In Between Seasons

From my window I can see the bluish-grey sky pervading my view.
Today rain has fallen, yet the air is damp with humid warmth.
Summer attempts to squeeze through into life,
but is stuck, it seems, in some remnants of the dreariness thought left behind
By time, and chance.

In between two worlds I sit, half alone, half together.
A purring white cat, now old, attempts to gain my lap, but never makes the jump.
I marvel at how all seems so motionless, having seen such growth as the days have become longer.
Tomorrow the grass will push itself taller once more,
And all will move unerringly into a new season again.

You

It's been so long since I last posted a blog. But I need to post this one, put it out into the ether, express this.

I know I will have to grieve you,
Your head resting on my shoulders
as we lie here, in stasis.

I find myself staring ahead, at the photo of Burgh Island on your wall,
framed with uneven wood ends
which your mother probably found near the estuary.
Or your sister.
In the distance the sun is setting on this beautiful place,
in the foreground waves lap blunted rocks which are about to be consumed altogether.
Your toy monkey's legs dangle aimlessly over the top,
sits comfy on the frame,
blank expression on its face,
unaware of all that exists in this room.

Shadows rest on the blind from the trees which blow in the gale outside,
rain hits the window in saddening waves.

I've always loved you, you whose breathing is deepening on me,
you whose consciousness is fading from me into sleep.
You who came to save me,
you who now returns to the place from where you came,
but now with another home, in my heart, forever.

Poetry Thursday

I haven't fulfilled the brief this week, I had my own agenda. This is my contribution, make of it what you will.

Like smoke it began to seep under the doors,
Was there fire in the room next door?
Washing over exposed toes, vague,
Formless dust laid over sun-filled windows.

How insidious this invasion was,
I could feel it growing slowly,
my consciousness feared the fire at its source,
A make-believe origin formed.

Shout as it might, choke me even,
My soul was wary of looking,
Toxicity building and damage accruing,
Yet still from it my spirit shrank.

Until pretending was obsolete, and brought to my knees,
I had to choose one fate or another.
And did then I dare too creak open that door,
With limbs weakened, face blackened, a feeble spark.

Which grew like the fire ablaze before me
Her face bearing a mirror to my truth.
For why do you burn?, I asked this wild being,
‘For you burn my love, you burn’.

And with that it was gone, but a spectral wisp,
Perished my fear in the darkness.
In the ashes remained a hope-filled Phoenix,
Her gift to my shaken self.

Poetry Thursday: Dictionary Definitions

Wow, I can't believe how many words I managed to find in response to this brief which I did not know the meaning of. I love exploring language, and so this for me was as much an academic exercise as it was an opportunity to write poetry. When I looked through my Collins dictionary, I noticed that many of the words I was unaware of were foreign in their origin, of which there were simply thousands (and how many are not noted in this particular dictionary?). I don't know how many new words are added each year to our English vocabulary, but clearly as we have progressed through our history new words inevitably come into use, older words become less and less known, and in short there is bound to be a turnover in our use of language. That, for me, is fascinating in itself. We are changing our conception of our own world and our own self, which is reflected in the words we use each and every day. I was inspired to write my poem after this thought. (Please note that I haven't looked up the meaning of these words as requested in the brief - I'm hoping I haven't unknowingly written lines which mistake nouns for verbs, adjectives for nouns, etc, as I have no idea what their meanings are...)

Leaves wafer thin, finger licked to peruse another letter's offerings,
This book represents all that I can conceive myself to be.
And how much, therefore, do I not know about my own being and my own roots,
if I do not understand the meaning of all these combinations of letters,
with their multiple origins, phonetic pronunciations, cultural derivations.

Take anopheles, or anoa, or anserine.
And cyanosis, cybernating contumaciously.
Which parent gave birth to these mysterious children?
Did I know their naturalized forefathers, foreigners adopted in this familiar land,
their brothers irregular inflections who will forever remain anonymous to me?
Or was it native scientists who defined their variant spellings,
who lie placarded infamous for all time,
their life celebrated to the end?
Did an astronomer reach into the sky and pick out an orphaned definition,
scrimmaging for the cuspid teratoma of a keloid loculus,
and finding that its particular face pleased him?
Or was it the social commentator who noted the derogatory nature
of some of these new additions to our word family,
the offensive connotations attached to their employment with us?

And what does one do when one impolders or noddles;
have I ever been guilty of those particular acts?
Who or what is 'nerine' anyway; are they nasty, nebulous, naughty, neat?
Am i eidetic, a quoin, razoo, falderal?
Parent-volume, now reveal to me my brethren's little known secrets.

Poetry Thursday: Red/New Landscape

Hmmm, red. When you look the word 'red' up, you find that there are many different meanings, many different associations with this particular colour. When you think 'red' you could think angry, e.g. red rag to a bull; you could think embarassed, 'red as a beetroot' (they are, of course, a very dark red). You might think 'stop!' as in a red light, or danger when the red flag flies. Red also connotes warmth, deep security and importance too, (lay out the red carpet). In short, red can be associated with a vast array of sensations, feelings, symbols and meanings. I've used red in my poem in different ways, ways which seemed to apply to my content. This is a highly symbolic poem; sometimes I do tend towards the cryptic even. Apologies if that is the case here. By the way, apparently, the phrase 'red-letter day' comes from the red symbol added to ancient calendars to denote a saints day.


New Landscape

Red tail of crayfish sidles in comfy
in that pregnant moon
which weighs down over me,
Lying pensive in deceptive calm,
Its crimson jaws will find its prey in me soon enough.
Or in my lover's red drum beat call, 'heart!',
eaten up swiftly, or slowly, or at least with certainty.

Blue is the rain which fed a parched land,
the one with unseen fences which now rise and fall, and rise
unclippered this time.
Former realised landscape latent now,
the red harvest of an open season bears rich fruit.

That tuesday was a red-letter day,
a close shave with closure for one separated soul.
Which now sidles in comfy in that warming, rounded, yellow sun,
which lifts me high.
Its steady arms will hold me long enough.

Poetry Thursday: Cinquain Central

This week I have been learning about cinquains as a form of poetry, and I thought I would integrate my new knowledge within this week's poetry thursday brief. And such an inspiring brief... I was overwhelmed with ideas and then went blank, only to find this medium perfect for my task. Apparently, cinquains are written using the following guidelines:

Line 1: one noun or subject.
Line 2: two adjectives that describe line 1.
Line 3: three action verbs (ending in –ing) that relate to line 1.
Line 4: a four word sentence that relates to line 1.
Line 5: one word that sums up or means the same thing as line 1.

For example;

River
Clear, wonderful,
Slapping, whirling, flowing
The river is cold.
Water

Of course, the idea though is to keep the subject or object of the poem secret, so the noun or subject would necessarily have to become a synonym for mystery or surprise. Here is mine:

Deep red You
Warm flow of breath, strength
Empowering, refreshing, liberating
You bring me life
Dark blue Me

Love

I could have made a tenuous link to the brief this week, but my own poetic inspiration got the better of me, again. I've been reading more Shakespeare, Vicki Feaver, Barrett Browning, Tennyson and John Clare, all of whom have written about the topic of my poem this week, love. Many of these poets have described love, celebrated it, warned against it or lamented its loss. This one by Tennyson is quite beautiful: he remains one of my favourite poets.

Now Sleep the Crimson Petal

Now sleep the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font.
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake.
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

When I read poems which communicated their adoration of someone, something, I realised that right now love is something completely different for me. Still wonderful, a true gift, our heart's greatest desire, love also brings grief when someone or something is lost, still fights your reason and your rationality when you need them to be the winners, only thinks of itself. I'd say that sometimes love is impossible, holding you up against a wall, where fighting becomes obsolete. Love, in reality is selfish. It so often hides behind the other faces of humankind, a seemingly dormant source of motivation for our actions, yet its strength is in fact immeasurable. Because you can't destroy love, you can't deny it, you can't ignore it. Masked behind a different face, it will surge up and over that wall, and flood the place. I still marvel at how our body, our emotions are capable of feeling this intangible enigma which is love, in all its different forms. But that is besides the point, although perhaps not besides the brief... Anyway, now I've stopped rambling...

Love

Out damn spot, love's recall a haunting
of togetherness and nurture,
Blinding all to greyness and lack,
Filling out the space like the tide reaching the wall,
Flowing down to the wheel to crank slowly into motion.
After all this time, this chronicle of wasted time.

My heart's resting place invaded, squeezed and stretched,
The rack on which lies the symbol of your house
Your home, your flower.
Words spoke from you as chords do from the string,
And blood burns around my heart,
You've seemed to hear my silent voice
Which rested sleepy, dreams of night.

This coat, your gift, now weighs heavy
My shoulders fight to throw it off,
But then the cold seeps into my bones
and I am filled with thoughts of the warmth I once felt.

The Dance

As I drove along a busy road yesterday, I got stuck in a traffic jam, and I witnessed a couple clearly in love, and it really moved me. It felt like new love... they danced with each other in every movement and an energy moved between them. It was so heart warming to see them, brought my attention back to an experience beyond the mundanity which life can sometimes become. It was just love between two people, romantic love.

Dragging her hands along the iron railings
which lined the river's bank,
she felt him brush close, a feather touch, then move away in the rhythm of his walk.
Consumed by it the noise of the cars beside them drowned out,
as they danced their endless dance in their duality,
interweaving amongst the changing lines of the road,
tailing, leading, tailing, leading, synchronising in rare moments,
not daring to look sideways.

And so with eyes focused away from him,
her whole soul in fact watched only him, a sightless vision,
blinded to the immediate watery landscape
where two swans glided effortlessly down the lifeless water,
heads bowed, moving in tandem,
their soft tranquility uninterrupted by their desolate surroundings.

Another brush, words without sound filled her senses,
and with a shy laugh his hand sought hers and she took it,
feeling tension flow away through him and out.
Cars inched along beside them, a man shot a passing glance at her
and then moved on, his destination once more becoming his reality.

Slowing, she looked at him, eyes soft, unsure, becoming stiller.
Her question returned and needing to know, submitting to the pull,
he took her neck in one hand, followed by the other,
And drew her in.

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