from BARDO

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.

Roselle Angwin

Monday, 28 July 2014

those damnable wormholes

Folks, nomads, vagrants, poets, scientists, mystics, believers and non-believers, readers cherished and afar and both, I'm currently stuck in a wormhole in the space/time continuum. Normal service might be resumed at some stage in the past/present/future/eternal now, if I ever bump into it (normal service) again. 

To compensate, here are a couple of poems from the first course I ever led in France, perhaps back in the last century where, with a broken collarbone and ribs, pain kept me awake enough as to write a lot of poems in the middle of the night. I'm posting them because I'm already anticipating the next course I'm running in the south of France, in a month's time (actually, less than that), because I've just heard that the book in which they appear, my first collection, Looking For Icarus, will be reprinted next March, and because it reminds me that out of the wormhole I can sometimes write poetry.

PS: I'm OK. Having a little difficulty with my navigation skills and the small matter of getting some sleep. I;'m blaming Saturn, as I often do.

PPS: if I've got the Hertz wrong, please don't tell me.  Or perhaps do.

In Transit

The woodpecker’s green laughter
has called us back to ourselves

in the space between the inbreath
and the out, where we vibrate

like the earth at 7.8 Hertz

we sense that beyond and all around us

everything has rearranged itself
molecules subtly remade; and nothing

is quite as it was, even you and I
just a moment ago, before.

Source Nord, 3 a.m.

At three o’clock a little wind gets up
gets up and walks in the garden
At three o’clock a little wind gets up

The creatures of the moon
dance under the moon
dance under the moon

                                                everything is permitted
                                                everything is blown away

The moon is another country
Her people are the lives
                                                we   don’t   live                                   

© Roselle Angwin 2005/2014

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