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.
Friday, 16 November 2012
until exile too is home (a poem)
My friend says we experience loss at every turn. We know about exile. Here the stoic stove-pipe emits its steely ticks, the flames transmuting earth and water back to air.
My longings carry me across the skies like swallows, until exile becomes a steady state, almost a benediction, and the longing for a home, for home, becomes in itself belonging.
A predominance of blue.
I learn of nourishment from the inconstancy of cloud, from transience, from loss. I remember
that the grass can grow without me. I set fire by mistake
to the inner forest, which seems more thickly-wooded every day.
I have an urge to cast myself upon the waves, be borne away like Neruda’s dark stone
knowing nothing of time, or homesickness.
© Roselle Angwin 2010
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