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| Templar Poetry |
Waiting to Burn
Angela Cleland
Angela Cleland
Angela Cleland was born in Inverness in 1977 and grew up in Dingwall in
the Highlands of Scotland. She graduated from Glasgow University in 1999
with an MA in English Language and Literature, and from Goldsmiths
College in 2003 with a postgraduate MA in Creative and Life Writing. Her
work has appeared in a number of magazines including Breathe, Brittle
Star, The Frogmore Papers, The Interpreter's House, The Rialto and The
Rue Bella.
Angela can be contacted through her website at www.angelacleland.co.uk,
which also displays some of her previously published work.
This pamphlet is one of the three winning submissions to the 2006 Templar
Poetry Pamphlet Competition
the Highlands of Scotland. She graduated from Glasgow University in 1999
with an MA in English Language and Literature, and from Goldsmiths
College in 2003 with a postgraduate MA in Creative and Life Writing. Her
work has appeared in a number of magazines including Breathe, Brittle
Star, The Frogmore Papers, The Interpreter's House, The Rialto and The
Rue Bella.
Angela can be contacted through her website at www.angelacleland.co.uk,
which also displays some of her previously published work.
This pamphlet is one of the three winning submissions to the 2006 Templar
Poetry Pamphlet Competition
ZENO'S PHILOSOPHY
'Before the clock bell can strike the hour,
the little hand must make the journey
half way to the hour marker, that is,
to the mid-point of now and the hour,
but first, it must move half this distance,
which, in turn, it must first travel half of,
and so on, ad infinitum,' I tell
my lover's eyelids as the sky lightens.
'Infinitely small, and infinitely
numerous. No thing, no clock hand can move
fast enough to outrun these divisions.'
She wakes, has dreamt a tortoise was racing
Achilles. I kiss her sleep-limp neck and
say nothing. If I do not let her know
that this minute is ours forever, she
will love me as if the dawn approaches.
© Angela Cleland 2006
'Before the clock bell can strike the hour,
the little hand must make the journey
half way to the hour marker, that is,
to the mid-point of now and the hour,
but first, it must move half this distance,
which, in turn, it must first travel half of,
and so on, ad infinitum,' I tell
my lover's eyelids as the sky lightens.
'Infinitely small, and infinitely
numerous. No thing, no clock hand can move
fast enough to outrun these divisions.'
She wakes, has dreamt a tortoise was racing
Achilles. I kiss her sleep-limp neck and
say nothing. If I do not let her know
that this minute is ours forever, she
will love me as if the dawn approaches.
© Angela Cleland 2006
PB £3.00
ISBN-13 978-0-9550023-6-6
