The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.
Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made
is star-stuff too?
– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –
dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.
Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.
Monday, 2 May 2011
reluctantly part of the political machinery
Osama bin Laden dead – what does that mean for the Arab world, for us? This world so enduring, so transient. Change the only constant. Our penny towards the future: Bank Holiday Monday, beans to go in, but now leafletting for the Greens. River Dart, dreaming of trout and drownings. Confetti of willowseed-froth on its slow surface. Chill wind. Wild garlic flowers and a meadow, sandwiched between road bridge and road bridge, of slumbering ginger South Devon cattle. Dog walkers, runners, people ringing their bike bells. One tiny determined snail. Plaintive whistle of the steam train. Wastelots and hoardings and the beginnings of fireweed husting the cracks. It's spring and I'm still alive! And oh wisteria! Drapes and festoons of wisteria! Glimpses of lives along the river, the backstreets: a teenage girl, eyes puffy with crying; the artist's studio, coffee and sculpture; Ohsocozy's antispetic backyard; the elderly woman eager to shadow the letterbox, lonely for a letter, not a leaflet, a visit not a circular; a raised voice; gnome refuge – a whole suburban theme park of gnomes in a couple of square yards; a lost corner, an ancient yew; a notice in a window, with photo, run off on a domestic printer, telling us the youngish occupant died suddenly and recently - come to the wake, here, yes in her house, wear your brightest colours, be summer (and the abandoned littered plate, empty glass, on her wall); old guy gardening: 'Well I don't usually vote this way, but after our chat about runner beans girl I just might'; girl asleep in her campervan right outside her front door; a flame blaze of azalea in a derelict garden; a duck and three drakes; geese overhead. Tired feet now. Mind returning to bin Laden. The snail, two hours and two yards further on towards snail-goal. Thrush starting up a rainsong in the silver birch. River, waiting, lazing, dreams of trout.
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- books of wings
- Elements of Poetry: next course
- wildlife, magpies & panic (incl poem)
- the common bough beneath the surface
- after the strawberries & the woodpecker: Charles W...
- cliffs, strawberries and being awake in the gap......
- enviro-rant (you have been warned)
- Keats & the 'Vale of Soul-making'
- Poem: the watcher behind the windows; Sue Proffitt...
- 'I write' (Charles Wright extract)
- the springs of creativity
- the branscombe day
- social media, stellar time and Rippon Tor
- blue boat 2
- Poetry: resisting the intelligence; shirt tails; a...
- poem: going into the meadow after the retreat
- a tree full of birds: what stories do we need?
- this spring rain: politics and a prose poem
- George Monbiot; and the Dark Mountain project
- bicarb and lemon juice
- like a kite on air: Jane Spiro (poem)
- LITTORALS: land art & poetry on the beach - worksh...
- YES to AV
- the spaces of the heart 2: Chris Drury's land art
- the spaces of the heart 1: Rumi
- reluctantly part of the political machinery
- a Beltane blog (inc poem)
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