I found my way to Niamh’s blog and books via poet Reena Prisad (Butterflies of Time) when Reena reblogged a post from Niamh’s On the Plum Tree. Subsequently, Niamh visited me here and asked me to write something for her Wednesday poetry corner. I was happy to do it, especially since I have been anxious to write about Ruth Stone, an earthy poet whose work I have long admired. If you haven’t encourntered Ruth Stone yet, I hope you will enjoy meeting her today.

I’ve just finished reading Niamh’s The Coming of the Feminine Christ, which I enjoyed, and I’ve also recently asked Niamh to join us on Into the Bardo where she will share with us her wonderful sense of the numinous.

Niamh Clune

Introducing to the Plum Tree, Jamie Dedes. Jamie is a very intelligent writer and runs a poetry blogazine: Into The Bardo. I have been struck by Jamie’s clarity and thoughtfulness in all she writes and produces. I am sure she will become a hot favourite ontheplumtree as she shares her thoughts and fascinating  insights with us. Thank you Jamie for being this week’s guest.

By Jamie Dedes41QCPusU8DL._SY344_PJlook-inside-v2,TopRight,1,0_SH20_BO1,204,203,200_

“We go on to poetry; we go on to life. And life is, I am sure, made of poetry. Poetry is not alien – poetry is . . . lurking round the corner. It may spring on us at any moment.”Jorge Luis Borges, This Craft of Verse

Poems clutter the landscape of my mind with bite-sized portions easily committed to memory, ready to be pulled out in a moment of need or want. I like to think of poetry as literary dim…

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No Time for Sleep

The future grows ever shorter while the book stacks grow high and disorderly alongside bed and chair. No time for sleep. The mind must use the hours to trawl the tomes and its faculties, feeding its hunger for the clarity and intimacy of fiction, the stark raving sanity of poetry. There are volumes of philosophy that flow like rivers as one book eases its way into the next. They reframe life and its perspectives. Occasionally I stop to listen to the music of my unread and untutored progenitors. They play their chalice-drums to ward off devils and tempt genii, but I face the ravages of the night by rustling pages. My survival is written in chapters, not notes. My sensibility is spun out of words.

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© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved, licensing for online publications is nonnegotiable and requires permission, attribution, link to this site, my copyright, no modification, noncommercial only and does not imply permission to include the work in the site’s printed collections or anthologies.
Photo courtesy of morgueFile