This tree spoke into the evening haze, bridging boundary breezes, talking in and out of clamouring leaves. Its cloak the length of light, depth of dark, walking between breaths and the waking hunger’s spark, as grown centuries lullabied progress. This tree called us to once-known wonders, pressed weightless time into its bone pile, absorbed our surrender into Saturn’s rings –
Slipping on ice-steel socks, sinking into shingled thoughts;- I’m iron-blood dripped into shimmering depths. Sword legs glide through long ago relics, and washed clean, my heavy junk falls to the seabed, foaming into stories; as sea-sprites wait for answers below, calling.
Monthly two hour poetry workshops exploring¬† creative ideas to develop poetry on the page and on stage. A series of practical workshops to inspire you by exploring poetry themes, form and composition, deep listening and responses to nature. Plus practical exercises to assist with performance and sharing your work including: microphone use, breath, and voice control. Email for more details
A poem in response to a telling by Martin Shaw, of The Fox Woman. I loved the story back in April, but I’m only now hoping to study it in more depth. After one year present at the School of Myth the real work begins! Fox She In the deep forest Lonely, Tall trees behold Truth Holy.
I am proud and so very thrilled to be published in Earthlines magazine this issue. My piece is a meditation on gig rowing and how it feels to be at sea, the briefest moment of possibility and abandonment of self that can occur when looking towards the shore. Sometimes as I row I enter some hypnogogic state. I row automatically,
Another week passes and I read, write…but what? no dreams? No. I am dreamless this week. A state of routine daily grind and I can’t remember my last dream. It may have been months ago. Where have they gone? I wrote this poem this week. My new poetry pamphlet: Snakestone (Poems from the Cliffside III) will follow soon! Once I
All writers learn by reading to write. It’s study journeying into the deep art of the beast. The more we read, the more we develop style, learn from the craft of those who went before us. Through reading we stretch our imaginations to grasp the visual experience of being a reader. We cannot write unless we understand the needs and
Poem: Erosion (c) Sarah Acton 2016