A bird, dark feathered, broad, sirens
a pregnant-woman-crossing-the-desert alarm.
Wind displaces the things long loosened
from their origins. Wind displaces dreams.
Wind manipulates the bird, and the bird
maneuvers the wind.
Under the summer sun a pregnant
woman crosses the lines. May her daughter, her son
chart her dream that has a shape pre-Magellan.
Lower your guns, vigilants. A pregnant woman
screams an alarm- wind dislodges
everything already slackened.
So we travel on earth seeking the terrain of Poetry, walking through wilderness and empty landscape or visiting those ancient sites like Dholavira in far-western Gujarat, or Mykenai in the Greek Peloponnese, or the Arawak campsite on eastern Carriacou in the Grenadine Windward Isles, pursuing that authenticity of experience in a form of antique material reality...
These are places, strange and vague situations where death is manifold and thoroughly extant to the careful eye. There are women’s bangles made of shell to be picked up from the saline dust or small copper beads and thin chert blades, or tiny obsidian arrow-heads that can be unhidden and disclosed beneath those bloody grey walls about the Lion Gate, or beautiful indented potsherds and ceramic fragments at the waterline where the Atlantic rolls out its long blue visceral waves...
Kevin McGrath 🐚Yoga of Poetry
“Dare to live the life you have dreamed."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
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