Author/Artist/s:
Format:
Poem and
Research method:
approx. 80 hours on the island of Koos
Time:
Spring 2024
a bunch of boggy peaty grassy sloppy sedgy tongues keep the well-preserved information paradoxically distorted through different readings over time. When trying to be deciphered, these tongues bubble language that eventually decays into communication unintelligible to human ears, bodies and embodiment. Can we read, taste, write and be with a bog? Maybe mirroring as sph sph sph agnum floating between lakes, these tongues come and go with migratory x-ozauria and are speculated upon by beings of the forensic o
omen
o exēgētḗs.
The world
Me
Between feet ferns fears
Me
The world
Spongy micro islands
Between feet ferns fears
I’m looking for peatland everywhere
No hhhh-air
Uuuking uooking
How can you read movement without words?
How can you read movement without words?
How can you read movement without words?
° ~ ~ ~
moss me moss
° ~ ~ ~
Preserve preserve
Archive of the world
Preserve preserve
Archive of a world
Bubbling earth °
Bubbling earth° °
Bubbling earth ° °
It’s too too eurocentric
as it is a cycle of time machines at its core
too millimetric, atomic level of all the mosses pores
Preserve preserve
Archive of the world
Sneaks languages we can’t speak well
Archive of a world
Sneaks languages we can’t speak well
Uuuuuwing
dried by windried by wind
I’m thinking of the sea eagles missing the landscape. Water birds being scared about predator hunters
in one place almost perverted-inverted form of landscape undisturbed by humans. Missing landscape.
Uuuuuwuuuu
Don’t squeeze the Sphagnum Moss
And let’s not be symbolic
dry you dry me
it’s factual
A fractural friendship
I get the courage to reflect
This is now the beginning of an unwritten sci-fi:
a mother of darkness,
deep fossiles of time walk into an agricultural field.
Is this the beginning of an unwritten sci-fi
No, ° ° walks into an agricultural field with ° ° bubbles of carbon
protecting ° ° the struggle of the ° ° hard workers
I dedicate the next seconds to CH4 eating queens
the CH4 eating queens
With bipedal instructions
I seek to crawl beyond language
Who said I can hear the water?
Oxigen conditioned
Text the open eyes
Earth sensing
Ground reading
Wound reading
Ground reading
Warn reading
Ground wooding
Ea.
Wet by rain
Wet by rain
Water is a collective character
Similar to the water of watermelons seeking
To keep the life of death alive
° ~ ~ ~
moss me moss ° ~
° ~ ~ ~
The objective is as true as the object of itself could be an astral philosophy I learn replacing gd with
Jupiter.
We take a moment here to thank the grandmothers that keep the language door open so we can speak
de-rooted.
Expect ° ~ ~ to respiro
The pressure of wind
The dryness no more
Reed
Expects ° ~ ~ to exist
Movement as laaaaaaaanguage
Stillness as laaaaaaaaanguage
Expect ° ~ ~ to respiro
Expects ° ~ ~ to exist
dry earth what a strange idea dry earth
dry earth
dry earth
dry earth what a strange idea dry earth
Expect ° ~ ~ to respiro
Expects ° ~ ~ to exist
Listening to a body
A bogdy
The keys to all the detention centres of hope melt
They have been dried out as underneath, pre-coal,
other archives
Tired of amber sport.
Tongues twist in ° ~ ~ muds
dark surface waters acidify me
Let’s swing
Me walking on ° ~ ~ petty weed shoe sized islands
° ~ ~ keeping that archive safe
I imagine butterflies in the owl’s eyes. They show me how to behave.
Now we reach the point where I have kept your attention long enough.
To consider you, dear listener, a desert flower.
~ °~
~ ° ~
The fogs of frogs upsidedown bogs.
The fogs of frogs upsidedown bogs.
An archive without archivist
Language fossil
An ancestor
I left with a bog in a bottle asking the mud what is my mission.
I look for you in every swamp, as if you’re one but I avoid extensively
to demystify your body of time
my body rhyme
appealing to us all it speaks
the urgency
The rhyme
The rhyme
Where are you?
A small bone meets in the middle of a small tree, a small leaf meets a goat’s hair tied together
to a goat’s tooth on a span of ten cm, a watermelon seed tied together to a feather moss, rest
unimaginably on an unimaginably beautiful shell.
And you, you don’t need to hear all of that to believe me, ° ~ ~ bubbled.
I heard ° ~ ~ decomposed
a bunch of boggy peaty grassy sloppy sedgy tongues
~ approx. 3% of the world’s uncontainable literature ~
~ ~ ° word of ~ ° ~ ~ ~ ° ~ ~ ° ~
Through a magnifying glass the pollen
gets scary, gets scared,
gets weird, gets sparkly and hairy, gets real.
Of all the waters getting back in the place of a big sponge immensely incomprehensible
Nobody knew you are all communicating like mycelium and that on a nocturnal evening in the eyes of
all nocturnals we failed to see one important message: the books of pollen.
How could that be?
What can I convince you better of, pixel lovers kiss enlightened by screens when the message has
been sent. The message: a bogdily message.
eveveryeveveryvevery mm of bog sentiment
alive seeds send a message, all bogs are sponges
is a book we don’t have language for.
Credits:
Photographs by Jasmina Al-Qaisi
A work commissioned by the art and research platform Sensing Peat at the Michael Succow Foundation for the Protection of Nature, partner in the Greifswald Mire Center.
Sensing Peat is funded by the Andrea von Braun Foundaion.
Research trip on Koos Island, reflection time Făgăraș mountains