- Vol. 05
- Chapter 12
This thing of turbulence, aloft on and (then) sinking. Into, handmade my fingers (in) bereft (and then).
When we realise/d that – on the momentous day when – at that moment – o
that it really was flight, this lifting
belly of self
self touching. To the point of. It. Is. Interstellar
transport, here and (then) here
Self-generate delta-v (propellant, thrust) & slip earth
gravity beyond the Kármán line.
believing that’s hard. This ripple
~ spacetime ~
soft as. That we have been
time lighting lights seeding nebulae
from our unknowing.
"i never met a girl named echo before"
echo echo incantation
echo echo lamentation
echo echo silted river
echo echo meandering
echo echo wave upon wave
echo echo umbilical
echo echo spirit daughter
echo echo pleurocera
echo echo texture velvet
echo echo favourite clothing
echo echo ruched up sideways
echo echo pissed at bus stops
echo echo up the junction
echo echo alluvial
Read more >
echo echo fallen ego
echo echo glitter word hoard
There is a tear in her / She was torn / He tore her
a new universe
describes the known
surfaces which never seem
to change facts like
a tear / She, torn / He tore
galaxies so vast
and the direction always
since city light
Tear in her / she / He
a cold somewhere
Tear / her / hisRead more >
I think I can remember walking into the garden, over damp grass, worrying about snails. Through the bars of the rusty climbing frame, we looked up at the light-polluted sky. Even in a city you could see it, Wikipedia tells me.
Comet Hale–Bopp (formally designated C/1995 O1) is a comet that was perhaps the most widely observed of the 20th century, and one of the brightest seen for many decades.
In a “secret” diary sealed with a purple heart padlock, I wrote:
Tonight I saw comit hale.
21 years on, I feel pleased with my 10-year-old self for recording the momentous event, witnessed by so many; for claiming my stake in this shared history.
I knew exactly what I was doing. The key to the purple heart was tied to the diary with a pink cord.
Though I drew it, I cannot remember what the comet actually looked like. But I have a memory of the strain of trying to imprint it on my brain, the panic of the moment passing without trace, the guilty fear that I wasn’t thinking or feeling what I was supposed to be thinking or feeling.
That feeling is familiar.
Floating on my back in a pink-edged sea. I remember thinking: remember this. The sun was melting into the warm salt water, but louder than the gently lapping waves was the rush of blood in my ears. The expanse of the ocean couldn’t breach the brittle bounds of my head.Read more >
moment between life and death
breathing in her spirit
dreams of other worlds
rescued souls travelling into cracked skies
slicing through souls
sky people descend
watchful and cautious
sweet smelling land catches them
sliding upward they fall free
into the abyss of us
leaving shells of skin
into the galaxy of abundance
Read more >
sing to the past
where there is no more time
just space between us and them
If you watch closely
you will see
the wee hare
jump over the moon,
and we searched
watching for ears,
longer than a rabbit,
and could make out
stars we had not
They were there,
tucked in the back,
too dim to twinkle
but just a rumor
in a sea of black.
And yet still more
if one stood very still
and stared long enough
and hard enough,
a throb at
the edge of the eye
that couldn't be
looked at direct, no,
it would vanish,
Read more >
‘Freeze their seas,’ said Stargazer the First. ‘They’re polluted beyond control. Soon they won’t support a single lifeform.’
We stared down at the yellowing orb of Earth, breathed in its stench, some of us even cried. We’ve seen this before. We hoped we’d never see it again.
‘Agreed,’ said Stargazer the Second, fifty million miles and no distance at all away. ‘It’s clear they can no longer control their self-destructive ways. Do this for their sakes.’
‘Enough is enough,’ said Stargazer the Third. ‘My family came from earth and I will not stand by and watch my heritage perish in a stinking sea of selfishness. We’ll freeze their planet. In time. Not in temperature. And perhaps, when the thaw is commanded, they’ll have had a change of heart. A change of mind. A change of sensibility.’
We Junior Stargazers followed our Masters’ orders but I – hopeless romantic that I am – deliberately missed seventeen families in my sector. Families who are now staring up at us as we stare down at them from our – still uncountable – galaxies. Staring up at us through the great fissure we’ve made in their home. Because I still have faith, I still believe in their gifts and, if I’m proved right, when they find a way to right their wrongs, it’ll be just as my ancestor, Stargazer the Third’s grandmother, always said: Give a family enough rope and they’ll hang themselves. But give them the flax and the sisal and the cotton and the hemp and the jute and the bamboo and the coconut and they’ll find a way to live.
No skies, no stars to fall tonight
No wishes promised they will happen
They say it’s Sirius, they say it’s Mars
and I keep traveling – counting the hours.
The waves are crashing inside my head
my hands are craving some kind of passion –
if Sirius, Mars do understand
they look at me with great compassion.
Hundreds of mes and shes and hers
Hundreds of questions left unanswered
a tiny dot, fuzzy and pale
lights up the dark, in night time fashion.
Naturally, I close my eyes
I'm lowering down my wooden towers
I'm giving in to Sirius, Mars,
and to the songs of pretty sirens.
My head's rough seas are now calm
My hands adorned with little stars
Sirius, Mars send their regards
in handwritten, calligraphic postcards.
its milky eyes
its milky light
the rasp of its belly
the severed land
it gathers dust
carbon, ozone, lead
flick and slide
a quiet contempt
and a new message
this one says
the stars from this canyon
can never stray,
there in the middle
is the Milky Way,
snakes between shadows
when seen from below,
can we look beyond them?
who can know?
down in this canyon
where silence reigns
the hope of the stars
is all that remains
down in this canyon
where the heart beats slow
and there is nothing
and nowhere else we can go
One ricochet of left-handed fate later,
and there I lay, floored in my sort-of-prime,
out for the count – your old unlovely flame.
I slept, wept, and then watched the world grow brighter,
a rivulet to start with, in which better
worlds – exploded long ago, each spasm
a cosmic blip, a beat to a dead rhythm –
coursed along. Twin outcrops eyed each other.
Find peace? Christ, no. Afraid to say I crawled
a little, serpentine, that line of beauty
snaking above me. Only, overawed,
I stopped, lay still and stared. My liberty
put a whole new shine on things. I wonder:
which of these kind stars was I born under?
What fish swim here? Above
this struggling, saddened earth
my eyes wander to find love
along a stony bed. No dearth
of sound might dull the flow
of hopes and dreams staring gives.
Together we stand below
and wonder why harmony lives
so far away, so out of reach.
Celestial celebrations lend
a certain hope which may breach
the distance such rivers lend.
I’m glad they discovered it –
the crack in my soul.
It is a stream,
cleaving my heart.
This opening has led
to my release.
To my realising
that I have a voice.
The real me is a dart
of star-spangled fresh water.
Bathing my inner self
from head to foot.
At first it was a rift
a strange shift
of breath, new
in cobalt blue
a deep running stain
of life patterning
through muscle and membrane.
The CRACK-out freedom
took me river surging,
splurging into a season
each breath split
by let-loose laughter injected
into soul and body,
and I knew as bones snapped free –
I was whole. Somebody. Me.
I was screaming into the canyon
At the moment of my death
The echo I created
Outlasted my last breath
— Fiona Apple, 'Container'
(The Affair Opening Credits)
of my death
at the canyon
the echo created
at the moment
into the canyon
my last breath
of my death
The deepest, we called it. Deep without end.
It made us weak, looking over the side
Of the boat as we approached the island.
Yet we could see the bottom, the lost troll
Lines, and wave-shadows flashing on the sand.
The infinite, to a child, is quite small.
The water turned red as we got closer
To land. Clay carved away by the blind craft
Of time and water, the skilled composers
Whose work rests on the infinite shoulders
Of the deep. But we contented ourselves
With ersatz quartz arrowheads and boulders
The size of our fists, and finer matter
To skip upon the face of the waters.
the obvious images to vanish
milky way and chocolate velvet cake
night-lit himalaya-scapes, the silky folds of a ballgown
oblivious to its flowing
for reasons it matters not to understand
bathe in the dream myriads of color, of texture
of all divinations of destiny
there is poetry everywhere, penless and wordless
generations of pages like brittle
autumn leaves willingly captive
to captivate our eyes into overtime
and inside light-year vast brain synapses
chemical reactions which outsmart godliness
in philosophical evincing
then: a suggestion
an a-capella melody cornered in the sistine chapel
solitary and patient
the one day tourists flock elsewhere
waiting for something unimaginable
it finally buds into otherworldly resonance
growing beyond the grips of creation and death
into the L of life, pouring loneliness
back into love, its depths sought by the world itself
bathed by the universe’s unendingness
these visions are the bouquets of proof
that nothing is final
Read more >
Have you carved the sky or the rocks
to give us this glittering azure meander,
that winds or cuts through aeolian souls
gazing up or down as they swirl and
mosey down wondering what is next,
rapids, falls or endless air,
floating nothings, dancing between spheres of gold winking coyly —
A lion takes a chunk out
of a dark chocolate egg
leaving a dust of white ashy cocoa
but his teeth don’t reach any further.
on artichoke boat
after being hit by
bride in flower chafer
as a salsa dancer
dives into the sky river
bending her thin legs
in all directions
meringue of soap bubbles
swell in the wind
flower chafer stiffens her toes on the surface of river water
eventually she left at ephemeral life like the shooting star
At midnight I stretch flat on the wooden raft,
out on the lake by my father’s house.
It is August of 1999, the summer I begin to tie my hair back.
The boy says he adores the nape of my neck.
How lovely of him to use “adores” instead of “likes”.
The grass is warm to touch, kissed by the light from stars
that are already dead.
Surely nothing that beautiful could live long.
sixteen winks and a tulip.
Most of the time I meditate on the dark waters.
The moon is my mother.
My mother is the moon.
White as cow’s milk, round as a breast,
lactating, and sagging over me in the bluest air.
And I am that baby fattened like a little buddha.
Flower buds bloom, bloom, bloom,
until moony milk turns sour.
I wear my mother’s white silk dress without a bra.
I dance across her retina like a bright ballerina.
Such is the ritual to perpetuate one’s youth,
the waiting through the hot where nothing has significance.
It’s funny and a little sad,
that no one notices me gone,
moused out of the great house without triumph.
In the family room Josephine is playing the piano,
my father’s out cold at the bottom of his bottle.
Daddy’s blue and mystic hours. Daddy’s lullaby. The husk of the house
chases me down, down the lake,
now in sight, now hidden behind a yew tree. Read more >
With a long-handled spoon, I stir
my hot chocolate until it whirls.
Froth from the milk steamer drifts
and dwindles, disappearing
in an eddy of rich darkness.
I remove the spoon,
open a crack
in the universe,
pinpoints of light
on the scarf
of space and time.
The coffee machine gushes, jolts me
back into Earth’s atmosphere,
where humans scoff fry-ups
from greasy plates on dirty tables;
I am an alien here.
A river, sparkling sapphire, runs through;
Naked, raw chill of early morning;
X-ray image clarity/
Iridescent mineral hues.
Echoing, booming force of water;
Turquoise, appearing jewel-encrusted;
Yawing, deviating curvaceously.
Scraping, sluicing verdant valley,
Transporting alluvial detritus away.
Roman-emperor purple backcloth draped;
Snaking through clean-air pristine wild-scape –
Soothing visitors' careworn blues...
A river runs through it. Like blood coursing over stones. Like love cursing over bones. Blue blood pouring through my veins. The divining rods twitch and do their work. Glinting in the dark brown velvet murk.
Riverrun, past eye and appendix, from swerve of gall to bend of pituitary, this my blue fluid tributary. This, my inner snake-like charm. This, my poison-tipped messenger of harm. This, my blue-lined life-force within.
By the rivers of Styx, I broke down and begged, let me in! Let me cross, let me pass. I’ve paid my fee a hundred times. My amniotic aquifer can no longer hold its precious blue liquid gold.
Ocean blue, midnight blue, the blood-rust blue of bruises, both above and below the surface. A bend in the river. A-mend in my memory. A last-gasped, gift-wrapped au revoir to Nurrevir, my inner serpentine self.
For a body which no longer flows with its burning-blue star-flecked stream of consciousness can no longer be considered sentient.
a convoluted river
exists in the deepest of the ravine
like the glistening ends of the skies
it shines and glimmers in the darkness
/a beacon of hope/
for the crestfallen souls
when the darkness is sculpted
in our benign existence
screaming for hope
a dream so divine.
cuts like a double-edged sword
through its serrated ends
slices the edges of the abyss,
/the irrational hem of the irrationality/
scrapes and scratches
resisting the erosion
those pointy convictions
moving ahead with time.
an army of a zillion stars
armed with sharp pointy ends
marches with synchronicity
carving and shaping the future
with its bloody knuckles
and its ferocity.
I've found my river, it glitters
streams through purple velvet
heavy hues of night
saves love from despair
swims me towards tomorrow
yesterday so far away now
I danced with denizens of hell
wept exhausted tears
hopeless and fanciful brained
with delirium I think I died
until morning and waves
of life trickled by my feet
water caught the sun I sighed
paddled to stay alive
preserve flows of fortitude
and crawl strong-armed strokes
coherent with sacred currents
ready to live and later expire
drenched in sapphire peace
From your still form
that discarded husk
of cooling flesh
to a river of stars
parting the maw
a spill of light
from the first
a gift of brightness
between one empty night
and the next
swallowed down death's
long dark throat
only to rise
and turn again
across the wheel of sky
These are the pinprick veins of night.
Our intransigent geology:
Years are mere distances of light
Will you see me in the kestrel’s flight,
In the arroyo’s cold anomalies?
These are the pinprick veins of night.
Remember me as adder’s bite,
As cool tooth’s lithography.
Years are mere distances of light
Orbitals of starry jasperite,
They make their prosopographies:
These are the pinprick veins of night.
Constellation me by easy sight,
See still my dark’s topography.
Years are mere distances of light
Trace me in the chalcedony heights,
Our memories’ worn doxology.
These are the pinprick veins of night,
Years are mere distances of light
It looks like we might just fit together after everything we've done. Like puppy dogs – we are puppy dogs – here in the park with the gates locked but it's still warm, still summer – why can't it always be summer? We upped and left that grey soggy island and moved to a place where we thought it would always be summer – didn't we, meaning me, didn't I accumulate knowing out of three or four summer trips thinking it would always be like this. And here we are. I can hardly speak your language but it looks like we might just fit together – I mean didn't we just prove our necks were delicious, the entire organ of our skin was delicious, like puppy dogs on the grass, sniffing and licking, no place too much for sniffing. Did you hear that? The guitars are playing for us, have they too been locked in the park – why can't all good things be locked in the park with us and why can't it always be night, always be summer, always be us realising we might just fit together? Serenade us, person with guitar, turn this moment into a beginning. This is the beginning. We have found each other in the park in this city that is now home – we are home! Did you feel that? A cool breeze, but I don't want to get dressed, don't want to move from looking at you looking at the stars – don't move! - can you hear the cars in the distance, can you hear steps on gravel? We are puppy dogs. We are mountains. Don't you love that moment when the guitarist stops and you know he's kissing someone, taking a sip of someone, I mean something, deciding what to play next? Can we shout out requests – I am the walrus! - no, not that, can we shout out requests to the heavens, to the guitarist? Each breath threatens to disrupt this moment of us almost fitting together, turning from rock to mud, if only we could melt into each other. You need to go – tengo que irme – someone always needs to be the first to say it as the guitarist begins to tap the body of his guitar, the beat that could be the intro, the drumming that could be the march, the rhythm that could be panting, could be the breath of puppy dogs rubbing dry grass off their hides as they prepare to find a way out of the park.
When she pushed the cuticles back,
she revealed crescent moons
hidden behind thick layers of cloud.
Then, brought about a sand-storm;
tornado of brittle nail-dust
filed into the air: made a burning.
Uncapped a bottle of stars;
spoke in glittered tongues,
licked my fingers back and forth,
left a trail of dreams on tips
of digits I will hold up to the sky.
I will hold them to the moon,
lying with my back against
the wet night-grass, with
the universe hidden in my hands.
The darkness enfolds me like a cloak,
a good thick winter one
with a deep velvety pile
warm and comforting
matching its shape to mine,
the good thick darkness.
It was blue before,
then blue black
the good thick blackness came
the good thick blackness
that I need to wrap me,
the good thick blackness that I like.
And I know that all too soon
it will be broken
first by the harsh, pinpoint lights
pointlessly breaking up my dark
as the day breaks through
splitting it open
Read more >
It was announced officially on VoiceHub but it is still hard to believe. For centuries our people have lived in these caverns. My own ancestors were among the pioneers who positioned the mirrors that flood the passageways with reflected light, and my mother’s family is known for their hydroponic vegetables. I myself am an Air-flow Engineer First Class.
Outside is another world entirely. Our source of light and air, of course, and everyone makes at least one trip a year to the viewing platforms to watch the stars move, but otherwise Outside is alien territory.
But VoiceHub informs us that the Gateway has been closing at a centimetre a decade, and we are no more able to prevent it than to halt the stars. Before my children are born it will be impassable, though my grandparents remember walking through it side by side.
Tomorrow our group of young people will squeeze out one at a time. We bravely say that they will find another entrance, but in truth we know there will be no coming back.
We lie, tired, on our backs
on the cold red earth
and watch the river of stars
flow in a cool curve of indigo.
The wind has spent eons whipping rock
into curling dark waves, now poised
on the verge of crashing –
a rush and fall suspended in time.
No white horses dance on these crests:
instead, black shadows cling to stony sea
as we fall asleep, thirsty, wondering
what galaxies taste like.
Night sky is a river that braids
its path through a dark gorge,
splashes silver glitter in a blue
that drenches the eye with light.
Here in the crevice of time,
once an ancient river roared,
carved earth, stone, rock,
smoothed edges, etched furrows,
deepened and folded stone
ramparts in and outward.
Sinuous walls rise to dance,
two lovers afraid to touch,
shadowed in stellar incandescence,
between them a river of stars.
The noise was the first thing:
the slam of the door, wood bashing wood;
the crash of the keys splaying on the table like a shot antelope;
the lazy scuff of his boots across the stone.
His bellow: ‘Woman!’
And then there was the silence – which was us – on the other side of the wall that he built.
I remember the whirr as the belt swiped through still air, and the snap as it made contact, momentarily curling underneath my belly like a comforting arm as if to say sorry.
On her body, pink worms and crimson roses too sore to touch.
And, through eyes brimful of tears, a kitchen which should have been the heart of the home, blurring to earthy tones and echoing with heartbreak.
He broke me.
And now only darkness gets in.
My chest ticks like a time bomb and in my gullet is a clod of mud as I lead the blind man across the rocks by the hand. His dinner suit has lost its sheen. His fly gapes. His sulk hangs unchallenged.
The husky rub of his soles and the hard pits of his fingertips in my flesh serve as nudges of encouragement.
‘How far?’ His gurgling voice is swallowed by the landscape.
‘Not much further. It’s just over there.’
‘Someone should...’ – he rattles and wheezes – ‘... get this… path… levelled.’
The silence is deep. The sky goes on forever.
I shine my phone and stop short, just in time. I release his hand. It swings like an aborted pendulum.
Read more >
Right down the middle of the fabric of my soul
The softness of me
You just dragged it through
Parting my soft edges
With your dazzling colour
Letting in your darkness that is curiously light
And I stopped existing then
As a whole
Because you were there
Right through my middle and my parts never came back together.
If I look closely I can see that there is a future in the gap you left
My eye is drawn to it and away from it all at once.
I am distracted by the brilliance of the path you carved through me
And annoyed that what is me no longer exists.
In the gorge, I am caught between two rivers, one far above me and one curling below my feet. But I am not drowning. The winding river above the gorge, High River, glistens with star-fish in its azure opalescence. The small twitching stream below, Low River, remains black, mysterious, unyielding. The red, shadowed rocks of the gorge seem strong and stolid, but their curves tell of the gush of river water that could rush through at any moment. I imagine the night sky casting shadows on High River, but I cannot climb the smooth gorge walls to the river, and I could not swim through the river anyway.
This gorge between the rivers must be where the jackalopes live free of the pressures of our myths. My teachers told me that to be an artist I needed to understand nature, that of animals, of humans, and of Earth. Maybe I should have known a hike too far into nature would defy nature – or how we’ve come to expect it.
If water filled the gorge, the narrow, high walls would create a depth and density that would produce extraordinary speeds. For a brief moment High River and Low River would be one with the real river that's sometimes on the trail map, sometimes not. Its force would propel me through High River back to dry desert rock, night sky above. Hard to imagine where a desert gets all that water from, makes me think it's been holding back on us, just like it hid this secret nook above and below two rivers – neither of which are the one sometimes on the map. If I didn’t survive the force of the real river thrusting me through High River, I would stay swimming among the star-fish. The desert has mermaids, too, you know.Read more >
Crawling into caverns and dark places at home in the tunnels without many spaces. Seeking to explore what has never been seen over rocks and boulders and in between. As we stumble upon a cavernous room the starlight above brightens the gloom.
The rarity of such a find fills you with wonder and opens your mind.
Between the cliffs of the cavern above is a rift to the universe sparkling with love. The clarity of the sight astounds shining ever brighter from underground. How can you choose on which star to wish they are all magnified as if on a Petri dish.
The rarity of such a find Fills you with wonder and opens your mind.
Never imagining such a place could exist wishing upon a star, blown with a kiss. All of this glory in an open vein carved by the wind and washed open with rain. Some day we know we will return to watch the stars light this place as they burn.
The rarity of such a find fills you with wonder and opens your mind.
Honor the space between leaves where sky shows through
Between vines against the fence where rough brick meets dry mortar
Between notes in a prelude where fingers poise over the keys
Between telephone rings where you can hear your heart
and you wonder who it could be at this hour
Honor the space between lovers, children, dogs you have owned
when your heart begins to tell you there is room there for one more
Honor the vast space that electrons travel as they swarm around the nucleus
Honor the space between atoms, between dust motes
Between lives: your life and mine — that space you’re always trying to fill
Between words, where truth resides
Honor the space where a fissure has opened between canyons —
shine your eyes there on a dazzling river of stars.
You parade multihued breathing canvasses
with more regularity than Northern Irish loyalists
and look down on my pallidity
much as they sneer at independence.
This, though your organ chokes
via ink-clogged pores:
mirror of their constipated hate
and delusion of superiority.
I am the eye of wisdom
muffled by cavernous echoes
peering at a blur of fading stars:
perception as sharp as chiselled flint.
You are slaves to vanity’s punctures,
but I am free … no parlour’s thrall.
My tattoos are on the inside,
the colour of pain.
His blood was blue and glistened as
It poured out of the meander
In his hip. It ran parallel to the margin
Of his underwear, the crevices and tracks of rubbled skin—elastic imprint—and where
Underneath opened up the dark unknown, that stark thing
Which could and would make you feel
so small and startled, could wash
Over and under
As though you were laying on a river bed looking up at whatever it is that swirls
Above and in your skin, eyes, nose, mouth.
You, still breathing; the mark which
Cleaves to his skin shines with a nebulous plasma, immune to the miasma of a dirty
fingerprint which might dip
itself in that bright blue gash and paint with it a swirl, a big
curve across a page,
or a piece of glass which you could look at under a
microscope, catching the things that were falling out from the curve of his body, where
you’ve sat and stargazed for hours before.
in the ruins of Karakorum,
in the stark sands beyond Agadez,
in the sluiced plains of Okavanga,
in the raised stone fists at Chicxulub,
stars twist like snakes,
slither and hiss in the welcome night
at incandescent dawn
falsely flickering in wicks and filaments
and wait, patient as neutrons
for the inevitable decay of men
crickets chirp sing their crepescular
song /herald the rising curtain of
stars – heavenly bodies take centre
stage a play which dazzles ignites the
preoccupation /penned up /animates
within paralyses without /winding
wind tight tight tight till explosion
is eminent. save this time
it doesn’t. inhale /exhale
in out sigh /sails becalmed /breathe
the waves rising falling rising falling
sanction pause for another moment
until chaos resurfaces /claim bounty
sanguine havoc reframed necessity
It split her in half, in two,
like grey granite hemispheres.
Her entire left side emptied.
And I’m googling brain bleed,
looking at pictures of brains.
Walnuts. I can’t help it —
brains look like walnuts.
And the doctor says she’s
in a coma. Deep. Aneurysm.
I go cold, my stomach knots
into an icy stream’s bend.
I am a pulse. Blindsided.
There’s DNR written on her
wristband. Nothing beeping,
nothing churning, or turning.
She’s a bird without flight.
A cloud without air. She’s
a hollow peace waiting
for God's whispered end.
The nurse says, talk to her,
she might hear you, but
I am as silent as grass.
Mum died the following day,
peaceful as a meadow and
quiet as stars. I’d like to think
that she sang her way through
life's cliffs, life’s anchorage,
and wrapped herself warm
into the night sky. As for me, Read more >
You need the cold.
You need the
plenty of both.
that what we’re doing
is sifting though
a night sky
a billion billion
to prove we’re
in the cold desert.
From somewhere above the stars, you make a river to swim down to me.
I try to picture you, beyond the light pollution, laying out crushed velvet the colour of dark chocolate.
You’ll pick out the banks, the bends and the curves, arranging it just as you please.
Where you are, does it look like a better version of the sky from the window of a plane? My stomach lurches, thinking of all the trips you never got to take. When you swim down, will there be turbulence?
Do you base your river on one of the rivers we cried for you? And if so, which one? I jealously hope this is my one. I hope you’re diving down to me tonight, even if I worry about what you’ll make of what you find.
Grief comes in waves, they say. The tides come and go. But more often than not, for us it’s a river, gently cutting its way through the air. A constant current swirling around us, mostly quietly trickling and flickering, sometimes roaring with the wrongness of it all.
Maybe you’re wearing that awful baby blue suit you insisted on bidding on from eBay, with the stain blooming across it. More likely, your dressing gown. I smile to myself, remembering how many times the postman saw you in little else. I regret not picking up some white Magnums for when you make it here. You’ll be ready for one, after swimming so far.
I can imagine you pressing your face to the river’s glassy surface – or would it be the river bed? Your breath steaming, collecting in little clouds. Your fingers, plotting your route, leaving greasy marks. The stars swimming towards you like you might give them something to eat.Read more >
of the world rubs
against inner visions and the
— Carroll Dunham
the clouds were sown so regularly under our little plane, the first we took together —
vaporous lumps plucked and tucked into the verdant folds of the valleys,
their gauziness testing the limits of form, our wisdom of it —
small markers of our journey across the atlantic, some number of plumes per hour
protective carapace of metal shoulders any friction as we stream through the sky, the plane shade shifting over the protrusions and voids, shading deeper in voids, though deeper within darkness
that night’s darkness brought inversion
in plain sight, looking up from a crease — vision framed by pleats of rock
rumpled in the course of time —
eyes held the abyss
in a scission between stillness and motion
the constellations held us
in ferocious isolation
(their brightness testing the limits
of form, our wisdom of it)
I lie here, in the ear of the canyon,
facing heavenward, while tarantulas,
scorpions and sandbugs step over me, careful
as though hurrying home with their shopping,
as though I were roadkill or a sleeping cat.
A helicopter thrummed by, hours ago,
and I called out, but the walls held my cries
repeating them back to me, childish.
It wanted me, all to itself.
No other hikers came, no searchers
claimed my name, only my breath
ragged and trapped, echoed around me,
my legs squelched by the crafty loose rock,
that had plummeted for just
a hundredth of a second,
leaving my pelvis in an unexpected
Now the numbness inches up,
and my rest is silent,
nothing disturbs my cradle.
The sky above glows like a star-spit river
winding through the carved rocks
flittering and inviting.
we have always been close
at least as long as I can remember
it's something about mass that draws us
towards an inevitable intimacy
where there's a fine fit of all our parts
hewn by wind and rain over millennia
– and we don't mind that –
drawn closer and closer together
to blot out the stars and moon
even the very sun in time
though we are incapable of such intentions
even of thought
though there are always exceptions
and everything deemed impossible
looks too good to be true
with the surprise of our form –
we who are so close
express long term – and we mean long –
are horrified at what you do too
No offence taken if you look down on our town as you pass by,
deserted, unremarkable, crumbling, and contracting every year.
But please remember that there's great empty miles of 'em
right across the ripples of the map, where you can squint
all you like and never find a name. Mister Frog, you ask,
exasperated, why do you stay here, when all of your friends
have left for the bigger, better cities, gone to hear the night
music of crowds and the fireworks of electric lights?
Don't you ever want to get away and arrive,
Mister Frog? Maybe make some waves?
Oh, it is not that bad - and sure I've seen the sea,
even if mostly on tv.
Heck, I admit I'd rather comfortably outlive Alexander
than march over horizons and make the whole world known.
See, I like my home, safe and cool deep in its bricks.
I'll understand if you have to lift your nose, adjust your glasses
and sniff that this here isn't really much of anything,
when it's all happening in a ocean of importance out there.
I don't mind.
It's the greatest relief to be an unimportant Mister Frog
far from the rush and the roar, free to be small and forgotten.
And at night it's the loveliest thing – it gets so quiet that
you just look up and see all the most wondrous worlds
you could ever want.
I wake up suddenly, too apprehensive
to move. The wind is bouncing off itself
outside. The window's blown open
and seems more like the entrance to a cave.
Thoughts this time of night are solid blocks
to grasp onto. The curtains are two wolves,
head to head, twisting round each other.
I look beyond them, focus on the stars.
Don't you have any that filter blue light, I asked the woman in the wordshop.
Colander, she said, though I only have the plastic whisper version. Then nutshell is a more layered one, she said, and it is sustainable. It might also be a good investment, she said, light years from now. Words that are not seoed are quite sought-after for auction.
And the ones not seaed.
That she also said.
The intergalactic void in her shesaidness blacked out my already eclipsed retina.
Then nutshell is fine, I stiffupperlipped, while scraping up seven doaldrs.
one more question, Mrs Notwithstanding.
Does it also sift blue light that is speckled?
She pointed at a tongue-in-cheek dangling above the counter.
A nutshell once sold will not be hindsighted, she said, it says.
Stars break free, diving through
cracks in the sky to bury themselves
like diamonds behind your eyes.
You move through the darkness,
galaxies tinging your skin celestial.
Your heart beats so loudly,
I can almost taste the rhythm.
Is this always what love
feels like, sparkling under your skin,
stretched across the expanse of nightfall?
I wrap myself in the idea of you,
warm to the touch and lingering
like cinnamon on the tip of my tongue.
When fear creeps up the back of my neck
or loneliness tries to devour me,
I will search for the stars in your eyes,
weave myself into your grasp,
and believe that it isn’t all a dream.
We landed on planet Earth at 09:23 local time. The hardest part of the journey came after, as we hiked across the desert on foot. None of our training prepared us for the blistering heat. It kept our medbots so busy that I was worried they couldn't charge fast enough. Night came as a relief for us. We finally stopped moving and set-up camp to eat and rest for a few hours. We couldn't linger too long though, for our destination was time-sensitive.
We started moving again when it was 21:23. The desert night suited us better and we moved faster, energised by the excitement of getting closer.
01:01. Our guide halted us and requested that we set-up camp again for an hour. We're close, it told us. Too close. We need to arrive just on time.
At 02:01 we moved. Calmly, surely, and together. You wouldn't know that there were three thousand and fifty-seven of us.
We arrived at 02:20 and we merged into the snaking route of the canyons. We trained well for this – there were no mistakes, no hesitation. We were one with the canyon, and one with Earth, as the oldest known portal opened to us, above.
I read about the River of Stars in stories of legends, and heard it in tales of people. It does not allow itself to be described, for it will always be so much more and yet nothing. As we came together, we distanced, and the River of Stars took each of us where we wanted to be. I looked up and I was there, in an instance, at ULAS.
02:22 was the last recorded time I have from Earth. Here, time is eternity, and time is irrelevant.
The river is moving,
ending in a return
a shoreline shaped by the moon
worshipping the sky,
bowing to the land that holds its bones.
It sings like the stars–
the river is moving,
connected by stories,
signals strewn on the wind–
ending in a return
The metaphor empties–
becomes something else
a path that follows
released into the evermore–
a shoreline shaped by the moon.
Take me to still water’s edge
we can catch the stars in cups
and get drunk on how life used to be
we, an ever-growing locust swarm
never sated, always wanting
take us to still water’s edge
play your siren’s song and bring us home
let us fill that lake until
there is nothing left of us
but the pure and dead night sky
Nights when she couldn’t sleep, when the air was hot and sticky and breathless, Darcie took to catching the late bus that drove her out to the furthest edge of the city. The bus driver knew her by name, even though she always went upstairs. She sat at the front and she sang songs she’d learned as a child, skipping-songs and songs for throwing balls against walls.
Some nights there was a man on the top deck, too. Not young and not old but something in between. He said he couldn’t sleep either and he was on his way home from his job in a city centre bar. He smelled of smoke and beer and old sweat. He traveled beyond his stop sometimes, just so he could hear the end of a song Darcie was singing, and soon enough his lips gave shape and whisper to the words of her songs.
Once, a child sat beside her, so close she could feel his milk-breath warmth against her. He was maybe ten or eleven and he said he was running away from home though when pressed, he couldn’t remember why. He had a small rucksack packed with apples and crisps and a bottle of milk that was soon not cold. He listened to Darcie’s singing and he smiled to himself. And when she paused for breath, he said she sounded just like his mum, and he missed his mum then and so Darcie helped him back to where he had started.
But in the end she was always the last to leave the bus – if you didn’t count the driver. The driver swung the bus into the terminus, brought it to a gentle hissing stop, rang the bell twice and said, ‘Here and no further, my dear’. She answered in song that ‘Here is far enough, kind sir’. Then she descended the stairs on light skipping feet and danced away from the dipped headlights of the bus and away from the last of the yellow street lights.Read more >
My old telescope
reveals a kaleidoscope
of bright clusters;
a river meanders
through chocolate rocks:
curve from nowhere
astral music plays
over mystic milky ways.
Moonstruck, I stargaze
the never-never land;
the faraway seems near,
the remote close at hand.
Amid the luminous band
sparkles a singular star
that brings you to mind,
seemingly within reach
though it flickers so far—
all that’s rare is tough to find.
I watch as the rich dark chocolate ripples
and drizzles in its mold.
Waiting to be divided into squares
and laid lovingly into a confectionary box.
What is this?
A river of blue honeycomb
Undulates through the smooth dark brown.
Glistening as the light catches its sugary crystals.
As it meanders through the shiny chocolate.
It laughs as me.
Confident I will not resist it.
Tantalizingly mouth watering and delicious.
They unite as one.
Partners in crime.
The only crime being
I shared a moment with a firefly
with whom I felt I had a certain
affinity, being smaller than I’d like
and, I’m told, more gorgeous at night.
I admired her cold light which,
bouncing between red rocks
honeycombed with nooks,
flickered like a tiny tealight toiling
away to escape the clutches of a
curving and unforgiving stream.
She was a sight, I said, here at
cloudless twilight, in a place that
wanted for so little and gave with
such charity all its calm and light
to me, so that I was euphoric at first,
then jealous, since I was far from home
and would likely never be here again.
But she struggled, still, and struck
against the red rock hard, trying to
burrow inside its fissures. She hissed.
I said, You struggle, firefly, but why?
It seems you do not love this world
enough for all its beauty and wonderings
and for all the ways it makes you feel
at home, and for its silence and its
stars, its shelter and its sky like a
velvet scarf that wraps around you.
Read more >
"I am a stigma," said P. "In this flower, atop an ovary, a long I with the smallest head, a dot attached, enclosed with inverted dress of petals. A wind moves my world, and I don't feel it, but see below me through the imperfectly folded petals a sheet of blue flecked with pollen that strives but never quite reaches me."
"A wind rocks me," said C. "I am the petals, and I protect and guide. My edges feel for each other, pull towards a central point. Around me flow ribbons of green, twisting and falling, browning and snapping. My task is an eternal folding and unfolding, guided by a gradual change of white to red to blue to black."
"Day turns over," said T. "The house behind me cools and warms the air. It shines white like a lost tooth. It echoes the moon. A breeze washes over the garden where dahlias and hollyhocks grow together. I eschew the path and tread yielding soil. It is night, and I should not be out. I stand hardly taller than the cow parsley which has crept in with its plates facing the moon, or the moon itself served sliced atop a stalk. I crouch beneath the apple tree. I am the rivers of dark that run between leaves and flowers, sending messages of night through green channels. The soil is warm and dry. My stomach flutters."
"The soil is warm and dry, and here beneath it I slowly grow," said R. "The weight of earth keeps me strong. I am forever reaching out, seeking, bending to carbon and oxygen, nitrogen and hydrogen, calcium and magnesium. Here there is only darkness. A movement is of no consequence to me, yet I am the most fragile thing. I can drown, and I can choke in air. The light burns me."
"There is a gap, and it is made for me," said M. "I triangulate by moon and find myself against the cool petals. It is warm and sweet inside. Here I may stay awhile as a wind pushes itself above."
she painted a blue river,
yes, blue on blue,
where rain had room to fall
and stars had dropped by at night.
Crazy girl, why would she do that?
she knows we fed the blue to grey
with our urban garbage.
With nowhere else to go the rain fell on
cluttered land and storm washed our
white bags full of wood and metal mimicry
to feed the meander of plastic soup,
the detritus lacing our riverbanks.
Thing is girl:
we feed the fish with false food,
the river feeds the ocean
and the fish deliver our discards back
to us on a plate.
Swathed in the luxuriant
velvet darkness of your cloth,
using strength I did not know I possessed,
I tear at the fabric and rip a space.
a jagged opening to a dawn sky,
blue but still dark enough to reflect
a river of stars, of possibilities.
My tear is imperfect but it has
rent the darkness.
At least now I can breathe and speak.
it was a river it was the stars
your chin on my chin
it was October and we looked up
there was nothing to eat
we hunted water in the season
after the season of floods
we had no map no ursa major
we smoothed rocks hard as pears
canyon wind carved our throats
the stars turned a torn map
to teeth and october slit
our tongues all of it rotting
unpicked and yellowed in the sky
your chin on my chin cidered clean
by azure mystery
current of stars
indigo galaxy planet of silk and stone
Are we seeing through your waters to the heavens?
Are we wafted on breezes above your flooding stream?
Do your currents carry traces of light immemorial?
no divinity just light no spectacle just home
stars—or their reflections—swept toward unseen
oceans through fjords of burnished stone
our granite outcroppings our light-flecked rushing stream