~ ~ ° word of ~ ° ~ ~ by Jasmina Al-Qaisi

Author/Artist/s:

Format:

Poem and Sound Piece:

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?

° ~ ~ ~

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

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 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.

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

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

~ ~ ° word of ~ ° ~ ~ by Jasmina Al-Qaisi

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