Hi, Kelpie. I’ve been wanting to read your book since
it came out, and got it given to me as a Christmas present, and then devoured
it. It’s a nice book! It was far from intuitively obvious to me how
you were going to take the premise and make it not seem too contrived; I think
the plot flows elegantly, and thus you really have the opportunity to talk
about issues and your readers can hear you and ponder along. Thank you.
I was particularly intrigued about your including the
rainbow serpent story, about which I’ve wondered about what sort of connection
there could be to the Chinese and Mexican feathered serpent tails. Who
knows, but below is a poem that came to me not to long ago. And I’ve
attached a little write-up that I keep playing with, about how we could
re-sacralize our neighborhoods, our regions, largely using inspiration from
Australian Aborigine explanations.
I’m feeling tired, not like writing much, just now, so I
thought I’d send this brief note, and hopefully a bit more later.
Dharmakaya
Every grimy little scrubby
mundane
stretch of country, gravel desert,
Shows the corrugated purple
long view, but then
The precious diamantine
jewels of the sand too,
just
there,
laced with silver-grey filigreed leaves.
This must suffice, for the
middle is not there…
…Unless we see it, see into
it, see in it, the rainbow serpent:
Her body and her dreams,
the
rocks, undulating (oh so slowly) and
Reeling out, budding,
bubble
streams and droplets of colored stories.
Myths to make the blood rich
and
the monkey mind hum contentedly,
feasting as it so clamors to do,
on sensual stories of its own creation.
Right and left, right and
left,
casting
couplets for footfalls,
Dancing up the ground,
singing up the country.
My goodness, but she’s
big.
Her massive ribbons of scaled
flesh rise and swivel and swish.
I see it, I see how she
moves,
the
sunlight glinting off her rocky skin.
I stand, on this entire hill,
merely
a protruberance of her vertebrae.
The Earth not as stage,
but we as minute insects upon her, running this way and that.
In the deluded grandeur
of
our wildest fantasies,
We tickle her, as we reel
’round the trunks of trees,
Playfully running our lovers
to ground,
nipping
and tucking amidst her feathers,
the long plumes of her sequoias,
the soft down of her willows.
And what must she,
the
great serpent,
Think of our rumbling
throbbing roads, our straight steel lines, our eruptions on her skin,
The hard crystalline scale of
our concrete and glass cities?
Our political divisions
slapped on her like impromptu faddish tattoos?
It is reassuring to know her
song
was only
forgotten just the other day.
Maybe my friends and I can
remember bits of it.
Sing the song of songs,
the
lover’s litany of praise for her translucent skin
her shapely curves, her downy softness, her old
stories,
Her raging red eyes.