INDIGO DREAMS

PUBLISHING LTD

LOOKING FOR ICARUS

Roselle Angwin leads the ‘Fire in the Head’ creative and reflective writing programme.

 

As an ecopoet and ecopsychologist, she also leads ‘The Wild Ways’ outdoor workshops and retreats.

 

She's passionate about wild places and the natural world, as well as the meeting points between inner and outer geographies: relationship, connection, land. She has been described as ‘a poet of the bright  moment...whose own sources of creative inspiration are her native Westcountry, the Scottish islands, and a highly individual blend of Celtic myth and metaphysics, psychology, shamanic and Buddhist thinking’. 

 

Her ten books include poetry, novels and non-fiction.

Roselle Angwin

 

Looking For Icarus

 

ISBN 978-1-909357-88-4

 

Indigo Dreams Publishing

 

Poetry

 

138 x 216mm

 

100 pages

 

£9.99 + P&P UK

 

PUB: July 2015

 

 

ORDER HERE

 

 

 

 

 

 

South Hooe

 

To stand in mud

and know the flow of blue air

parting round your body

 

to feel for footholds

to feel your feet hold

to feel your feet held

 

to be mud, part of mud,

part of mud’s harvests.

 

*

 

To feel the blue air

splitting round your body

to catch the spill of light

 

with all of your skin; to be

coming in and going out;

to be another reason

 

for the wind to dance.

 

*

 

To be streaked with mud

saltwind, blue air. To be

held, here in the river’s

 

darkness. To take the harsh cry

of the heron; its bristle

on your body. To take its call

in your own lungs.

 

*

 

To be the heron. To be

the head of the otter splitting the water

to be the flow of water

transfiguring that head.

 

*

 

To know light.

To know the way it falls

the way it breaks.

 

To not be afraid of dark

or of the mudflats’ swollen flanks.

To swim, and not be afraid

of drowning. To strike out

 

for where the light shivers

breaching the river’s deeper

currents. To feel

 

blue air parting round your

light-rinsed mud-licked head.

To be recognised by light, by mud,

by water.

 

Sennen Cove

 

Blackbird

This is not the colourless season

of margins and absences

This is the black and white time

Sharp in the dawn this one pure note.

 

Thorn Tree

Wind, monoliths, salt on my lips

This high hinterland furrowed

by plough, waves of lapwing and fieldfare

Me, resilient, gale-swept.

 

Glass

January’s first day, and everything

yet to be broken

Washed, untrodden sand; deep sky;

this wave, caught at its curl’s apex.

 

String

Kelp, green weed, boulders like seals

Everything always the same, and forever changing

 

I am the tether

of this moment’s kite.

 

Tide

There is the white sand

and there my welling footsteps

There is the prowling tide

 

and then only water.

 

 

 

 

 

Shaman

 

 

A muscled instant, a question

hanging poised for the kill,

and a green storm waiting to break borders,

burst the chest, a frantic flood.

 

We turn on this moment mind to mind,

wordless now, the language of thigh

to thigh, slipping skins like borrowed truths,

and our rawness is where we meet.

 

Nothing but cliff between us, cliff

and chill blue air;

and the instant spins, falls in on itself;

and you

 

now a wave in my hand

now a fox

a burning bush

then again the hawk’s high arc;

 

and then all the wide sky calling,

the day brilliant with feathers,

answers opening over us

like wings.

‘This collection can inspire, intrigue and compel simultaneously – a powerful combination’

D A Prince

 

‘..a confident, assured, and utterly engaging lyric voice. Great images, and a totally cogent sound world.’

Andy Brown

 

‘A hugely sensory experience ...expressed in a lucid yet personal style which I feel I am immediately in touch with.’

Julius Smit

 

‘...be warned. The book is hard to put down. Don't pick it up if you have an urgent appointment.’

Gwilym Williams

 

‘…high-quality and thought-provoking work. This is a densely-packed collection, wide in scope, from a poet prepared to take risks with form and structure, shape and sound.’

Frogmore Papers

Wild

 

You have gone too far into the darkness;

there is no other word for it. You have

given up your name, what made you

human. You live now at the crossroads

‘entre chien et loup’. We who love you

can no longer reel you in.

 

What you were circles in its own self-

referring echoes, a distant shout

on the drizzling wind which swam

through these leaves an hour ago

or a lifetime.

 

In memoriam, then, I shape

these words; touch a finger to

the nouns that you might still inhabit:

tree, rock, river, heron, wolf.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Looking For Icarus

 

Here we eat silence

as heat eats us

 

the crickets’ song

only underlines absence

 

and every sunflower turning its face

to the sky

 

reminds us how far we have come

how far we still have

to fall

 

 

 

 

Say

 

 

Say there were no guns

say war was illegal.

 

Say no child was ever tortured

in the long scream of a dark cellar.

Say no-one bled alone in midnight alleys.

 

Say there was no greed:

no-one was hungry, or homeless.

 

Say the blind could see

and life-support machines

had taught the almost-dead to dance.

 

Say we championed dissidents.

Say Biko and Ken Saro-Wiwa

had never had to exist

 

and Auschwitz wasn’t even a figment.

Say there was no death.

Say fear was as foreign as Mars.

 

Say we could promise to love one another

forever.

 

Would we have to invent the dark

as a place in which to hide?

Would we need death?

Icarus web