Starling murmuration
Isn’t it miraculous that
In a world poisoned by politics
And paperwork
And screens projecting news
Of yet another stockmarket crash
Onto the canvas of our already
Way too disconnected days
There is something as incomprehensibly beautiful
As a bird murmuration?
Thousands of bodies
Never to be chained by the laws of gravity
Or the concept of borders
Wafting through the crisp morning
And painting pattern after pattern
Upon a pale, limitless sky
I wonder who holds the brush
And if, whoever that is,
Is dancing
Actually, I do believe by now that
Bird murmuration proves the existence
Of God, because look!
A starling flock that floats into formation
And then fades
And formates again And gives the wind a good reason
To exist
Eventually becoming
(but only to those who keep looking)
An ever-moving and always
Wide open door
To the graceful country
Of solace
I keep an incense lit
In my room at all times
To remind myself of the birds
Smoke being the only thing
That comes close to the phenomenon
Of murmuration
Because yes,
This world deserves my worship
Whenever I wake before dawn
I am touched by a sacredness that lives
Only in the first hours of light
Nestled between the fading night with
Her secrets and silences, and the
Birds that fiercely besing the new
Morning as if there hadn’t ever
Been one. The wren’s chant is a prayer
On the altar of time, reminding us
That indeed, we’ve come to the
Right place. Witch hazel blossoms like
Miniature galaxies reaching towards
All that which could be, and I think
We are cowards for not meeting
Life with the same grace every day
The first day of spring
Once I sat in the forest
It was one of the first days
Kissed by the mild breeze of spring
And I asked
“Can you tell me of myself?”
I sat and watched and waited for an answer
As the wind rustled through sheaths of dry grass
Far above me, a flock of birds painted their return across the sky
And I tried to listen
To the soft opening of buds
I must have been there for hours
Before realizing
That I had forgotten my question
And in this great forgetting
Laid my answer
Like blue-speckled robin’s eggs
In a nest carefully woven
From sheaths of dry grass
I am, at heart, no more or less
Than a witness
To the slow unfolding of each season
Infinitely witnessed
By the season itself.
The wind makes no difference
Between touching the grass
And touching my skin
It simply passes
And greets a friend.
And the buds that courageously meet the world
Year after year
They hear me
Sitting ever-so-silently
In the forest
Mornings by the ocean
Driftwood
Each piece a sculpture
Piled up as if only
Waiting for my hungry hands
Rocks textured in ways
They must inevitably
Become an artist’s muse
And the poor fool
Will spend a life-time trying
To make something even half as
Beautiful
Peach-coloured fossiled shells
And corals enclosed
In their rock beds
Waiting to be polished
By wave after wave
I wonder if they dream.
And what of
And what for…
And the pale green carpet
Of endless water
Breathing a rhythm
Only God comprehends
Reaching for a moment of rest
On the sand
Doomed to be swallowed by
A great mystic depth
Ever too soon
Water and land, they dance
The dance of desperate lovers
Which is at the same time
An ancient agreement
That shapes
The whole
World
Dialogue
I find it unsettling to think
Of a morning unannounced by the rooster
Who so persistently reminds me
Of the work that lays ahead
Hard work,
good work,
dirty fingernails kind of work
do it even when it rains kind of work
dictated by the seasons kind of work
That I inherited with this body
And that my body will do regardless
Of the back that aches or
The mind that finds excuses
I guess the only way for me
To exist within this faithful body
Is to work it
And let it be worked by the ancient
Rhythm of the one great body
That wakes and sleeps beneath us all
The seeds must be sown
The soil must be turned
The grain must be cut
And none of it is done through words alone
My body, working
The land, giving
It’s a dialogue that I will always treasure
Because soon enough
I’ll take my rest under the diligently working hands of someone else’s body
And I’ll become
The dirt under their fingernails
Poems by Janna Myska
Janna Myska is a multidisciplinary artist, writer and teacher from Germany. She experiences the world through her senses and creates at the intersection of nature, myth and archaic art, encouraging others to question the current narratives, reclaim land-based rituals & creative practices and return home to an animist understanding of life. With a decade of experience in the fields of plant medicine & nature therapy, the botanical world is her greatest muse.
