thrown by Mary Featherstone


There is the silence of air and space
In which breathing is a momentous act
And contemplation stretches like a long beach in the sun
Of limitless horizons

There is the muffled deadness which descends
Like the padded ceiling of a too-small room
Left windowless to the imagination
Which can no longer sing

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Your name weighs heavy on the tongue, some days
It has been taken hostage by a foreign power
And rendered unpronounceable
Light years away from those simple lines
Traced in Aramaic on red sand
That say, without pretension, ‘I am here’

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Leaves with brown paper veins
Have succumbed to dry earth
And the neglect of the sad
For months touched only
By the movement of dust
In the rays of an improbable sun

Hope hung heavy
When the world closed down

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‘If you throw enough mud at the wall, some of it will stick’

An expression dating back to the age of wattle and daub constructions. Some of our creative efforts may be a little flaky but if we put it all out there something might connect.

Text and visual content is my own unless specified.

Too much respect for artists to claim that title, just enjoying myself.

Certains textes/poèmes sont en français.