“A word is dead when it is said
Some say ~
I say, it just begins to live
that day.”
Emily Dickinson 1862

This page includes offerings of poetry and articles which have emerged weaving through conversations with the human and ‘more-than-human’ (as phrased by David Abram) world leaning in to/from the Mythopoetic Imagination.


An intentional thing,
enfleshed and breathing;
leaving the body,
living, and carried within an animate world.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

Nothing happened

Luminous lava rock
Listening to blp blp blp glug
Shhhhhhhhhh flowing
leaves shimmying in the
breeze whispering
Milky Waying
embracing the cosmos.
Heart beating.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

Shedding Shoes

Feeling my longing
to touch Earth
my soles press downwards.
Entering desert sand,
With grains caressing
moving around
and over my naked flesh,
l meet Earth’s longing too.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

The Slaughter Wood

This is not a sacred site
where the majestic stag,
heads lowering,
offer antlers to earth
at the end of rutting.

These antlers are strewn,
thrown across land
between Ponderosas, and left;
bones and flesh now returned
to earth, air, wing and fur.
Only tree, wind, sky and soil remember them.

I imagine these magnificent animals lying here
with their dead, dark eyes staring
and their once roaring mouths now wide open, still,
no sound or warm breath passing through.

I remember them.
Do you?

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

This seed

is the universe
One day,
it will crack open
and then,
who knows….

My heart
now expanding…
cracks open.
The entire universe
spills out.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe


At the heart pool it is possible
to break the spell of old stories;
to hear the way the breeze leads
through the long pine needles to the water;
to see the reflection of your own face
amongst the layer-carved curving wash stone,
the vanilla-scented Ponderosa tops reaching down
into blue sky with white clouds puffs moving
to where singing stars shine in the dark
deep under; just beyond.

See your own face here within the fullness of being alive.

Sound your own note in the universal song.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

Mythic Raven

I am the Mythological Raven of Iona,
Gatekeeper and Guide to the Underworld.
I’ve been chained down in the deep crevices
and volcanic hollows in the depths of Earth
since the time humans call
Christianity and Upperworld focus,
Patriarchy, and dominance of rational thinking.

I’ve been waiting you.

I knew you would come.

It was only a matter of time.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe


Stalked by toxins,
matter out of place;
cocktails oozing out of walls
seeping into rivers and veins
flesh and earth
burning into sky.

Stalked by Limos.
Limos is not a Greek Paradisal Island,
a place to spend a summer holiday.
She, the barren One:
skin covering skeleton
with darkened eyes,
hanging breasts and hollow gut.
She who kisses and sucks a life like a dark hole;
a life can do no other than eventually eat itself
for want of hunger impossible to satisfy.

Stalked, where the air is silent of bird song,
the land is unmoved from creatures’ walking
and unwelcoming grey mist thickens.
This is who she is.
This is her place.

Rather than denying her, pushing her down,
desiring to transform her into full health and Demeter harvest,
or grieving loss.
I now wonder, what/who is she serving?

I go to the Threshold where this journey began
taking with me a small bone,
an offering to honour Limos.
I say,
l’m here,
l’m listening.
My mind comes up with all sorts of ideas,
theories, explanations and plans. Thank you mind..
here’s the shelf…………

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

Aravaipa Warrior

Every time by the river,
I see a dignified warrior astride
a majestic brown and white stallion,
up there on the canyon’s rocky tops
looking down at me.

Every time,
I see them both
as if together since birth.

Every time
I see them both
watching me,
from afar,
feeling their presence

l look up at them,
every time.

I become aware of a wise people
and feel deep grief; their blood
soaked so deeply into the earth here
it does not wash away;
a people who know separation from earth
is not possible and live accordingly.
Up here, from the rocky canyon crags
I’m feeling enchanted by the woman
who visits the singing river daily.
I hear her invitation to speak.

As if with my very last breath, and maybe it is,
and holding my arrows in one hand above my head
I shout:

“There is no time.
There is urgency.
You are one of the ones who know.
I have been watching you.

You know this land breathes and sings and loves.
You move with life as it breathes and decays
as our people.
You move with honour and prayer.
Speak your words into your world now.
There is urgency
There is no time.”

The stallion moves as he speaks,
as if the stallion too is speaking.
As he speaks, l become him.
Feeling the loyal warm beast between my loins
I feel strong and purposeful,
loud and fierce,
embodied fully,
one with myself and the world.
Back by the flowing river
I shout
“l hear you,
l will.”

My voice is heard by others’ around the canyon and the singing, flowing river.

Acknowledging how, even after all that has happened,
Aravaipa Warrior is still serving earth community.
To remember that world
when l return to the other,
is to remember my true inheritance.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

Longing for you, my love,
l dive headlong deep into your crevice.
Everything depends on it.
Soft, sweet-scented mint meadow of the forest.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

Soul Song

Sitting circle
sings me

notes appear
black quavers
floating up

inside my body
below my gut,
rising into my lungs
breathing joy.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe


Each time l sit with you
by the canyon wall
or room of words,
before a single utterance
l pause
at the threshold,
and note a moment’s silence in wonder and anticipation.


Then your magic tumbles…
and spills… and sings….
and blps….and weeps
as your body,
your breathe,
mouth and lips
give shapes that linger
from flesh and stone and leaf
and chocolate.

An indelible print
on and in me.

Gratitude to you

Each and all.

Wendy Robertson Fyfe

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