Art In Many Forms

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16/06/2026

Loidhneachan / Lines

Lines drawn

connecting

landscape to a people

lines connecting people to themselves

linear visible imprints hard/ distinct

Crafted on aged stone

granite hewed from a Living past

from known surroundings

touched and shaped by cultured hands

Inclusive of a language and of a people

a vibrant landscape

known by time past

and the blowing singing gale

unknown to us now

a forgotten song

the people of our land

immortal seeds

Planted firmly in fertile ground

©Karen Bain 2016.All Rights Reserved

https://karenbain4.wordpress.com/2016/07/20/loidhneachan-lines/
https://karenbain4.wordpress.com/

Photo: Wiki [CC BY-SA 3.0]

16/06/2026

aig toiseach-tòiseachaidh / in the beginning

my father reached out.
spoke to me in the instant
before death,
lost inside the earth cores
deepest sleep. held inside
the silent mountain,
i held his hand. sing out. life is all
reaching, if you’re doing.
falling, failing, getting up. living
in the joy & inside the saddest river.
life is present, being.
inside life’s pain
we stretch to live, all trying,
lost within the dying & the ends.
mute swans sing out
in their dying moments.
a story told in days, reaching
into tomorrow, carried on from otherworlds,
upon the backs of birds who travel
in between the song of sound. the song the
living cannot hear unless we dream.
birds speak & understand the minds of man.
we have travelled together,
watching inside darkened
centuries of history in
muted communication. shaping time,as
shifting sound. listen. the dreaming
understand the song of death,
the journey into the screaming universe.
the shifting shore where our first words
were song,
held within the blink of
night hawk eye. swans sing inside
their joy to die, they
call out to the darkness that sings to
them. i heard my father
in his dying breath. his song
of loss, speaking forgiveness, a song
of pain. the messenger walks
between the sound of worlds, he
whispers, listen. know in recognition,
the going home, the roaring dawn
ahead. the end is the voice
of understanding.

©kbain2018.

https://karenbain4.wordpress.com/2018/02/10/aig-toiseach-toiseachaidh-in-the-beginning/

https://avoicewithinme.tumblr.com

16/06/2026

a 'caithris / the wake

This morning, awake
i hear your tones, not as a whisper, nor sunken dreamscape.
solid reality struck a chord, as i reach
out to touch known. expectant in explicit
connection. but you & all your rhythmic shapes, so full of energy
are absent.

from my chamber. loss [rings]
out. i know this place, the darkness recognises me. tomorrow screams
and sounds it's memory
in constant vibration. time
pays no heed to emotion lost,
tears hit the space between.
objects remind,
that you were. your watch sleeps silently ticking in another land, beside
my bed.
i touch connective warmth into
it's face, the face
that saw you live to ritual.

there is a stain, on my heart
i can't wash out.
drunk on vinegar, it remains
shadowed by the day after. when the world was new to me.
the first fall of snow, chilled b***d
gutted rooms. i [buried]
the daylight with your leaving. boxed love up.
that night i burnt summer in the backyard. ashes to ash,
& fed the weeds with love. all trace of us gone, i wait for your return. i know time will wake. recognising me in your face,
sensing movement,
inclined gravitation
offsetting the [un]balanced,
times hands will
[move]me on.

©kbain2018.

https://karenbain4.wordpress.com/2017/09/02/a-caithris-the-wake/

16/06/2026

“My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.” — Virginia Woolf

[Selected Letters ] 💚

Dùn Fhoithear, Siorrachd Obar Dheathain

16/06/2026

priob / flicker

su***de is an animal,
growling. irrationally snarling
back at you,
on hollow days. agitated,
hungry to
extinguish the pain,
clawing at the surface
soil, looking
for flesh laid bare.
the raw memories you can’t
quite see or hold. the fear
you buried deep,
the coldness of past pain.
the silence that your
soul remembers sleeping,
dreaming inside
a life, before the light
went out.

©kbain19.

https://karenbain4.wordpress.com/2019/01/28/priob-flicker/

16/06/2026

the clay / an crèadh

what we are is illusion
and all around a construct
of a dream or of a hell, dependent only on whichever end of the microscope
you’re looking through, been granted
access to. capitalists have
no power and yet hold all. full of false delusions, no insights, no light, no infinite—no witchcraft coursing through their hearts.
if indeed—they have a heart,
if indeed—it is possible for the hollow man
to have a soul, in which a heart resides and grows to bloom.
inside
a crumbling pile of dirt
or earth,
the clay —which is too natural the source of
life—for any hollow man. what is the earth when it dies ?
the plant that is deprived of light and life,
restricted in its growth, starved of nourishment and of the sun
and yet unlike the hollow man—it feels.
the earth brings forth and nurtures life, supports.
even the dead moon has a purpose,
comforts us in its light, shining a way out
through the darkness.

©kbain2019.

the clay / an crèadh https://karenbain4.wordpress.com/2019/09/22/the-clay-an-creadh/ via ‬

16/06/2026


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