Dave Migman is a prolific writer of poetry and dark fiction. There is a novel entitled The Wolf Stepped Out, a sort of urban ‘Inferno’, and there is also a spoken word album called ‘Sheol’, an artistic collaboration with Serbian musician Spleen Erebus. There are also many poems and stories scattered over the vast, immeasurable space of the cyber realm.
Much of Dave’s recent work reflects his love for travel and his engagements with an animate, mythological reality. For twenty years he has earned a living by carving stones in Edinburgh, Scotland. He draws his inspiration from a vast reference base culled from various obscure sources over the past two decades. There are Celtic, Pictish, Viking, Neolithic and many more besides. In doing this he also explores ancient mythological threads that reoccur in various cultures. All this bears influence upon his art and writing.
The Heart of Every Avalanche
to me that was whispered
with cacaphonic brevity
like the heart of an avalanche
that scored me in three
What was it? for it did not
it passed through my hollow bones
dripped like wax
to poisoned thought
wore a mask of you
in a golden moment poised
I will weave you some kind of spell
flare into your righteous
I am going
I am nearly
I am learning
the ball of thoughts
each simple thread
yearns to become
a part destination
an incomplete plan
I am drawing it deep
so, from now on
there will be only
a series of lovers
whose hearts join
in temporal unison
sing our gasping songs
through nights of discovery
And so, as she returned
to my bed
and in that tender spoon
her kisses came
and I knew
there would be others
and though we might part
to converge again
down the line
The Magnificent Accord
This song is one of a 20+ part sequence of tunes culled from notebooks. In 2012 I bought a one-way ticket to Greece and roamed the Cycladic islands and found myself in Turkey. Above the little town of Kas I came across an ancient temple, and would sit writing what came, inspired by the landscape and the ancient Temples I was visiting everyday.
After leaving Turkey I travelled by ferry to Crete from Rhodes (a nightmare 17 hours in a storm). From there I went to the tiny volcanic island of Santorini where I have friends. I rented a cave house for three months and began laying tunes down and writing.
The winter was harsh, cold and windswept, but my secluded quarters afforded me a haven from the elements. I would record in the echoing chambers and used what little instruments were available to me. I had a wee harmonica, a bowed piece of driftwood struck with elastic bands, a thumb piano and my MacBook (thus I was also able to utilize the virtual keyboards available in Garageband). Compositing was performed in both Garageband and Audacity.
With The Magnificent Accord I wanted to use my harmonies to build a sense of the wonder and power of that particular moment, watching the sunset as storm clouds drifted in from across the Aegean … rainbows and burgeoning moons!
These Are Not Tears
Music and mixing was performed by Australian musician Audiothrillseeker conjures the essence of the words by Dave Migman, adding, as all good music should, a further, profound dimension.
our dissolution runs in rivulets
down our cheeks begging
forgiveness from the hollows
of our misinterpreted lives
in our solvency, inadequacy
the pieces dissolving, the jigsaw
is a kaleidoscopic craze
in which we seek fresh patterns
to imbibe meaning into each strata
as we struggle onwards
sometimes laughing, sometimes crying
but always now apart
longing the halcyon fantasy
that marks the narrative of
you are a stingray spike through a tongue
you are turquoise embedded in flesh
an old man gasping for air
on a Mediterranean night.
Everything you touch ignites or dies.
there was no diversion from the sound
they were diametrically exposed to each other
he sat, immobilised, as the cello
drew powder from his bones
and the chanter rang the chambers
of his heart like a sonorous bell
can’t say I want the stress of your
disaster freaking up the warp of my weft
the April sun is drying out the shingle
the plane arrows the apricot dusk
I have several blessings to count
Several to curse, several to discount
Another beer to fudge the balmy
cunt and feed the bastard night alive
again to curse, to drop, to fall
Do they laugh at our freakish dance?
Surely we are casting doubts upon
The paradigms of their contrivance
For it is their ‘shit’ not ours, and
Though I do not doubt our insanity
I also consider theirs more virulent!
Ours is that of imbeciles drunk on
The scant passion of moments past
Clinging to our obsession with the
Temerity of limpets – the bastion
Of faith and faithless, dreams
Or emptiness, the sun hollers
Through the pink, some one is drowning
In the silence of the ocean
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