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, 10 April 2015
saharan dust & a haibun-sort-of-prose-poem
I know it's not right-on to be disappointed. I'm not underestimating the climatic effects of FPP (fine particle pollution), and I'm aware that if you're asthmatic you probably dread FPPs.
TM was disgusted when I said it was romantic. But isn't it? Just a little? In these more northern latitudes to have a sprinkling of red dust from the wind that perhaps will bring the swallows back, all the way across the Med, Spain, France and the English Channel to here, so that Spring might properly begin?
Way back in the early years of this century and millennium, poet Rupert Loydell and I agreed on a collaboration: we'd write, by email over 100 days, 100 haibun-like prose poems of exactly 100 words each, plus an envoi. We intertwined: whichever of us wrote the 100 words, the other wrote the envoi, and we also had a linking mechanism. The book was called A Hawk Into Everywhere (now sadly out of print), and it remains a project I'm proud of. It was also very exciting to create such a thing collaboratively, and the feedback on it was excellent.
For red Saharan dust, and hirundines (the swallow family), here's one:
#29. HEART OF SAND
Flavours, colours, names of the winds. Mistral, scirocco, tramontana, migrating over land masses, oceans. Contagious; madness, anxiety, restlessness, unspecified yearning. Salt-foam and fish of the blustering westerlies; sherbet-stainless-steel of the tricksy easterlies, setting horses skittering. The wind off the Urals that flattened the Fens and the fenlanders. Your car misted one morning with red Saharan dust; wind-skirts full of swallows, laden with odour of spices and rose. The dark tents of the Bedouin rocking with reek of camel dung, hashish, incense. Indigo and aubergine nights. Grit that gets into your eyes and makes you ache all through.
Villages in flames, forgotten meanings, the etiquette of rejection.
© Roselle Angwin & Rupert Loydell, 2001 (Stride)
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