on your pages
are my connections.
a calling forth,
you re-appear in my
Actors from my being with,
come to me,
and make me remember.
I give him such a verbal and written lashing, so it’s nice to find these words from Descartes which inspire me!
It might seem strange that opinions of weight are found in the works of poets rather than philosophers. The reason is that poets wrote through enthusiasm and imagination; there are in us seeds of knowledge, as of fire in a flint; philosophers extract them by way of reason, but poets strike them out of imagination, and then they shine more bright.
—Descartes (in Applebaum 1995).
So too the native bees, lizards and birds.
A brutal pruning,
outside my window.
Perhaps a neat and tamed form to some,
But I dream
of the wispy new
luscious green branches and leaves.
This is where the grey goshawk had perched,
calculating so carefully.
Could it take the sand monitor below?
I stare outside this window
Feel the essence of these plants,
May new shoots
be born from rising humidity,
new growth sprout in UNRULY form.
connected silence, in
conversation with country.
Words as feelings,
passing through the soles of my feet.
Tone changes as we leave
pandanas forest and rise over dunes.
Serge of excited babble as we
onto a stretch of white sandy beach.
Blue, blue, blue
screaming at me…
Hurry up! Dive!
But when we get to the freshwater paperbark,
you tell me
Conversation finds its way into
Black and blue dancers
float under the canopy.
Never touching the ground.
Filed under Poetry, Walking
to this place
feels odd in a way.
A part of me, some kind of awaress
all of the time.
always walking the murga scrub,
singing in the flood plain.
welcomed me back the other day,
left me with mouth open,
heart cracked open,
drinking in the colour of country
as I flew over Roebuck Bay.
seeing it when I thought I had none;
pulling me out,
taking me away from what is: