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preamble:

                                              I suppose
                the clarity and
                                        surprise of the
                                                                 poem
                                is the care to which
                                              you can allow it to be what it becomes
                                                               itself
                                                               quite
                independent of the skills and words and
                                              trammellings
                                that I – the Writer – want to put in it
                                              that I – the Watcher – wanted to
                                                               put it in

gestation:

                                              first
                                the precision of what is around you
                and what is inside you that distorts
                                              to see
                                then the gentleness that includes
                                              the kaleidoscopic stones
                                                               and shadows

labour:

                                (letting each smudge shine clean
                                 between the spinning swords
                                 deepening all the shades of orange like bougainvillea
                                 against the blue quartz-smooth sky)

birth:

                                              and
                                the letting go to
                let it thrive
                                mucoid and clueless
                                              in a New New World

 

 

the title comes from the fourth chapter of ‘The Wisdom of No Escape‘ by Pema Chödrön – teachings so sweet that they are poems from a burgundy robe

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

being wormhole: our life
blue wormhole: no hat
identity & letting go wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate
orange wormhole: ‘I can hear it raining / but cannot see it …’
poetry & seeing & writing wormhole: ‘like a piece of ice on a hot stove / the poem must ride on its own melting’
shadow wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge
sky wormhole: introducing / the stranger
stone wormhole: I will eventually drift tectonic
thinking wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop
world wormhole: first a mishap then clear vision

 

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