Angela Deutschmann

Experience Truth


List of Titles

The Horses
Overleaping the ocean
On being stoned 1
On being stoned 2
Grace of pain
Nothing to say
Inherited Wounds
The reward of the rain
Ocean in my cupboard
My sentence
Lucy's Song
My real

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The Horses

She cannot stop the horses when they run
through her
like hot blood
kicking up desire in their dust.
She cannot harness their ferocity,
She feels them leaning, yearning, galloping
breathing flame on all else in their
destructive path.

Through her arms and into her belly they go
pressing on and in and in
until she is thrashing and captive
riding bare on their hard soft backs
and being thrust toward the ocean
with every glance of their pulsating hooves.

And so they take her there
to the water
where she drinks until she is wet
and the trickling of drops in her innermost
torrents into a storm that whips the horses
into exquisite frenzy,
torturing them to gasp and writhe and devour
each other
before her eyes.

Then she knows that she is only watching
and the horses threaten into dragons,
why did she ride them !
They hurt her
They burn her into fantasy
and then dry up the ocean before she can
drown herself.

She is left panting.




Fridgebreath droply onto shuttered little
An outside outsized.
Waterglory I can see, yes!
Neat nakedness lapping stillness around
mountainous curves.

I see the all of it. Oh, I can see
Snow sleeping softly on Klee’s branches
Till sun weeps it into lake quietly,
And all is well and clockful.

My soul, by this smooth immensity, stretches
skyward with the steeples,
Breathing heights in,
Deeply inside and up!

But lunch at twelve keeps me from Parnassum.

December 1997


Overleaping the Ocean

On Ariel’s shores
Stood a beautiful man,
With a pipe in his hand
And denouement in a can.
He wore ecstasy in rags,
Hypnosis in his hair
And glittered high on the horizon
Between here and there.

He got ready to leap,
Powder-strong, happy vein
And sniffed powerfully the ocean
Taming currents with the rain.
And he held out his spirit,
Calling me to run
To my own flooded dessert
With an ice-stabbed sun.

I could feel he was fleeting,
Flying singly through his mind.
Dispelling undulation,
Leaving me behind.
But the sand, it held me back:
Blew on fancy, buried dream,
And I wept, on the inside,
For an other never seen.

So I swam this whole ocean,
Found some rubies, filled some wells
And learnt how to float
On its formidable swells
Without any help from that man with the
I’ll always wonder if he’s dead
Or merely living in beyond.

August 1997 (written after making a choice
not to take drugs)



(In memory of Shellie Bassingthwaite)

Twisted in its sandy heaviness it rose to
meet her,
This dune of death.
Vast and still in the afternoon setting sun,
it waited for the singing girl.
This child who was meant for the Lord.
Desert sky breathed gentler that day
above the living sand,
and sun softly gave dune more grace
in preparation for her song.

It had always been waiting.

When she came in sight, the sad dune heaved
in answer to a greater call
and drew together the strength of earth and
It knew this girl by her light,
newly attained and shining helplessly in
anticipation .
Her song was there,

She too had been waiting.

And then gracefully, with only sky and sun
to witness the union,
dune and girl met.
Ages of wind and water picked up the little
jewel of light
and flung her to destiny,
across time and sense and human
into the inutterable and beautiful space of
universal belonging.

As age-pieces of history and plan were
fitted together,
the spirit of a girl and a dune smiled.


On Being Stoned 1

Fluidity is reborn, smoking,
stroking my consciousness
unto itself
into itself
so deeply sometimes
that the water burns my heart out in neat
if I wait too long.
But until then,
let’s dip our hand into the talkinglaughing
and pull ourselves naked out.
Look at this!
It’s a you and a really me
(much less concerned).
Hey, we could love like this,
your despised angles (which are generated by
my own)
become soft and round in this crystal
You see, yes, the glasses could shatter
and we could drip to death
but we could also look through them,
at distortion’s truth,
and quiet the world into uncare.



On Being Stoned 2

The orbit where Portishead pumps at exactly
the same vibration as my blood
and Irony and I recognise each other - and
I race there
not quite blindly - only my hands are tied -
eyes: full, thirsty
mind: open, dipping
taking in all manner of detail.
Pressing patterns? Perhaps.
or just not minding their nakedness.
Despite this, my own nakedness leaps away
from me yet
big bounds
hiding behind the curtain there
I see it: crouched, coquettish, untouched.
Rubbing against silk and water,
not seeing its own beauty in its near
Gravity would strangle these thoughts.

October 1999



I keep us in the hollow of my back.
My intimate non-space
of warmth and invisible shape,
where twin flames burn without language
and colour alone gives definition.

We can be cradled there without needing a

We can exist between day and beneath night,
take our place as having none,
love in a new way:
without declaration
or even combination.

You see, I’m learning to trust the seam
And not the seem.




I was on my way Out.
You could tell by my light,
Condensing itself into two pools
To be contained in my eyes.
I was to have beautiful eyes.
And I was to be know inside, as Angelic
and outside, as the Angel.
It was only to be shorter, my life,
than the one who came to save.
I knew that I should learn much in little
for little reason
can know of the great beyond
without love.

They showered me with petals and songs
to protect innocence,
lost to beings as they are born
or as they realise they are born.
And held my arms aloft
with caressing that stretched out love
until I became it
and was able to take my earthly place and
for them all to see.

The weeping carried me over in its strong
over and through.
Out, that was what I was.
A harsh word, cruel, the suffering - out.
The journey, though, was made in my own way
with thought propelling me forward into my
Oh I had never known such beauty before,
I had never seen love in a mother's eyes
And how to convince the loving fathers of
where I came from?
It troubled the soul of an ancient spirit,
liking its peace in a baby's soft body -
crinkly body,
I could hardly feel it so aware was I of
knowing I had come for reason.

Should be soon, they said,
and we'll show to you being,
in a glorious way [light] you will behold us
on earth
and take for them our light [way]
so that we can know what [how] they live
without us.

Only know your journey will pass hundreds -
suffering has made us
and so it will you.
For out of us is the harsh way, cruelness,
darkness, pain.
To be seen is pain.

Withhold love for us to know what we feel,
Only fear not knowing what [how] it is you
came to be.
Seek purity, imagination, trust,
for ours is inevitable.
Thank you.


Grace of Pain

I went to heaven and there was no I
Only a purple sense of bigness and a
boundless reach

Yet in the freedom of nothing
I saw that I shall move

Away from the comfort of this nest
To advance my self and our self

The pain showed her face slowly
Pain from hearing heaven

We allowed her
You cherished me and I opened to her

She was beautiful, lavender-blue
You were love enough to see

In being held in your arms
I experienced the loss of your body

It was a jewel
Sharing the loss of you while we are still

Your tears moved me to unity
I could not tell a boundary between our

So pain re-minded me that we are not
I cannot leave even when I move away

We have made love and grace

July 2004



A slow rush of liquid wind
enfolds my other body
so that I know it in this one.

Behind my neck, along my spine -
(I don’t know the real words for these
brought alive by Love.
Its powerful seam
Creating my name anew
For our fresh time.

My lungs breathe in everything out
and sink back into their seats
to be filled.
They meet my shoulders – eventually! –
With happy celebration at their shared
Of love’s maze.

A maze.
So funny! So particular! So tender!

It allows me pain without dis-ease,
Fruit of new textures,
Light of a thousand hues.

Will we be still with ourselves
When all our lives become together
in our plan?

16 February 2001


Nothing to Say

Stillness washes deeply
where you have put yourself and your love
and I am new

thus free

I experience you as a state of being
You are nothing to do

Joining shows that we were never un-joined
How miraculous!

Last night I found you inside your body
Awe came over
And my breath and my blinking became

We remembered in our eyes
and then in our bodies
I love that we are un-real!

Thank us

I would like to stand up and undress you
so that the length of you is under my hands
and I may love you up

There is nothing to say

June 2004


Inherited to Say

It is only on an infertile day
That the wind flaps open closed boxes
And spews the crumpled rubbish of your
From its coffin
Into the unclogged air.

Tins of empty promises collide directly with
this morning’s lie
And resentfulness smashes straight into
today’s achievement,
Bleeding guilt.

Dirty, half-eaten apples leave trailing
odours of disappointment
As they are blown into rebirth
And their second, subtler, breath of pain.

Whether you dance among the stench
Or try to bury the floating pieces in your
They must eventually all be blown
And scattered
Into your indiscriminate moments.

The wind is throttled
When time’s womb is once again overripe with
Then you close the boxes
And put yourself away to rot.




Pulling me into waves gently
like piano sounds,
I feel his shy smile close up spaces
and fall real words into chattering silence
Soft reflections – hidden, then coyly
revealed –
delight us,
as children seeing themselves in a pond more

We float on these feelingly detailed spans
of seconds
when our eyes find naked truth momentarily
and speak in that intimate language of wells
and pain,
one that our mouths seem only able to
cosmeticise into platitudes,
untrue to instinct
and rain.

I touch him with my mind’s eye only,
caressing in abstract his face of precious
and his body – eternal, strong,
fluidly pulling me down into the mud



The Reward of the Rain

Bethesda reborn
To drip smoothness
Down into a spirit’s seeking well.

A voice in hymn, a hand in clasp, an eye
All leave puddles where pools belong.

But not a soul in rain.
In down is up.
Water slips into covered cracks,
Runs beneath stone walls,
Trickles where ordinary thoughts fear to

Seeking only purity,
Purity only in truth of self.

In that church of blood and gold
Where ritual happily shuts pain up,
Voices, hands, thoughts, eyes,
All, all is upward.
Upward and outward – pacify the soul with

Can those parched souls,
so protectively dressed up in comfort and
self-righteous satisfaction,
ever get naked and bear the rain,
fell down-ness
know wetness
and the sensation of truth being dripped on?

Or will a bloody head on a golden platter
always be baptism’s reward?



Ocean in my Cupboard

When I glide through the cupboard
(as I always do),
I slip lithely into smooth water-scenes
inside which I happen
strangely un-fluid inevitabilities.
Shedding light gleefully, like fact,
I float on feelingly detailed spans of
as they run rivers into oceans,
dripping dark, Bassalian auras of him
into intimate spaces,
sculpted spaces.
And I remember Narnia and mermaids and his
and they swirl,
more real to me now than life
whose sharp shock glare
slaps always necessary realness onto
precious dimension.
And I am double whipped
by the sun and my sun.

October 1997


My Sentence

I walked faster and faster -she knew-
to goddamnit! avoid my detested lowered
Eventually she caught up
and stood right next to me in the equal
only to hear a sentence of stupidness shadow
all my face.
I wanted to tell her
that my sentence was not made up of nouns
and verbs and objects and subjects,
but of the time
(in a dusky restaurant while with somebody
when I first sank into the knowledge that I
find her beautiful:
dry skin soft-alive with intelligence
and long, wayward hair that speaks in its
own language;
and of the way her brilliant blue deskcloth
does not outbright her thinking eyes,
so laughing in lectures;
and of the windy day when her teasing skirt
allowed me the safely distant look
at her girl legs,
so compassionate behind the knee.
You see, this all became my sentence
that shrank me into darkness
on that one morning in the sun when we

September 1998


Lucy's Song

You are a reed, swimming in your own river
of the east,
All you seek is because of and within
Your extraordinary quality of light

Light girl
Light, light girl
No need to chase your grace
Just see it

You are a diamond, angled and curved,
The energy of the mine dances in your
Probing, deepening, digging mine-d

Light girl
Light, light girl
No need to chase your grace
Just see it

You are jasmine, growing under the sun of
your father,
Those whose eyes can take the light
See fresh scents of being round your eyes

Light girl
Light, light girl
No need to chase your grace
Just ease it



My Real

You asked me to explain myself to my great
So that I would simplify my thoughts to that
which was universally understood, and take
off my obscuring mask of intellect
I knew that you were right because my throat
answered immediately with fear in the form
of choked tears

I saw her – fat, discerning, strong – and I
tried so hard to tell her what was on my
I wanted to cry with the effort of talking
She was patient and didn’t mind walking
while I tried to untwist my trained,
tortured tongue
How are you, she asked?
I could only scream silently in response and
lash out at my politician mind who flashed a
thousand clever answers to me, and no truth
You don’t know, whispered a jeering voice
You know but you’re terrified, sneered
Stop trying so hard, suggested a third

Momentary peace came only from touching your
water and rubbing my skin against those
silken leaves
I attended to my feet, my legs and my chin
and huddled away in sensation to escape