Cornish poet, author, internationally-known workshop facilitator, Cetlic mythopsychologist and hedge druid Roselle Angwin leads the popular holistic 'Fire in the Head' creative and reflective writing programme, and a programme for the ecological imagination, 'The Wild Ways – ecosoul'. Roselle is renowned for inspiring creativity and transformation in her workshop participants. Increasingly, all her work focuses on a psychospiritual approach that can help people re-experience themselves as part of a web of interconnectedness with the other-than-human. She’s passionate about the creative process, the environment and the whole of the natural world, and the psychology of myth as living practice; and especially in how creativity can help us reconnect with and revision our relationships with each other, the land and other species, as well as with the hidden aspects of ourselves. She leads many workshops throughout Europe in settings ranging from universities to islands, and has contributed to or tutored for many publications and organizations. Her poetry and prose is widely published and has won several awards and prizes. Roselle frequently collaborates with artists, musicians, dancers and sculptors, often on the land. Her poetry has been displayed on buses and cathedral websites, has appeared in numerous anthologies, been etched into glass, hung from trees, printed on T-shirts, carved into or painted onto stone, metal and wood, become pennants behind bicycles, painted, sung, composed to, choreographed, recorded, broadcast, danced, performed and eaten by sheep.
Imbolc
It’s dusk, Candlemas, Imbolc, when I leave you
near where the sea breathes
and Jupiter and Venus are trying out the sky
above the tankers near The Manacles
where the half moon sails pale and blind
in February crisp and the waves suck and pour
You could bring me rain and I
would dance in it amazed snow and hail
and gladly I’d lift up my face
for more of all of it of you of blizzard –
leave me washed, filled, emptied
finally stripped of all I’m not
But not this turning back east in the
too-clear darkening sky, solitary fields
glazed with creeping frost, the night locked
sober-tight on its axis and the car
mile after mile knowing too well
its own way home without you
Roselle Angwin
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