CELTIC HEATHER

To remain with the dead is to abandon them

I feel at home
in these Celtic hills,
with broken icons
of heather
hovering over
every crag, every valley,
the spirit looking back
upon the body.

The magnetic pole
pulls my blood,
the thumbprint of night sky
in my inner eye.

When you are lost
to ones you love,
you will face south-southwest
like a migrating bird
and at certain hours
your body will be flooded
with instinct,
so much of you
having been entered,
so much of you
having entered them.
Their limbs
will follow
when you lie down,
a shadow against your own,
curving to every curve
like Hebrew alphabet
crossing the page of your soul,
bent with carrying absence,
cargoes from distant ports,
the power of stones,
the sorrow of those
whose messiahs have made them
leave so much behind...

In the early winter darkness
of these Celtic hills,
I raise my hands
to my face and smell heather
in my palms.
I long for memory
to be spirit,
but fear it is only skin.
I fear that
knowledge becomes instinct
only to disappear
with the body.
For it is my body
that remembers them,
and though I try to erase
my dead
from my senses,
try to will
my dead
from my listless sleep,
this will
amounts to nothing.



OTHER POEMS...


Exception

Engulfment

Rearview

Descent

Setting the scene

Superstition brings bad luck

Ctrl+Alt+Del

No, perhaps not

Residual order

Contrapasso

Ashtray

Alcoholic accordion

End season

Uncoiling spiral

First World

Ultimate reassurance

Figment

Bay of Naples

Rotting Fowl

Dried up

Words in music

Celtic heather

Émigré

Contrast

Hopeful linearity

Heat seeker

Fathering stars

TrazommozarT

SPECULAte

Wishing a bridge

Bibliomachy

Avian sleep

Borgesian

L.U.C.A.

Cosmic Surplus

Choosing the Edge

Kissing shock

Quantum Superimposition

Middle Stance

Blade inward

Germinate

Throw

Infant Chant

I can't seem to find my way

Night verses

Respond

Gusts

Enema Blues

Pagis page

Insurgence

Sikelia Aetna

My journey

Only

Body odours

Applebud

Simile

Another You

Impalpable

Possibility

Íkaros envisioning

Cups

Prickly Magnet

Reversion

Cortège

Almost the same

Vast Colonies

Forked painting

Seeding

Wastage

Epitaph

Fear List & Nightmares
[restricted +18]

Vampyrus


Waterhouse"s Roses

Sorry, no comments are allowed
on this poesy blog, but
Daubmir is passionate for you
to discuss poetry with him
at any time you feel truly inspired...
You may forward a sincere
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He'll respond with the very same
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Merci bien!



Daubmir"s Rose


MAY

I

BREAK

YOUR

HEART

TONIGHT?


Rose Noire


The
Infinite
Divisibility
Of
Being
Where
Nothing
Is
Really
Connected
To
Anything
Else
Except
By
Language
As
You
Can
Always
Split
AtomoV
Into
Other
Levels
Of
Division
Down
To
Quarks
And
Electrons
And
More
And
No
One
Really
Knows
Anything
Very
Important...
Yet

Three Graces, by M Parkes - click to enlarge
Nothing fascinates me more
than the expanded reflection
of my spirit


What

Came

Before

The

Beginning

And

What

Will

Happen

After

The

End?



La Rose Noire de Daubmir


Not

only

is

nothing

good

or

ill

but

thinking

makes

it

so,

but

nothing

is

at

all,

except

in

so

far

as

thinking

has

made

it

so.

~ Samuel Butler ~