Life keeps hurtling forward, bursting forth. It’s spring in California, the jasmine’s come in and the streaky roses. It’s been raining hard all morning; just now it stopped abruptly. Lyn writes in My Life, “she observed that detail minutely, as if it were botanical. As if words could unite an ardent intellect with the external material world.” This is Lyn, vitally observing, drawing it all into relation, the mind and the world, botanical, passionate. Making words hold life, making words as life. “Such that art is inseparable from the search for reality,” she writes.
Gerry Loose: Eight further poems in ogham script with a note on poetics and translation
Church of the 3 Brethren Lochgoilhead
little saint of whitethorn
little quencher of wolf spark
welcome to the burial mounds
dear confessor of blood-red berries
sweet dweller of beehive cell
oaks make good gallow-trees