Posts Tagged ‘ Sabine Miller ’

Otata 29 – May, 2018

Sabine Miller

Native Object

To hug a tree—how silly
can one get, he said, but to dance

with it—like the wind, said he subtracting

craving from contact & The rose

in the garden among evergreens after a soaking rain blooms

no wider than this

 

Donna Fleischer

winter morning,
may i become
your blank page

 

snowfield –
sound of deer’s hooves
striking the moonlit road

 

in the woods
snow shoals sun squalls,
a green triangle

 

Source: May, 2018 – Otata

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Sabine Miller & Carole Kim :: otoliths issue 46 of the southern winter 2017

Sabine Miller & Carole Kim

Of Music Stands and Mushroom Breaths

I imagine Arvo Part gestating in a church bell and raised by a village of solemn angels. John Luther Adams in a mushroom patch. Annie Lennox at the airport. Nina Simone, the slow current of a cypress grove. Beethoven in the foreshadow of the bomb.

.
My neighbor’s mother grew up in Northern Germany during the war. When she was seven, her school was hit during an air raid. The teacher took most of the kids down to the basement shelter. My neighbor’s mother ran the other way, toward where her mother worked, toward where her mother was running toward her, a small grey figure amidst the leveled landmarks.

.
There’s that grainy video of a group of men in Syria digging out a tiny, buried child: They’re shouting directives and Allahs, swiftly clearing around first the head then the arms…It takes about six minutes, and the child touches his eye and whimpers and is whisked away. The men cheer, a birth from and to the brotherhood of dust.

.
I think James Brown was the magic bean planted in magic soil. Snarky Puppy came from democracy; Miriam Makeba, magma; John Lennon, our collective dream. The girl and her mother lived long, rarely apart after that day. Ghandi said something about becoming humbler than the dust. I want to be carved by a river. Ink lines fuse and spore.

Source: otoliths

Sabine Miller at otoliths, Issue thirty-eight, the southern winter, 2015,

Guru (B) by Sabine Miller*

otoliths.

Artist and writer Sabine Miller works with a small garden near San Francisco.

Kindling Stone – “Orchard”

~ for Sabine and her violet enso, always again 

Sabine Miller | The Haiku Foundation

twilight

tinkering

with the hinges

 

in and out of courtyards

        the wind the cougar

                               tasted

Sabine Miller

The Haiku Foundation

 

Poems by Sabine Miller | moongarlic E-zine, issue 3

the ground of this poem // grinding itself to dust

 

– Sabine Miller
moongarlic, issue 3
page 35

mimesis by Sabine Miller | is/let

is/let.

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