Lucia Sellars plays with text, fine art and moving image. Her writing has been published in poetry magazines and anthologies such as Utopia (Hesterglock Press) and Repeal the 8th (Sad Press). Her film work has been selected and screened in many Film Festivals around the world. You can see more of her work at www.luciasellars.org
Introduction to The State of Moving
The motion of poetry is like juggling. You pick a set of feelings and images,
then raise them into the air, into the randomness of infinity.
Then grab two realities and one ethereal substance.
- Lucia Sellars
As the blue planet rotates with a synchronised rhythm amongst the astral bodies of the Milky Way, and beyond; so, our hearts palpitate in a rhythmic configuration as we live in a world, that is – to live. That is to say, the action of movement from one step to the other, one second to an hour, is ´key´ in being, who we are and what exists. Newton´s Third Law of Motion states that “for every action (force) in nature there is an equal and opposite reaction”.
Here, in terms of poetry, the art in itself as art can trigger a reaction in both the source and the receptor to the force. Were the source is the poet and the receptor the reader. The ´movement´ is not only experienced by the receptor but is also part of the creative process of transforming the poets´ imagination into tangible matter. We could say that movement is equivalent to ´a pathway´, a bridge, a tunnel, a river, a vein, that takes you from A to B.
Movement is a constant, just like energy constantly transforms itself and never dies. The illusion of stillness, and for things and beings to be at rest, it´s almost as a moment of reflection caught in the intervals of movement itself. For example, the spaces between the steps, the breaths, the thoughts, the drops of rain, of which we become aware of, and self-conscious about. The mountain may seem still, but its essence is the reflection of movement. Stillness is just movement at its slowest, a micro-movement, that nevertheless could produce a considerable large reaction or subsequent force.
Poetry moves emotion; emotions are the movement of feelings – to be moved…”
Words of Praise for The State of Moving
“Lucia Sellars’ poetry is full of strangenesses, both brittle and fluid. In this book, she has given us a subversive fairytale of the quotidian, an ontological menagerie on the move with errant moons. Here is time, suddenly, in dialogue with the line; there, the space between bread and breath. All in the corners of our asymmetries. The State of Moving is a place of immanence and immediacy, of the body and of language, in their various glittering possibilities and failures.”
- DATABLEED editors
“I have thrilled to the prose and poetry of Lucia Sellars since I first encountered it. Felt it fulfilled a thirst I didn’t know I had. Everything she writes seems in another mode of language that pulls and pushes me into wonder. Her poems and prose are like unique life forms that I encounter with delight. Ones that open my eyes and heart to the strangeness and humour of our humanity, mortality and everyday lives. Coupled with her paintings, as magical and direct as her words, this book is a treasure chest of ways to see the world afresh.”
- Dr Juliet Henderson
Preview from Some Murmur
the compass the compass balances crests of cliffs, the blue zest sprays a curtain of dichotomous answers not needed. a man plow´s the field, despite the landscape, precipitation forecasted to mess up his plow. far away the crested cliffs surface the pressure between molecules of air. : plow independent of blue zest : plow independent of plow a verb is put into action. Our breaths dilute as he plows the air. the compass answers twice. the red spoiled egg, intrepid, solid, rotten yolk. the verb – a scythe soil and grass cracking in the bland white. there can only be forecasted mess up in the unploughed and plowed fields. She Waits She sleeps at the gate. She sleeps at the door. She sleeps at the window and on the corridor. : waiting. She calls herself River. She sleeps curled up under his blue iris, in the indent of his palm, within his bellybutton and in the curve of my waist. : waiting. She hides in the waves of my shoulders, at the heart of my breasts, and under my palate. : waiting. She is kept between our lips, in the space between our palms as we touch. The perfect piece in this puzzle. : we wait. The Girl and the Moon I was a young girl when the moon came into my belly. I had eaten too much cheese that night, perhaps, or too much sugar. It was something white, something white like the moon. I caught myself tapping a rhythm with the tip of my foot, when suddenly I started to dance, like the whirling dervishes, twisting endlessly on the spot, drawing invisible petals around me. Through the window, I could see the moon tremble, in de-light. I was seven or five, probably six. (You were just a boy; you thought that you would always be a boy.) The moon hid in my belly, trembling as I danced in circles. My hair grew a whole inch that night. It was after many nights, many trembling nights of dance, the night that my hair tickled my belly button. (You were thirteen then and had just tasted the blood of your first fight.) After dancing one night, hair in knots and belly trembling, I went to sleep, one foggy night, So foggy, so white, that my bedcover seemed part of the dense substance. The moon was in my belly, and I was covered in fog. I always felt a warmth, since the moon, since the night I ate too much cheese, or perhaps sugar. I also was thirteen that night. Someone had left a red apple by my side table. I left it untouched, for the morning to come. (Now you were eighteen, and you hardly talked to me.) In the morning, I felt a burning underneath me as I opened my eyes. The fog had disappeared. The apple was still there, but it had been bitten. My hand unfolded like a butterfly. Oh! I thought, the moon has melted! Between my legs, the ‘Hunter’s Moon’ approached. That night I didn’t dance, my hair was smooth and free of knots. Seven nights passed, When I caught myself tapping a rhythm with the tip of my foot, when I started to dance, like the whirling dervishes, twisting endlessly on the spot, drawing invisible petals around me. Through the window, I could see the moon tremble, in de-light. My age didn’t matter anymore. Your age was your past. When I went to sleep that night, the warmth had come back with the trembling moon in my belly, I had too much cheese perhaps, or too much sugar, It was something white, something white like the moon.