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

Friday, 2 June 2017

100-word prose poems from Chris Vermeijden

I'd forgotten where I'd posted the invitation to write, as practice, little 100-word prose poems. Turns out it was at the end of my last newsletter.

I'm delighted to post two here from Chris Vermeijden, whose many little prose poems written on my online poetry course knocked me out.


Yesterday I came back to The Island, leaving at dawn with only a small case, my two dogs and a thermos. Full throttle, I came rushing back through Tyndrum's open snow gates, barrelling my way through Glencoe in an habitual rite of passage, the sun highlighting windscreen and streams. I bridged the Kyle breaking chains as I let go of the mainland. I came back over the high moor towards home to see the sea surging to greet me, heaving across the loch in welcoming waves. This is where I become insignificant. This is where I come back to myself.

Today time moves at a different speed, the ancient earth and rock that surround me are steeped with the stories of the years, stories that are revealed slowly, piece by piece, as I become part of their ritual, learning to understand the language of their song. I sit in contemplation until dusk approaches and distant pier lights appear. The loch dons a nightgown of silk that ripples as she turns. Darkness rolls towards me from over the ridge, buffeting against the cliffs that sheer down to the sea, absorbing another day. I am so near the edge I may fall.


© Chris Vermeijden

1 comment:

  1. I really like the way the narrator's voice feels like an essential part of the island. Like a migratory bird, it flies back as if pulled by a magnet. I love the sense of urgent return.

    Then in the second the voice is well rooted, showing us exactly what it's like to be so intimate with the place. I particularly like the last 3 sentences of this second prose poem, especially 'The loch dons a nightgown of silk that ripples as she turns.' Gorgeous.

    Thank you, Roselle and Chris,
    Miri xx


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