nomadology heading   

HOME
ABOUT
NOMADOLOGY BOOK
PHOTO LIBRARY
CONTACT

RSS Feed

verb (67)
gathaka (52)
lolli (35)
misssometimes (34)
nomadic philo-sophy (34)
ren (33)
dan (28)
praccus (25)
saskia (25)
.a frog. (24)
Ben Jah Man (22)
nic (22)
Jim (21)
orry (21)
hoffmann (20)
myth (20)
rob (19)
miles (18)
neo cosmonaut (17)
tomtom (14)
Mad America (12)
aggy (10)
mim (10)
and (9)
arrow (8)
kelly-lee (8)
nanadjun (7)
Ryan (7)
Si (6)
The Camp Fire (6)
henry (5)
leoniestar (5)
Dr. Razam (4)
charlotte (3)
RiverRiver (3)
chay-ya (2)
Citt (2)
dr. moreau (2)
Raku (2)
adz (1)
aletta (1)
Dom (1)
IRIS (1)
jean poole (1)
jeff (1)
levin (1)
rex (1)
warri (1)
Will (1)
wren (1)

NOMAD WORLD TRACE
USER INFO: WREN

Name: claire wren

Photos: wren's photo libraries

NAVIGATION.
a way ( 9th Jan, 2006 )

WREN
 
a way

what was once so upright, now lies for my seat.
it takes me three goes to get upon her girth of clawed bark.
poached colors of sunset peach and regular tree brown
we hear the koalas
a million memories astound me whilst i'm here, from all corners of growing up.
festivals intense with loud music and untouchable men,
swinging the afternoons away near half-pipes and circus tents.
unlikely hitches after train rides and busses,
safely at home in a house i could honestly never tell.
i have memories of small girls walking with boogie boards and surf ski's down to the beach.
me and a lover with crystal glasses of wine taken along the shore to a point where we'd stop and look.
a younger me, walking a labrador with long drama reels of fantasy in my mind.

i smell ants upon this log
ants, my blood and the gentle symphony of a single mosquito.
my wine mug balancing.
the ocean, a coarse sonic, distances away.
koalas so ready to make love.
back in this country
trees with doorways like yoni's ready for delivering.
i knew the woman's body even before i became one.
i knew the womb as intimately as anyone,
but moreso now that i have my own.
ready for life.

i lived inside my mother.
a twenty fourth of my life i lived inside my mother.
why am i not nine months older?
from the day of conception, the growth of my mutation
i was fused in june and born in march.

can i ever stop writing about the majic?
about how full i am?
about how much i desire?
that there are sequels and sequels to my potential which i fear cannot fit in this one life.
i know the agent of death,
i know you've granted me this extra day.
a mosquito creates harmoniics inside this wine mug,
circling up like a spiral staircase to come and feed on me.
i am full of blood like the sap of this once tree.
there are ants smaller than my history,
crawling up this flesh.
i look back down this trunk,
and i see sand formations willed by the moon and her current mood.
i think of dried food and affairs, and everything now.
to know the history of words would be to know myself,
for i know the power therein.
a sentence,
a prayer,
a curse.

the air cools,
dense green on my cheeks.
mosquitos are slow here and don't bite.
my head is still firmly on,
until i go into different gear and feel the fire.
the suppression's are what give us madness.
a chamber of dark wants.

what is this color green?
and how they dare they say it's just the half caste of blue and yellow?!
barring it from the primary color wheel.
many an artist gave up on this hue.
but i look now and see little else,
except the parenthesis of brown,
this peach of fallen bark.

the breadth of words.

i of a thousand prayers,
for full lungs of breath and lunges of dance under any moon.
for birdsong as clear as that.
and a color so green.
twigs to make that glance.
the jewel of risk.
the chance for all to know majic not just in dreams.
i have a thousand prayers to say thankyou.
to show gratitude
to sit in grace.

the earth spins again.
and this ritual dance of day i have been committed to 23x365 comes to rest.
-the night opens with slow, slow dark embrace.
the monochrome of sun's absence.
the skirting moon promising something - tides and blood.
halved like a dinner plate flung in passion.
i believe in my dreams,
and fearless love.
and silence,
and movement in the night which is restless wanting,
daring.
Like kangaroos I hear moving amongst all this human-ness.
i haven't noticed the noise until now - fellow campers,
celebrating with car stereos and sixties rock.
they don't even know i exist.
i've heard cockatoos fall from the nest when human's party too loud.
let my last breadth not be the only one i notice.

a million yesses this night tells me

pens dont write on bark,
only their domesticated sister allows such branding.
i touch trees everyday with my words,
my thoughts.
and so cargo's full of stripped trunks come as no surprise.
i exist on their fall,
their transport,
their sale.

sale.

what an ugly word.
even when it gives any art value, what an ugly word.

i am glad my body, my being is worth nothing,
and has never had a value.
to be priceless,
to have something priceless for once.
to honestly possess it.

(i am free)

RSS Feed | Site design by DISLOCATED - DISLOCATED LOGO      Australia Council logo (1K)