The miracles of world-creating discord
Poetry of Life Thomas Helm Poetry of Life Thomas Helm

The miracles of world-creating discord

Poetry of Life

Desire, the indefatigable disrupter, the sweet enemy of civilizations, the creator of worlds, the destroyer of philosophies, the pulse behind variety, the naked, animal essence, intensely alive, unwilling to negotiate with reason; desire, the pure current of the ego, the usurper of the heart, the piercing and poisonous arrow. How many names are there to bless desire with?

Read More
Fire
Poetry of Life Thomas Helm Poetry of Life Thomas Helm

Fire

Poetry of Life

As the yearly heat begins again, the city comes to life. With lockdown eased, the roads pulsate with cars, and the terraces of bars are brimming with drinkers and diners. Those eerie days of March, of emptiness and birdsong-haunted avenues, have started to recede. Perhaps all this will be a memory soon. How much normality will be restored, if any?

Read More
Mercuries #1: Sculptural poetry
Poetry of Life SJ Fowler Poetry of Life SJ Fowler

Mercuries #1: Sculptural poetry

Poetry of Life

I'm interested in three dimensions and poetry, and what we might term sculptural poetry. Why is language two-dimensional when it is objective material? Why does this bleed into what we take the social engagement of reading, and speaking, to be? The head, the mouth, the tongue, the ears: objects in the world.

Read More
Earth
Poetry of Life Thomas Helm Poetry of Life Thomas Helm

Earth

Poetry of Life

The month of May belongs to Aphrodite, the mother goddess, famed for love and beauty. This year the city seems to bless her more than other years. The shops, silent behind their steel shutters, announce a different kind of place: all sense of being in a hurry gone; nothing to buy, just days to live, without the noise and fuss of all those small invented worlds, the markets, schools, and mausoleums, competing for space with Mother Earth.

Read More
Water
Poetry of Life Thomas Helm Poetry of Life Thomas Helm

Water

Poetry of Life

In Barcelona, they say the spring begins when orange blossom fills the cloisters of the old monastery, just off Calle Hospital, in the old town neighbourhood of El Raval. This year, no such initiation. The gates are locked, the library closed. Only birds frequent that fragrant desolation.

Read More

The never-ending quest…

Sign up to receive our free fortnightly newsletter-publication and occasionally a free book