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

Sunday, 28 February 2016

prose poem from guest contributors: 13 Lindsay MacGregor

We're now nearly at the end of this month-long project of mine. There'll be one more, tomorrow, 29 February, and then on Tuesday (time permitting; if not, Wednesday), I shall post the final prose poem, with a general commentary on the month and the work submitted. I've loved reading all your writings, and am delighted that so many of you – too many, as it happens – have sent in prose poems. We may do something similar another time.

Today's little prose poem from Lindsay draws strength from its overt simplicity but huge implicit range.

Blue Sky Thinking
Have you ever longed to visit an alpine sanatorium where you could sit on a terrace and stare into the middle distance? We are never so far from the edge of thin ice that our hearts can be stilled. And what if this alpine sanatorium to which we now imagine you have been sent requires that you listen to ambient music, day and night? Psychiatrists in Zurich predict you would come to question the concept of self. Or lower your standards. You think of a snail. You think of a snail on the step of the terrace. You think of a snail on the step of the terrace being crushed by a boot. There is no distance.

© Lindsay MacGregor

Lindsay lives near Cupar in Fife, Scotland, and co-hosts Platform, a regular music and poetry night at Ladybank Station. Her pamphlet, The Weepers, is published by Calder Wood Press.

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