love the way the first page seems to resolve on brush and then one turns the page (something that always seems to take me an age) and is confronted by the wonderful richness and muscularity of bunched at the hill's lip – if that doesn't remind me to bring my spirit up and become physical then nothing will. Swaths of sun / muted – sibilant softness – the gentle hiss of light and energy as it expands the perceived world. (Seeing the word swaths (not sure if it's not the first time) brought to mind, if only momentarily, swastika, swaddling and swart gevaar – a complicated moment!) With the next sentence – What syllables / what light / articulates – the mood really changes as the poet (and Heartworker) becomes self-conscious, but not just conscious of self as a separate observing entity, but as a being, like the sun, that illuminates and brings alive in the act of opening the heart and embracing what he sees. It is not enough to simply engage and become involved – become another participant – one must be acutely aware of one's responsibilities and duties towards the rest of creation as one is, indeed, intimately involved in its creation. This is crucial & key to how you, Joseph Massey, differ from all your peers and all who went before, and why to call your work retro is ridiculous. You force me to wake up to a real visceral, almost bloody, engagement with my world, my work, my loved ones (the poem) yet at the same time you force me to hold it all in my palm and face up to my responsibilities – to actually put a value on it all and say, in all honesty, yes this is my life and I will die for it whenever necessary. That takes real power – the power of heart and commitment. Web ends the line and starts a new sentence – the web of connectedness – right in the middle of the poem – the central word – the central theme – the process that binds it (us) all together – the natural and the divine combined. The vastness of everything suddenly focusing down onto a particular spider's web with a leaf caught in it – Web / one leaf / hung from it / in a halo of / diesel exhaust – Williamsesque in its observation, humour and staggered 3 line form. And yet with what weight! A leaf as symbol of poet, of man, of Jesus hung on the cross, of modern man busy destroying his environment, his planet, and himself with his noxious emissions – about to fall from the web – precariously hanging by one tiny thread – still claiming his divinity (his halo) and yet about to destroy it all. It's a very sad but necessary reminder of the sobriety, seriousness and weight of our responsibilities – one false move and we perish – that posture must be perfect – the time for mistakes is over. The mood continues as the sound of diesel extends into distant and discern with A flowering shrub / too distant to discern / its color (this brings to my mind Himalayan rhododendrons, the most precarious species on the planet. Because they are so sensitive their habitats are only a few square meters, and each day many varieties are wiped off the face of the earth by road construction.) The dis sound – disrespect – disconnexion – disheartenment – the negative – the thing we must all fight. The struggle at hand is to reveal our true colours. The flowering shrub – our essential nature – too distant to discern its color, and the cloud's just covered the hill anyway, so we must go inside ourselves and approach it internally, and for that we need energy (mist – cloud), spirit and teaching – the Sun. Suddenly there's Sun – nothing more positive in existence – mentioned for the second time – and ending a line as did Web. The spirit and/of the teaching, through the Salutation, ignites the energy and the student, and forces him into a space at once unclear, mysterious, veiled, frightening, dangerous, a space from which one can emerge reborn, renewed, to start again, a little emptier of self, a little fuller of the world, and a little more entwined.


There you go, I've torn your beautiful poem to pieces for you, but its taught me a great deal – especially to struggle with my fearful need for clarity – it is far more important to engage with mystery as a process of deepening connexion rather than an intellectual or physical challenge to illuminate. I have just realised that this is the lesson my teacher has been presenting me with for months now & I've been too full of myself to see. The unknown is not there to be uncovered – or to be revealed – but to be entered.

You're a genius – my hero – look after yourself – the planet needs you – humanity needs you.


Steven



I'd like to post this on my blog sometime – with your permission – maybe once the poem is out there – partly to show the TaiChi people who read it, many of whom whinge about the poems I post ("I never hear the poets complain about the TaiChi," I subtly point out), that poetry isn't just sentimental musing but is a vital teaching to those open enough to let it bite into them.

Steven,

That's a very beautiful reading of my poem! Thank you. And it confirms why I felt in my gut that a dedication to you was right. The idea to do that just landed and stuck, and for good reason. I'm very happy the piece works for you, and on so many levels. Deeply appreciated.

Yes, feel free to post it!

Honored.

yrs

Joe