Everything ascends upon Dove Cottage
to forage on your thinking and you the whole,
corporeal manifesting. Larger than life,
big as all outdoors, it’s bursting, it’s teeming,
it’s unmarked glistening, Tim Morton.
I spot I, like a mustard seed across the
Atlantic, slugged at the back, struggling to tell
the inside from the out. How do I sit?
Trip-switching on my own swaddling,
I shuffle, germinating shoots.
Up there! A long, alabaster arm encircles
my amplifying middle and I’m herded by
my child to the front. For she has no fear
of tickling an event horizon: the child is
the father of the man.
And then you from nowhere, a man,
a strange stranger. Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy,
I spy with the eye of the swarm, a time
traveller, a knight clad in rock-star, spurred
boots, sloping Pink Floyd tee, kicking
Into the shine you crazy, past the room shifts
and I look-see. Blast, you have taken a hit
in the ride. I can move my phone you say,
and your hand rings. Dart. The eyes blinking,
lashing ones and zeros
Back, forth cerulean blue. No, it’s OK, I say
and you register, shaking loose. I am
a fly on the wall and you a droid awaiting
ignition: Mort aux tyrans, paix
Centre’s missing, so’s the edge, it’s the puzzle
of this place assembled on an awkward peak,
So I seek solace beside the child who speaks
to you of sonic screwdrivers, of Dr Who,
and there is nothing outside of this space, this time:
World fits mind and mind fits world,
There is no Nature,
Que sera sera.
(In response to the work of Timothy Morton, including ‘The Ecological Thought’.)
Helena McCanney designs learning for a living and writes to experience life more fully. Helena was born in Dublin and bred across Dublin and Drumquin, Co Tyrone. She lives beside Phoenix Park, which she thinks of as her holodeck – a safer alternative to reality.