One of my favourite things: being surprised by the world and delighted by its strange inclusions.
Lots of things in nature have a fairly bloodthirsty design, and the way animals are made is one of them, but there is a delightful cheeriness and simplicity in there too. Like half of a little blue eggshell standing on the grass like a mushroom. I’ve never seen that before.
Poetry
Coming soon: an in-person workshop (Melb)
For now, a poem:
Art is forever making itself, piercing the fabric of the world
like an embroidery needle and looping back up,
threads of life following.
Let these lines - permutations of vibrating matter
- be gold boughs laden with darkly beaded pomegranates.
—NS
The green ones have come from the other world, tipsy like the breeze up to some foolishness…
—Rumi
As I was assembling this seasonal altar in the forest yesterday, I had a strong flash of body memory from when I was a kid. I had a book about a little girl who made furniture for faeries… I don’t really remember what the story was, but I remember the bodied feeling of enchantment specific to that story. Now there’s a whole new story to be stitched together from the gossamer threads of this breezy forest interlude. In the mix is a seam linking old Irish faerie lore and Rumi’s mention of ‘the other world’.
4x haiku
Bare wires touching
makes for unpredictable
(hot) consequences.
There are workarounds:
insulation breaks down flow
blown out of control.
Magnetism’s nice;
I’d rather it not blow out.
My heart’s inside this.
The perfect circuit
may be one that’s incomplete -
more like a spiral.
—NS
Objects of desire does not cut it, what this red rock of time can buy
the one blessed to bear it, momentarily sun-king for love and forever
held in the flame of reclaiming that burns away all but divine knights.
— NS
Heavy elemental magic; bone on rock. A poem:
…
The poetry of my body is written in the metre of space between.
It follows not the clean or ragged rhythms of outward extension
but erupts from a volcanic groan always churning in deep matter,
placing new threads that link points in secret knots,
finely worked on the loom of many hidden miracles.
The captive pulse of desire is my seat of being;
the emergency of that, a masterclass in my craft.
Patterns appear with the photonic cry of an Icelandic winter
- raw material, deep mater
on a rock polarised like Earth’s wet mind when they I say,
offhand, that I learned to come by listening to Homogenic.
-NS