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.
Sunday, 15 December 2013
the isness of this
There is no more that needs to be said than this insightful little phrase, akin to a Zen koan, the teaching riddles that Zen masters ask their pupils to meditate on: 'What did you look like before your parents conceived you?'
Isn't that what we all seek, all the time – some sense of timelessness, permanence, behind the appearances of things, behind change and transience? And isn't that, too, what a good poem might give us*, or point to; for which we go to poetry, art, music, dance – or love?
dusk falls on the trees
the blackbirds' thrushes' redwings'
small songs wake the stars
for love – forgetting we're all
this small wind
coming to rest
on my face
© Roselle Angwin December 2013
* not suggesting these little haiku do, mind!
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