Driving into the Dreamtime: An Interview with Donald Beagle
In a change to the usual format of this blog, this post features a longform interview with the poet and scholar Donald Beagle, whose recent
"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
In a change to the usual format of this blog, this post features a longform interview with the poet and scholar Donald Beagle, whose recent
Spat out from the murky exhalations of our impetuous industry you drift into the firmament, tainting its continence with your coarse and filthy touch, trickling
Spread out like a living blanket of dewy jade, the fire moss basks in its ubiquity. Verdant carpets that stretch out across the forest, over
Blown on cooling winds your paper wings flutter in the breeze, a murmuration of autumn leaves stretched across the horizon. Stray gusts catch the chosen
Sailing by moonlight you wallow in the opulence of your oceanic abode. An illusion of permanence concealing the current that now bathes you in shameful
Tiny flecks of red dance across artificial rivers of powdered grain, their movements halted only by the confusing steps of a familiar other. The speed
Hidden below the waves an unknown artist plies his trade, moving purposefully to dig valleys and furrows at appealing angles that start to take shape;
Mechanical eyes sweep immeasurable skies, searching for life with boundaries pre-defined by the limitations of their homely existence. Blinkered hands reaching into dusky bags to
Buried beneath the snow line, these smouldering corpses begin to glow. Forgotten fires, whose reanimated embers burn brightly across the tundra; frozen bodies recoiling at
Torn from the sky we clipped your wings to buy safe passage; broken bodies lovingly preserved with a tenderness denied in flight. We stole shadows