TS To Swansula 2092

A song for the landscape, a mantra for the Lunasaws to resonate during times of isolation and longing.

Composed and Produced by Shiv Pattni
shivpattnimusic@gmail.com | Instagram @shivshivshivshiv

Vocal - Grace Emily Manning, Shiv Pattni

LM Lunasaw Message 2099

A poetic parting message from Lunasaw Grace. Written below.

(growing) Swansula Anthology 

Lunasaw Message 2099

Sanasalu you, 
may you find this in many a moon, by washing in Swansula’s water. 
That is where our wild spirit is home, a part of which here, is gifted.

We digitised our voice, our breath, to fossilise our minds.
Lines drawn under stars, drawn under river in hide
with our hearts beating fruit ripened blood.

A painting by reed on new moon.
When feraled in circle we are a coven at dance in the rush,
with lungs open wide, breasts stroked by tide, singing and dreaming in kin.
Words from Swansula in pain, expressed through our unwashed brains.

Ears opened to every whisper carried on wind,
we uncoded the croaks from the ravens that spoke in their name.
Like drawing, so much is just vision.
Technology we endeavoured to ecofy, materials grown with their body in mind;

but as synthetics, the surrogates we dreamt so dear were a burden that no longer 
earth can bare,
and as organic they perish with us.

The tools and wares we left behind for wilder times, to rust.
To heal Swansula, we have to rewire our minds, and we have to rewild our hearts.

There past is scarred like ours, land filled, belly gauged and ripped away by men
who quarried till no longer fertile matter slept.

What surfaced was their deep past, prehistoric bones picked out by mining hands
who clawed at every ancient root hugging tight in the chalk.

That is why in hand by flame we swore -
To conserve.

Till waters are clean enough for all to swim,
to lay their eggs within.
Till the plastic layered in so deep is sucked out by our love
and nature long steered from here moves in again.
Then, as guardians with all our heart,

sink into the wild.

To Swansula 2092

For you, my almighty reverence
for you, you feed me my life.

When I chew and digest your matters,
in the wall of my gut
I am your wife.

But you cannot walk with your hands
around my chest.

And when I bathe you cannot hold
on to my breast.

With every sorrow I face,
I swim in your grace
but the fear of your tide holds me back.

Today, I distilled black berries
and I stained out a blotch of my past.
Because the pain of feeling no safety,
is a pain I do not know I can last.

Sometimes I wish,
I wish I were cyborg.
Instead of nerves, I ran wires to my feet.
Every memory of Mum
every reverie of Dad,
I would reprogramme their comfort I seek.

When we moved into the shadow lands
to rewild, rebel and restore,
every sorrow we face
we swim in your grace,
but our burden I cannot ignore.

In my womb is the ghost a child,
not conceived, nor grew, never born.
For the demands they could make,
may aid you to break.
And as feral they would struggle forlorn.

With everyday your system grows wilder.
Soon one dark, I will biodegrade,
as I return to my home
and you root through my bone,
as we bind, I am no longer alone.

From Swansula 2028

I am desperate to reach out my roots.
I am sorry, I have born you no fruit.
I am flooded, yet my heart has drained.
I am grateful, for you I can sail.

Now whisper to the buds at dawn,
to spring for all souls that are sore.
Who whimper for my wheezing chest,
who endure, to heal mothers crest.

Ruminate as my satellite renews,
as you swim through my still, sodden blue.
The mud from your toenails prove,
you are ointment for my every bruise.

Fall back.
My wind is the arms that you need.
Look up,
galaxies full of hands that you seek.

How long will this sickness take hold.
How long till it spreads to my soul?

Lunasaw are my spirit, I know.
All will fall till my body regrows.

As you return to my heart,
your flesh resurrects as a star.
When our bodies ferment, we restart,
till the shift in the mind of all parts.

In time when I am stronger to speak,
I will come to you, look out for me.
In my wildest of forms I shall be,
watch the tide till no longer you see.

Brownfield Sister

These creatures are plastic
because of their plasticity. 
Meaning, adaptability.

But soon there will be nothing to adapt,
if they can not hide from pesticide
and unrelenting ecocide.

These creatures are plastic
because of their resilience.  

With resilience, comes vulnerability
and this mosaic land mothers a renewed fertility.
Born from the ash of industrial activity.

You can no longer piss concrete

over biodiversity.

Or develop,

if its heart isn’t green
for current and future ecological sustainability.

Brownfield Sister,
hold up your green chain.
Rewild, remain.


Red Nacre

Red nacre glints of eyes inside 
that line a shell whose lips are prised. 
When filtered by the rising tide  
glean each pearl sunk in the sides.

See lunar lies in every iris,
floating within each sack of cells.
We burn the weed to smoke the hollow

till iridescent mist unfurls.

Still herb cannot stretch out the sorrow 
in muscles tight and chewed by time. 

The salted tissue bruised that followed
is drenched before the light inside.

Iron bound within the mantle,
thick nourishment for what may sprout. 
Rebis tongue is curled and bedded 
to waken with the oceans drought.
No sun to illuminate her crater,
Made peace that she'll give birth to chalk.

Till sculptor, sulphur purified 
carves this shadowed sphere of rock. 

All work and images © Grace Emily Manning 2020