Poetry
Words streaming through my body in conversations with land, dreams, deep imagination, the beloved, soul, Earth Community, Cosmos.....
Here is some of the poetry that swirled in the eddy, flowed, shaped the banks of the burns and rivers on the way to sea. Others can be found in my book "Whispers; Imagining Earth Community, Surrendering to Earth's Wisdom' and more yet to publish
all poetry copyright Wendy Robertson Fyfe, image: Sage Canyon, Colorado, wrf
What if
we remember the depth
of what it means to be human;
enter a portal
to stars
and earth’s core;
converse with trees and seas
imagine into sunbeams and streams
be dreamt into mountain and stag.
What if
we remember beauty,
our own and Others;
singing them by their own true names
and making a pilgrimage to remember our own;
a name given before birth,
remembered by the Others
such as soil and the milky way
in living image, symbol, metaphor, and myth;
a name not invited
by this current industrial extraction culture
where forests scream with the voices of animals burning
and whales swallow plastic as they feed;
swim off-course due to human created noise and greed
from the great forgetting and the great longing.
What if
we live singing our own true name
with all beings,
earth-centred.
What if
we live from our unique place in the community of Allbeings,
singing our note with the cosmic symphony:
with iron atoms created from nebula collisions
-did you know there is one atom of iron in every human heart?-
with cyanobacteria creating the ozone over millions of years,
and painted lady butterflies pilgrimaging over generations;
each surrendering to Mystery’s love call, a different kind of Gravity.
What if
with that very note a heartcrack grief
opens us to The Holy
remembering love divine
in marrow married in our bones
in animate ozone offering breath
in sweet-scented wild mint meadows
in tears nourishing flower, hummingbird to nectar,
in moonblood to earth and water,
in sacred sage offerings.
What if
we remember praise, prayer
and celebration;
in so doing
makes all the difference
with Allbeings then, now and to come.
May it be so.
Wendy Robertson Fyfe
Longing for you, my love,
l dive headlong deep into your crevice.
Everything depends on it.
Moist sweet mint meadow of the forest.
Wendy Robertson Fyfe
The Holm
A tiny fruit and cup in perfect fit
sits in the centre of my palm.
At some point
the acorn has to crack
be cracked
in order to take root.
Does such a one feel the crack, l wonder?
At some point the fruit shapeshifts,
loses its original shape,
to become the tree it is meant to be;
is shaped by, entangled with other forces,
other beings,
like wind, rain, hail, ice and snow
sun, earth, rock, bird, insect, squirrel,
air, carbon, mycelium networks, song…
Who would embark on such a journey
where the acorn, the shape from which
the tree is born, becomes no more
and yet in the marrow of all.
Oh, that we too
surrender
to such a wild shaping.
Wendy Robertson Fyfe
When the Earth’s Dream Roars
Can you hear the breaking song
of vast Earth plates
rising and heaving
through the great turning up;
all else being tossed
down in the fall
as ‘under’
emerges into air.
Remember this.
Maybe not as vast as if
the Milky Way himself were to turn…
but vast enough. And
who can say what the impact of a roar is
or how far it reaches.
Remember this.
It is because of The Bursting Spark;
with Universe birthing,
and Earth’s roaring
that we are here today.
Remember this.
We humans too are now knowingly participating
in the Cosmic fire,
turning and falling
as a new consciousness
emerges, rising, singing.
Remember this.
How will you be turning up?
Wendy Robertson Fyfe
Wild Heart Seeds
I’m being juggled
like a body rattle
feeling wild grown seeds
sounding in my heart,
reverberating.
In the heat of Iona
my heart opens;
an abundance of seeds spray
out into the Atlantic winds…..
Wendy Robertson Fyfe
Sometimes….
Icicles hang from limestone’s organic
mush of shell, coral, algal
and fecal stir of ancient years underfoot
on which we tread today and
breathe in the ground
of our becoming.
Between the layers lie down coal
seams above volcanic rock
where stone rub marks record the
grind of rock against rock
in earthquake amid carboniferous
fossil. This land forming south of the Equator,
through tectonic scouring and depressions
is currently river mouth to the North Sea;
shaping by glaciations and glacial
erosions; a deep basin carving by
waves and wind hallowing.
Ice moves once more into longing
memory of place where
tears in stone and bone
mark a heart break of time across
541 million years and
counting; being brought to our knees
in the depression Sound
the human heart thaws.
Sometimes the melting happens
closest to the stone,
as tears to the bone in
the Great Remembering;
abundance in Cosmic ways and
our niche in a bigger story
being sculpted, being sung.
Wendy Robertson Fyfe
This seed
is the universe
expanding.
One day,
it will crack open
and then,
who knows….
My heart
now expanding…
cracks open.
The entire universe
spills out.
Wendy Robertson Fyfe
Cailleach’s Eye
A dark portal
to Earth’s fiery core
and beyond the cosmos.
A sharp intelligent seeing
through murky times;
with pre-ancient wisdom and timeless cosmic joke.
Experience ~
The Cailleach
embodied as land,
mountain like Ben Cruachan,
whirlpool like Corryvreckan;
Old Hag;
Creatrix and re-shaper through Winter;
Her chthonic weather and hammer
breaking what needs to go
tossing seeds into cold soil
and apocalyptic heart.
Breakdown ~
Through her fierce eye, She
sees where we are out of alignment
knocking us back in again.
Realign ~
She, alignment, with Sovereignty,
is married by hollowed bone and wind breath with Earth
where the bounty of nature
Herself is dowry;
where richness is currency more than money,
and a reminder of veiled ancestral belonging.
Be wed ~
To kiss the Cailleach,
the ugly and undesirable
you would not otherwise willingly kiss,
from whom we usually flee,
is to love keenly enough
an old story
through the Mystery
into previously unimaginable beauty.
Kiss Her ~
Good people, The Cailleach is here,
has called in our Wintertime.
We have called her up from unknown depths
to meet the end time dreaming.
It is time to transition,
to die to what has been.
Die to the old ways~
Protecting the wild hunt,
the deer,
the horned ones,
the cattle,
the yew tree,
She, Cailleach, lives sovereign with Earth life
that Spring may arrive
the culture renew
Earth Community thrive.
Give birth~
Experience
breakdown
re-align
be wed
kiss Her
come home
die to the old ways
give birth to thriving Earth.
Wendy Robertson Fyfe
A Pheasant Procession
Walking round a lake
at dusk with a sister shortly
before the Cailleach awakens at Samhain,
The Lady still sleeps.
Golden leaves move everso slightly on muddy-bottomed waters
and enough light reaches yet for
reflecting dell’s branches on autumn’s dreamy slow ripples.
Years of leaf composting under a yellow
passage provides a soft tread between
passing roots and we smell
sweet bark sap sticking between our fingers.
Rounding the curve just up
beyond where the jagged and moss rock cliff begins,
pheasants start appearing close
before us on the winding path.
Before long a moving feathered strand
fills the way forward as far as we can see.
It’s as if we’re being led in a procession
and willingly following,
being slayed in every step by beauty and awe.
Wendy Robertson Fyfe