Last week Coleridge in Wales visited Cwtsh Writers in Newport – the variety and depth of response to the festival was a true representation of what we’re trying to discover. With that in mind some of the writers have generously agreed to have their work included, as archive, on this blog.
These sensitive beings
thread paths through liquid gloom.
In giant colanders sieve plankton, fish
and krill in brine, weave in and round
invisible peaks. Their suckled young learn play,
and spool the long day’s youth, leap-dive
race-swim, fish-browse, jet-spray, frolic, hunt,
arc-spin, basking the ocean’s breadth.
At twenty hertz their crests of sound
in frequencies below piano keys
surpass the register of human ears;
mysterious antiphonal lyricists
manuscript an aural congruence,
a plainsong symphony.
Migrations leave, sometimes mid-song,
next season’s notes are seamlessly
lacunae-patched like stitches laced,
precise in continuity. New lyrics grow,
a repertoire of intricate complexity
embracing the ocean’s space.
Cross-signal waves from shipping
interweave their song,
confusing social harmony.
Miasma sounds their boundaries,
bottles, cans and plastic bags.
The fragile ocean shrinks
bereft of soul, lifeblood.
Of their sanguinity.