Slow Death Rehearses

Most people who leave comments on my blog don't know me at all. This is, of course, entirely my fault, as I never tell them anything about me. And part of me likes to keep it that way, a space in which to be whatever I want without expectation, without consistency (which I've never had). I am really enjoying hearing all the comments from such a rich array of people, who are all so talented and so unknown to me. I also really enjoying writing poetry, and find things are coming to me all the time when i sit down with a space to write in. So to let you in a bit, (if i can flatter myself enough to believe that you may read this), I am going away, moving to a different part of the country, and the poem I have written for this week's poetry Thursday sums up why I need to make this move so badly. As I wrote it I realised how I felt more deeply, and that to me is the beauty of writing my own poems. I am healed by them, made aware by them, cry by them and laugh at myself because of them.

Did I bury you?
Like a bone, savoured for another time.
Shove you under a rug somewhere, a toy,
hide you under the pot outside the front door, my key,
forgetting the dark hole it covered up.

In my sleeping wakefulness you remain
a young girl in a dream.
In those times alive, leading me out to fields a-green,
Only then to die, disappear in a flash,
and the green fades to grey, dull ocean of existence.

Yet still I hold on to you,
my instinct tells me you're alive,
and sometimes I pick up your scent on the breeze.
Which promises faithfully to reunite us one day,
An incoming ship on silent, murky seas.

Because without this hope there is no sense.
Without that brief light there is simply nothing.
My shadow sits here alone, behind a shapeless fence.
Wasting, suffocating, emaciating.

Could it not be that I could come to you
to seek my treasure so lost?
Break free from this apathy, entropy, the cost
of belief in a life without me?

Because life must seek life, is that not true, is that not real,
given only the tiny of chances to do so.
Is that not a fair gamble to take,
When slow death smiling rehearses?

Now You Remain

Precious one, at first you were still here,
even though you had gone.
You held my heart in a vice then,
becoming tighter and tighter,
until I couldn't breathe,
suffocating under the weight of your memory.
Every object you had touched tortured me,
every space you had occupied became a prison for my soul,
and I had to clear you from me,
remove the remains of our death,
scatter stale ashes.

And once gone, newness came,
a new dawn with new light.
And grateful for its promise,
I drank it in deeply, becoming drunk, giddy.
Unknowing of the faceless friend behind my new guest,
who was empty, longing, broken.

His gift was the memory
of us,
as we had been before.
Embarrassed and shy, legs dangling before clear water,
warm sun shining down upon us.
He recited the conversation my soul had taken in deeply,
that first day, which had nourished me,
and given me life,
changed my world,
healed a wound dark and void.

He kissed me with your lips, held me with your hand.
Sang your heart's song to me, slowly, succinctly.
And my heart held you close,
found only the purest space in your soul to sink into,
and weep by.
A smiling soul not gone, but here still.
A soul which had remained by my side,
shared a life lost with me.
An honest soul which played only ever a true hand,
Earnest, eager, moved.

And so taken from me,
now you remain in that space, forever.
Eternally by my side,
in the memory of your face, your touch, your kind words
and your kind soul.
Now you remain, forever.

Sleepless Room

In my dark, sleepless room, strong light has begun to flow
through a narrow channel, which has begun to breathe life again,
slowly, in my surrender.
The words of the Spanish song were lost outside of me
in that former place, and space,
but now they flow freely through me,
carried on the tide of a warm light,
the rhythm of a drum beat gently knocking at the door of my stony heart,
where a child sat hidden in a grey room.
I can hear that it's started to rain,
soft shimmering waves against the window.

The ceiling I stare at is no longer artexed but frescoed,
as my imagination's own designs begin to uncover themselves.
Like sand shifting,
time moving, revealing bit by bit a pattern engrained in a sacred space,
lost to a world and rediscovered in my universe.
I can see her now, strongly outlined, centred in this pulsating wonder,
Gloriously attuned to her surrounding home.
Woman-child, now alive,
her face aglow as she conceives a new vista before her.
And through a beaded door she reaches through to meet his hand,
Which has become strongly outlined besides her own.

The Decision

Dark morning, frost heavy,
She woke, heart beating hard and fast,
having dreamt of death,
Yet not her own, but that of a child, not yet born,
Its spirit soft and loved, now returned to a breath,
Breathed in, and not yet breathed out.

Cold breath, scarf warming her
she found ice scratched purposefully
from the windscreen of her car,
Scraped away by a benevolent friend unknown, afar?
The sense of the soft shavings of snow
relieved the heavy weight
of her redundant files and still unmade decision,
And powdery confetti blew away on the subtle breeze.

The photos of her that night never came out,
The black dress a hole in the scene,
a shadow in the wings of the stage.
And all morning cars and people took her place in line,
One gone, one replaced, her role substituted.

And as she drove back,
the crack she had been peering through eagerly
widened and strengthened its grip on her reality,
A fatality of a dream dreamt too long, and too deeply.

The Poetry of Thomas Hardy

Today i thought i'd share some other people's poetry. I drove through Dorchester at the weekend in my home county of Dorset, and thought of Hardy, a local writer of the 19th century born there. Although he is well known for his novels such as Tess, Jude the Obscure, Far From the Madding Crowd and others, he was primarily, and by inclination, a poet. It was poetry who first drew him towards the idea of being a writer, and for years Hardy didn't read anything but poetry. He described himself as an agnostic, and his work is concerned with suffering, and in particular with the human sense of impotence in the face of ruthless destiny. There is a tragic stoicism about his work, a blind will to go on living in despite of the malignancy of fate. and also from a considerable curiosity about human nature. It slips in and out of autobigraphy, and many of the themes you find in his poems can also be found in his prose. Today i thought i'd share one of my favourite of his poems.

Neutral Tones

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
-They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
On which the lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing.

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

Hardy considered himself to be an agnostic, but to many he was seen more as an atheist. What i love about reading his poetry is that it never fails to transform me into a believer. His poetry is beautifully written, yet in many ways dark, hopeless, grey, and for this reason it always serves to reconfirm the fact that i do have so much faith in life, that for me fate is not ruthless or malign, even if at times it would seem to be. I understand why Hardy had a venomous dislike of Him (God) for not existing, and yet cannot share it. To me, God is everywhere all the time, spirit is unquestionably within me and around me, without doubt guiding me and revealing itself to me daily. I could analyse this poem easily, elicit the powerful symbolism and its effect on the poem as a whole, discuss how each stanza weaves themes together, etcetera, but then this would be an essay and not my blog. Instead it is suffice to say that reading Hardy's poetry reminds me of several facts: that all ideas, no matter how far removed we think they are from our own, can lead us to a greater awareness of ourselves: Secondly that poetry is an art form which can weave beautiful patterns of words when written well. And thirdly, that i must read more poetry...

Poetry Thursday: If The Walls Could Talk...

I thought that this was a great idea for poetry thursday, an immediate stepping stone into the realm of the imagination, something you could really get your teeth into. I'm certainly looking forward to reading other people's ideas this week, and wanted to note how great an idea i think poetry thursday is in order to get people blogging, writing, creating. I welcome feed back on this, be it a critique or not, as long, of course, as its constructive criticism, or else i'm not sure there's much point. Mostly i have found that visitors are hugely inspiring and positive in their comments, which can only be a good thing. So thank you. I will endeavour to do the same for others. My poem is influenced this week by Sting. There is a clear poetic slant to many of his songs, which has fed my work.

If the walls could talk,
A witness they would make
Of the light and the dark of this small person
who resides within them, from day to daybreak.

They might act as judge to this defendant,
The same old trial underway,
Ask the same old questions,
and face the same denial.

They might note, for the record,
the dark places i fear,
the dreams i have yet to fulfill,
the shadows which a dark ship steer.

They might note how much i failed to trust you,
How i clung to my addictions,
carried my tombstone on my back,
ran to escape my afflictions.

Or they might take into account
the deeper motivations of my acts,
see the light which springs from all of them,
see a soul enrapt

With the gratitude of having known
that even when running from the tide,
these mistakes were learning tools,
these mistakes stopped me from finding a place to hide.

So that when the prosecution rests,
And the jury now is out,
These walls have finally to confess,
That they were always, in fact, right by my side.

The Turner Prize 2006.

I love the way the Turner Prize for art always engenders such strong reactions in people. It was created, after all, to do exactly that: to promote discussion about art, plain and simple. And it succeeds admirably. This year's nomainted artists, whose works are displayed in the Tate Britain, are comprised of two female and two male artists; Mark Titchner, Phil Collins, Tomma Abts and Rebecca Warren. Yesterday I went to see what they had to offer, and laughed at myself when i found that i was reacting to the work, discussing it fervently, doing precisely all the things which the creators of this prize would have wanted me to do. I also realised at the same time how much i need this stimulus, how i need to think and philosphise about the things happening in the world around me, in order to ground me and remind me that i am a part of this world. To do these things makes me as much me as sitting in a field and clearing my head of all its worries. I need it, in short, to be happy. My life seems to revolve around work, food, sleep, for much of the week, and to be able to involve myself in the ideas of others and travel into that realm of possibility again was like a breath of fresh air. Here are some images from the exhibition.

This is by Tomma Abts. Her work is really well executed - she shows a great technical skill, and i love the way the image is on the edge of both realism and abtractionism at the same time. She paints her canvases simultaneously, so several will be on the go at the same time, and therefore they have no real identity without the other pieces. I loved this idea of one merging with the other.This is an image of part of Mark Titchner's work. The discs spin creating a hynotic effect, and i found myself guarding against being drawn in by it. I felt vulnerable as i watched the discs whirl around incessantly. And that's good, because that was preicsely the effect the artist wanted to have. His work approaches ideas about our mind's susceptibility to external influences and it explores the tensions between different belief systems that inform society, be they religious, scientific or political. It's supposed to question out blind faith in science and obedience to authority. I thought he conveyed this idea really effectively. The great thing about philosophy is that you can question everything, so i suppose it was highly fitting that i got to see this particular art....

But i vote for Tomma Abts. I have to confess that i liked the aesthetically pleasing qualities about her canvases, and i guess i relate to them most strongly in terms of my own art as well. As much as i like to philosophise, i still have to have my own preferences..

Black Flower

Nothing to do with the prompt i'm afraid. I'm not going to explain this poem, (mainly because i don't have time!).... see what you make of it, if you care to. My kind regards to everyone.

Who was i before this dream?
The ground has shaken because of you,
Your black shirt atttractive and soothing,
ripping the foundations from under my feet.

Now i can see that there was a crack there already,
Waiting to be opened up,
By your hand taking hold of mine,
and leading me somewhere i now realise
i have desperately wanted to find,
by your glance, your knowing, the intelligence
bonding to me, weighing down my heart
with heavy bliss.

Your pull is strong,
far stronger than i could have realised.
Aa part of me has awakened, a black flower,
Which was budded deep within,
And its power consumes me, haunts me, feeds me.

Behind me is sweetness,
A love unconditional and tender,
Without thought, without reason.
If i turn back towards it i am softened again,
Yet longing, and without, in its beauty.

Poetry Thursday: Lying

I've got to admit, this was hard. But i really wanted to respond to the 'brief', and here it is...

I hate the sky at night while you're standing in a deserted place,
so empty and meaningless,
so void of beauty.

I hate the way you look at me,
Your eyes smiling,
Your love emanating
from you like waves of summer sun.

I hate the Suffolk coastline,
the North Sea so uninspiring and dull,
the shingle hard, cold, and uninviting.
Just like i hate those Devon enclosures of sea
which don't enrapture me or compel me to stay in them forever.

I'm angered by the cat crossing my path,
the shooting star i witness as i dream of higher things,
the love of my angel as i cry my tears.

And the healing that takes place in me
as everything i have asked for arrives,
suddenly, in my life,
surprise upon surprise.

But more than anything i hate lying,
about the things which i love,
and i embrace all the wonderful gifts of my life
the tip of an immense iceberg.

Poetry Thursday: Solitude

When i was little my father used to read Winnie the Pooh to me. How English. He used to work abroad and when he went away he would send us recordings of him reading it so we could still hear his voice. (And of course, Pooh wouldn't like to be forgotten). The author who wrote the book also wrote poetry, including a book called 'Now We Are Six' which was specifically for children. I still have the book now, its pages tattered and falling out, my name written by my mother on the first page, when she was so much younger than she is now. These things are so precious. The book exudes my energy simply from being a part of my life for so long, as if it absorbed part of me as things do when you are in possession of them for so long. I always find it remarkable how we attach to things we have owned when we are little, how we make comments like, 'Oh my god, i can't believe i still have this', or 'I remember that!', as if it has formed part of our identity almost. Perhaps it's because we are so much more in touch with ourselves in a very simple way when we are young, and our judgements of what is good or bad or morally acceptable or stylisticlaly fashionable don't get in the way. We just accept. How wonderful.

Solitude

I have a house where i go
When there's too many people
I have a house where i go
Where no one can be;
I have a house where i go,
Where nobody ever says 'No'
Where no one says anything - so
There is no one but me.

This is a poem from this very same book, and i loved re-reading this. The child has found a place of solitude in their garden, and escapes there. For me this made me think of the place i can go to in my head where there is always peace, (or is it my heart), where there is also no one saying 'No', where no one can be (except me), which is my house and my home; a very precious and well protected space. I love the simplicity of this idea and how for me it relates to so much more than a place, but more a space. When i was little i used to spend hours on our swing in the garden, swinging all day sometimes it felt like, uninterrupted and alone with my thoughts. I need to get another swing... Because this is a space to be nurtured and where we can create, where we can be ourselves without the pressures and busyness of our world. In 'Conversations with God', God says,

"Begin by being still. Quiet the outer world, so that the inner world might bring you sight. This in-sight is what you seek, yet you cannot have it while you are so deeply concerned with your outer reality. Seek, therefore to go within as much as possible. And when you are not going within, come from within as you deal with the outside world. Remember this axiom:

If you do not go within, you go without'.

I Dreamt of My Birth

The full, fat moon moves across the sky while i sit,
the cool light reflecting on the pane of glass
which also reflects my face,
and the tree which sways in the wind not far from me.

Behind me dark walls of shabby, old wallpaper
Are being stripped off,
more quickly now.
My father helps to peel off the old remains,
My mother bustles in, forms the family i have become a part of,
strange and new.

I am soothed,
As what was sombre brown is becoming white at last.
I wish and i wish again,
For it to be complete,
This process of rejuvenation and of newness, wholeness.
Thank you.

The child who has sat darkly within my heart is quiet now,
not needing to talk, but watching, and waiting.
Because she knows now that her birth is imminent,
that she can go and hug that man who busies himself behind her,
And embrace the mother who feels the need now to be by her side.

Happy birthday my child, she says,
Of course your time is almost here,
or else what would be the point?

Dark Days

It's getting dark, the days are going to really draw in now. The clocks going back brings a feeling of shutting down, closing the door on the summer, and in fact today it's really depressed me. I've visited my gran who is dying slowly of lung cancer. I've said goodbye to my sister, again... so many goodbyes, it makes my heart ache. I haven't touched a school book while having a week off, for which i am going to pay dearly tomorrow. Am i the only teacher in the world who has given up trying to conquer the work load? Probably. It worries me that i care so little about my job. Please don't shoot me for saying that. Oh dear, sometimes sundays can really be too much. When the light of tomorrow comes, metaphorically speaking as well as literally speaking, i will feel better. Even the antiques roadshow is having a hard time cheering me up today though.

All day i have laughed and made jokes, yet when i look deeply into myself, there is sadness in me, clambering to get out. To bathe me in its healing. A few days back i was sitting on top of a huge cliff, looking out on an ocean of possiblity, and healing then too. I have to remember that i can take myself back there in my mind whenever i wish, so that it can show me the truth again, and that really no doors are closing on me. And how ironic.. the album i'm listening to has just sung these words to me:

Don't let your soul get lonely, in time it will go by.
Don't look for love in places, in faces,
it's in you, that's where you'll find it.
Be here now.

And how true. And now my emotions are flowing again, rather than trying to survive in a stagnant pool of nothingness. Now my colour is returning, and i can remember what is important again.

Finding the world in the smallness of a grain of sand
And holding infinities in the palm of your hand
And Heaven's realms in the seedlings of this tiny flower
And eternities in the space of a single hour

Don't lose your faith in me,
and i will try not to lose my faith in you
Don't put your faith in walls,
for they will only crush you when they fall

Walking

Waves crash past the stack, the rock
jilts out into the ocean and white stallions
force their might over it,
while i sit with him, sun on our faces
as we look out into the blue ocean.

A mother runs with her giggling child
as the waves move in further than expected,
Trousers rolled up, now edged with the sea
And with their laughter
And he places his arm around me, safe

A sleeping dragon lies behind us, the rock face
houses the Kite which flies above,
and as we walk up high, then higher, then higher still
i become small, a dot
on the great landscape of this earth
which is beautiful,
and wild
and home.

I remember walks from long ago,
How much i wanted to return home
and not be faced with this vast expanse
of air, and life and perspective
Whereas now i could stay forever
in this place, and remain identity-less
and without the mirrors of other faces and realities

This world is truly beautiful,
And how much it has to offer us
There's so much colour in the landscape of my soul
when i rest in this place
everything is suddenly possible again,
And i'm alive with it
A world of art born again inside me

10 Statements to Sum Up My Week

Doctors know NOTHING about our health. Never visit a health professional, unless you are bleeding so much that you are about to die, then i reckon they might help.

Bournemouth is an ugly place, full of losers in BMWs who think they've made it.

Full time jobs imprison you in their bubble and allow you to forget that you are alive, until you go on holiday, when you remember that you have a personality again.

Dreams stay dreams until you make them a reality. If you want something then you have to go for it. It might be a cliche, but it's a cliche for a reason.

Ray Lamontagne's album 'Til the Sun Turns Black' is one of the best albums in the world.

Life is full of poetry and full of art. These things give meaning to experience and allow all that we go through to become something living and real.

The relationship which we have with ourselves is the most important relationship there is, and it will mirror the relationship we have with everyone else. And the only thing to fear is fear itself.

King prawns are the best food of all time.

Sometimes i have to let out my complaints against the world, no matter how much i hold it dear.

My Dream

When i lean in to it, through the crack,
sparkling down there is myself opened,
a diamond hidden within a mine,
the depths nowhere to be seen, fathomless.

With it deep bliss, i sink further into it,
away from this surface, this skimming,
and rest comfy in its immense space.
I recognise this place, of course
For millennia have familiarised me with it

A synaesthesia of colour: deep red, deep blue, pure white
Drown my soul and fill it to the brim
As i close the door behind me
A hand on my shoulder welcomes me back
Once more

And the longing surfaces again,
The longing to be back here, to live this reality
And not this dream
To find this secret stairway in the wall before me
And fall down it head first
To land, the moment my feet leave the floor.

If I Could Have One Wish...

Love Monster

When i look back on my life i can see that i have always been afraid. And who hasn't? There isn't a single person on earth who doesn't carry some fear with them, or else they wouldn't be here you could argue, there would be no point to them living this life here in this place. But i genuinely feel that i have carried more than the 'average' person, whatever that is. I can see that even when i was a very little person i have felt this fear, unable to understand what it was, what it meant, unable even to comprehend it as fear rather than, at times, a feeling of near insanity and a kind of darkness in my soul. At times i have felt almost evil with it as it's coursed through my veins, felt that there was a monster living inside me.

I realise that sounds very heavy. Fortunately i have come to understand my fear, come to manage it, learnt how to deal with it and find light in my life more readily. When i left home i had to learn to deal with it or drown under it, which sometimes i felt close to doing. I have learnt to fight it through letting it go. I've realised just how irrational and outside life it is, and learnt through it who i am in a far more meaningful way. I am grateful that i have been so afraid of myself, as otherwise i would not know just how much point there is to life, just how beautiful our existence here is and why we must fight to attain light. I've come to realise that fear is in fact one of my greatest teachers, and that it has in fact shown me a path to happiness rather than driven me from it, because i have allowed it that. And all these things i am humbly grateful for, because i know that without them i would not be who i am now.

And yet today i wonder, how much more fear can i release now? How much longer will i have to go on battling with myself, sacrificing my darkness, letting go of the knot in my stomach which prevents the light coming in? When will i learn to let my life flow, to have in my life those feelings and those things which i image so frequently which are full of life, full of meaning, full of hope and love? When can i have them? I know that i will never be totally free of fear, or as i said, what would be the point of living? This is what makes us human after all. And i know that i am much closer to achieving this state that i dream of. But still i want to feel my own self without consciously having to make an effort to do that. This is what i yearn for. If i could have one wish, it would be to have this. And to give out this knowledge to all those who feel themselves amidst the darkness.

Eyes That Shimmer

How you look at me with those eyes,
Child-like, smiling, reflecting my face in their squinting happiness,
Just a glimpse before you lower your head, hide from my gaze.
Can i box those moments up please and carry them with me?
A friend for my lonely soul.

How you pierce me with that fragile face,
A wide eye of fear and love, emptying you out, bottomless, void,
And it draws you closer to me, and i pull you in, shield you from all that torments you,
And a tear rises up from my heart.

How expansive is my future when i look into your eyes,
Light-filled, deep red and dark blue
And i ride the wave onto new shores which lie far from this place.
An ocean travelled, the distance between my love and me.

Mounted High Your Fortress

My love, i can see
Mounted high your fortress, majestic legacy of war.
Lit by moonlight, soft and eerie,
Its armour a deep shade of grey, walled high above the sodden land.

Encircled in deep waters, there you take rest alone,
Your lookout far from the touches of the armies which attempt to conquer you.
Driven here in time now forgotten,
Often you will sit with a blind eye, head lowered, your waking sleep a cosy blanket.

From your tower the view is beautiful, although a little far removed
High above, stars will watch over you peacefully.
On clearer days you have often imaged someone coming in the distance,
From that place you once called home.
An old, old friend, her footsteps sunk deep into the mud.

You have felt that the key which you have long held close
Is about to be offered to another,
And sure enough you are right.
Invisible hands wind up the chains, allow your visitor to gain entrance.
To join you in your empty palace, just for a little while.

Enraptured in remembrance you dine with her, rest with her,
It is wine, not blood which drips from the knife
Pillows are softened by sweet carresses
The emptiness of this place masked with your eye for detail

And in rooms where the walls have no pictures,
You allow her to speak of where she has come from.
That land of peace and beauty nigh unimaginable
Which you had long forgot.

But speak just a little, you say:
Too much and the pain of what is lost becomes too apparent
For you lived there once also,
Your place there lost to stronger forces within you.

You will her to stay, to accept the warm generosity of a welcoming host
Who has forgotten the nature of his environment
And for a while she agrees,
For rarely has she felt so welcome, so comfortable, so surrounded

Yet these walls are so high, so grey, so strong
Here she cannot sink her feet into the ground and let it cushion her voluntary falls.
Her privileged place in your tower allows her a view of the place from whence she came
Sparkling dimly in the distance, she knows that it is home.
And yet she knows also that no visit was as richly lived as this one.

And so he wakes to find her gone
Just a saddened shadow moving through a hidden door
And once more his walls become the bars of a prison self-constructed long ago
And as he sinks to his knees the cry is let out
Shattering the windows once clad shut
Anger rising from deep within his belly, lighting a spark within his soul

Pushing outwards it moves to all around
A ripple of fiery energy conquering all
Battlements are rased back to the ground from which they sprung
Burning long through the night

The Moment I Let Go of It....

The moment i let go of it

Was the moment i got more than i could handle

The moment i jumped off of it

Was the moment i touched down

From Thank You, Alanis Morissette

Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie

I am always in awe of musicians and poets who seem able to express ideas imaginitively and get their meaning across so universally. Probably because i've never felt that gate to open easily in myself, although i'm getting better at allowing that. Alanis Morrissette is one of these people. This woman is a woman in touch. Her music is often raw, awkward, i just can't listen to a lot of it, and yet there is no denying for me that her words will so often resonate inside me, give expression to feelings i have not been able to put words to. In her song Thank you from the album Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie, she gives thanks for things in her life which have brought her happiness or understanding. She talks about dangling carrots and things she doesn't need anymore, and thanks India, disillusionment, frailty, consequence, silence for bringing her greater understanding of her life. But it's the lines above which have special relevance to me today. Because i've realised that having let go of something really major in my life, i've gone and got it more than i ever realised.

It is a fundamental law of nature. When you release something into the world, when you give it up and allow it to leave you, like a boomerang it returns to you and smacks you one in the chops. If you're reading this then you may have read my piece a few weeks back about a moment i experienced at a pool table, when i realised i hadn't achieved any of the things i wanted to in my life, and this was making me desperately unhappy. I was distraught, i couldn't believe that i wasn't about to have a family, wasn't about to settle down, wasn't about to get married, wasn't about to get a joint bank account. My life had none of the things i wanted in it...

I realised after this moment of anger and frustration that i had wanted those things for a long, long time, since i was quite young really. I'd seen my sister married and have three beautiful children, and at the time i believed that she and her husband were the embodiment of happiness - a pillar of marital bliss. I was so unhappy in myself that to me that was the only visible route for achieving happiness again. But a couple of weeks after the pool table incident and i realised that in fact i didn't need or want any of those things in reality.

That in fact this was a mind set which had served to make my present life unbearable and which was part of a darker side of me which liked to tell me i've failed, i've not been capable or worthy enough of achieving these things. And as the feelings rose in me that night, a structure was breaking down in me, pushing out and disbanding itself so i could move on. A few weeks on again and i realise that i have let go of all that torment, i have thrown it all to the wind. The most liberating and peaceful feeling.

But it seems that having done that i'm attracting back into my life the things i really need. Feelings of togetherness and trust in my relationships which i've never had before. I feel more cared about and loved than ever, and more seen than invisible. Where before there was always a reason to see an end, all i'm seeing now is beginnings and futures panning out before me. Where hearts were once firmly shut, now they are beginning to blossom. I'm wondering what else i can let go of, so that i can get more of it than i can handle..... Thank you Alanis.

The Meeting

This poem is entitled The Meeting. It's about meeting a shadow side of me (if you hadn't guessed already) which i used to do a lot of and have been reminded of through recent conversations. In lots of work i've done on myself i've used symbolism to help heal darker aspects of me, and this poem is highly representative of that. I found the most effective way to deal with shadows is to see their beauty, so often i have been given an image of a jewel or flower to place deep within the heart of something which represents my fear. It's really worked to help bring in compassion for that side of me rather than judgement.

I can feel her pushing inside me
Beautiful wretch
Feverishly she attempts to bend the bars of her lower prison
Lifts a stilted eye to the gap where a shaft of light sparkles
Fighting desperately for recognition, for breath
Scratching at the chain

She has been there too long
But to go meet her eye is to be afraid
Don't bang so loud, dear one
Yet guided by your hand, a voice which has no sound i arrive
To open that door and burn her
Put a match to the fear of her desire

Hand trembling i see her now
She flickers in and out from the deepest shadows
Crawling, pitiful, hidden
Hold the diamond against her mass of darkness, shamed and sorrowful
Time and fear's blended creation

Step forward, i'm moving closer in now
Revealed to me her broken face
I cut into her heavy outline
As black layers fall to dust around
And as the tears fall bitterly from her face
She can die now
And be born again