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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