Author of the Month

Atlantis and Egypt
Two Poem Cycles by Linda Pearce

The Atlantis Poems
By Linda Pearce

To go straight to the Egypt Poems, click here


Sometimes in the sky can be seen
the spectra of the elements of mind
illuminated by a shaft of intelligence
that lasers through the atmosphere like wine.
From the study of these spectra we deduce
the origin of All; such colorbars are clues
to why the spirit’s captured here.
In this rare sky the constellations form
like some astronomical divergence from the plain;
the atmosphere reflects the ground below
as far as light can reach.
Atlantis takes its momentary glow
from that sheer mosaic pinned in place by stars.
To learn what we need, we achieve
a perpendicularity of understanding,
an oblique and sideways glance,
a poetic disquisition that touches on the edges of the truth,
and looking up we shimmer past some spiritual threshold,
the spectrum of our own uncharted selves.

Sculpted by the forces of another dimension
the continental womb makes ready for the seed of man.
Across the land is felt the slow movement
of the holographic energizer,
genesis of mountain, cause of shore,
terraforming matter into home.
The blueprint draws its way across the mind;
on this map shall be no terra incognita -
all are granted manumission of the primal fear.
And so these things take place:
The crossfertilization of the sun-site with the star-born;
A precipitate arrangement of the clouds, held firm,
placed in tumbled time, tacked down;
The oceanic basin waits its load;
The rivers introduce themselves to sea, and streams to rivers,
rivulets to streams - the waterfalls intrude,
not subtle in announcement of their birth -
and then, the prophet stream performs
the alluvial baptism of the plain.
The harvest undertaken for the seminal crop
is over now, and new plants form themselves
with particle delight. Observing polarity,
magnetized by light and iron earth,
they drift along the path of the sun.
They breathe out the oxygen of life, and in the heat
there rises the rich caramelization of the sugared air.
What’s left to say? The rhythms put in place,
vibrations tuned and clear, sun high, sky blue,
air flowing through the rippled wheat, the night complete with stars -
the hormones of the earth are sweet and new,
as eager for the birth as the first soft dew.

Inside the first skin that ever was
these few humans dipped on down like windwalkers,
touching with their toes the virgin plain.
It took some time to learn the rules
of earthly limitations, time and space,
being taught the grounding way, and finally
embracing matter like a prize.
Although they felt the dimmed-down density of flesh
their spirits glowed transparent through the skin,
and all had rings of sunset round the eyes.
Shocked to stillness by the first glimpse of sky,
gentled to their first sleep by the hand that built their world,
entranced by weeds in water, mice in the tall grass,
they slowly wrote themselves upon the palimpsest of earth.
And water: rivers roamed like gypsies through their minds.
The ocean lapped its way across their dreams,
built sand-temples in the attic of their minds
and tumbled spiral shells across their thoughts.
All felt the wild-eyed freedom of the wind,
marvelled at the unbelievable flightiness of the birds,
saw each tree to be a seed-house wrapped in bird-song.
And at night they sought no solution for the darkness,
but gloried in the warm black wind.
These were the first people:
fully formed, not born, not children,
they spun themselves together like a web
(all bodies touch for their delight), and
spoon-fed by honey dripping from the trees
they moved their spirits down to flesh,
lay down, and slept.

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