A traveller on the love-bus, fresh and high from reading Kristeva, Perloff and A Wild Salience by Rae Armantrout, told me of a theory which came in a dream when listening one day to the invisible stars above, calling them to account and make up the map of what becomes of love when roses fade and birds migrate beyond a realm of meaning, subverted, staid and losing faith in the pleasure of abandoning reason.
They said there is a musicality within we are born to hear and perform, pre-programmed in our pineal gland, where resides what Descartes identified as the Seat of the Soul that melatonin discharges and can be found in Eavan Boland's New Collected Poems.
Consciousness, the colleague stated, is where a universal metrical template forms, forged by vibrations, karma and emanations which surround us as we gestate within the womb, mirroring the process and progress we all experience prior to our birth as blooms born to wither in a brief flash of eternal light, before being snapped back into the vacuum of pre-existence.
Life, the colleague conveyed as we sat drinking coffee in an anonymous Victorian square, much like any other anonymous Victorian square, and through which a body of free flowing physical traffic tarried hither and tither in pale weak light of the overcast March evening - acting as a liquid signifier of the human lexicon contextualising what was being said at that moment, several hours since -- is spoken of at length in the celestial sonancy our listening for a cosmic voice can wrought.
The first observance of what's occuring in a piece of verse, is a pre-verbal tweet of what idea, afloat on an opaque signifier; alert and unspeaking of what lifts beneath waking the voice within, beginning in silence, surprises us.
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