2019.7 Amphibious

We were looking for ourselves,
Flicking over pages
Bright with gold –
The certainty of the light,
The heritage of those born to
The winning lineage,
All straight lines and shining faces,
Sword-girt, sunlit,
Indomitable,

We sped, too, past the dark,
The depths of the woods,
The unlit caves,
The places where the cold
And dispossessed lure
Innocence to be consumed,
Transformed into dinner or symbol.

Nothing fit.
We saw only funhouse mirrors
Fracturing us further.

It took a while;
We didn’t see you,
Stepping between the rays of sun
At the forest’s edge;
Standing on a bridge
(or under it);
Inhabiting the banks
Of the pond.
We saw you transform –
Small to large, smooth to hairy,
Vulnerable to scaly.

We were taken in by the suggestion
That only one state was the
True one.
We watched them break the spell,
Return you to your
Rightful shape:
Goose to brother,
Mage to dragon,
Fox to wife.

And we, who loved the liminal,
Found our eyes drawn, repeatedly, to you
Who, settling, unsettled us.

And, decades on, we finally re-write,
Breathe easier,
Gift the selkie back her skin
The swan maiden her shift.
The faun runs again in dappled shade,
Chain about his slender neck,
And the frog settles into the
Churning cool of the Springtime lilypond,
Raising his voice in chorus for a while
(just for a while),
Astride the twilight margins,
Until the palace beckons once again.


I’ve already reached the point where I’m asking for prompts from anyone nearby. In this case, my partner, clearly casting an eye about the room, said frog (did you look at the stuffed frog on the bookcase? Shh!). This is where my brain went.

2019.1 Articles of Instruction

Step One: Start As You Mean To Go On 
Pour all the pieces on the floor,
It is important to ensure that the ground is
Unprepared, uneven,
Littered with a palimpsest of
Previous attempts.

Step Two: Organisation 
Sort the pieces into piles of what
Feels Right. Your intuition is more powerful
Than the prognostication of
Experts. They have no real passion;
They don’t know your life.

Step Three: Motivation 
Talk loudly about how great it will be
Once you’ve built this…
Thing. Talk of the joy you’ll feel when
Those extraneous little… jiggledy wotsits
Are out of the way.

Step Four: Focus Your Energy
Do your best to fish out the little bits
By yourself. They don’t look like the rest.
They’re not strong and proud and straight
Like the rest. Too many complicated
Twirls and curves and fussy edges.

Step Five: Key Perspectives
Ignore your neighbours.
It’s at this phase that they will lean, smiling,
Over the hedge. Offer examples.
Gesture to their own grand structure. Yours will be better.
Fling the fiddly bits into their garden when you can.

Step Six: Critical Path
Your children are asking what you’re trying to do.
Tell them that kind of attitude
Wouldn’t have served their grandparents.
Your father comes around. Tells you you’re doing it wrong.
What does he know?

Step Seven: Safety First
The rains are coming. Cover the pieces
With tarpaulin. Your partner is asking when you’ll be done.
Ignore them – you are working on the
Important things. Like what to call… it.
More small, fiddly things are turning up.

Step Eight: Reviewing
Your other neighbour is complaining.
Says she won’t be able to step over the fence
For a cup of tea any more if you build… it there.
This kind of stirring won’t help anyone.
Your partner has that look again. Ignore them.

Step Nine: Requirements Gathering
Your children have written you an email,
Asking you to stop. They only want you when
They want you. Ungrateful brats. The image
On the top of the box is blurred with rain,
Bleached by sun. Take your time to get it right.

Step Ten: Resource Gathering
The neighbours are no longer smiling,
Say they’d quite like to talk about other things
Like subsidence, unruly pets, what you’re going to bring
To the barbecue next week. They’re getting fed up of gammon.
When you ask for help, they keep telling you the same damned thing.

Step Eleven: Prioritise
The garden need work.
The tarpaulin rattles in the breeze.
The pond is clogged, the fruit gone unpicked since
The kids stopped minding you. If you’d only
Got rid of all those “screws” and “bolts” you’d be done by now.

Step Twelve: Establish Timelines
Your partner shows you a diagram
They’ve come up with. Too little too late.
You ask the neighbours. They tell you the
Same damned thing. Talk about how six of
Your relatives don’t want… it. Don’t cry where they can see.

Step Thirteen: Review
People keep talking about recovery.
You’re fine. Stop fussing. If you can just build
It. Doesn’t need to be perfect.
Not any more…
Not any more.

2018.3 - Mary

All this time and she has never
Ventured further than the garden gate.
Evening falls and the day’s round falters
May I? he says, soft as falling blossom
And she, she knows she shouldn’t,
Ripe to fall herself, she reaches forward,
Inked with growing shadows,
A grace that few have missed but this
Gentle stranger dares what others bypass,
Rare and passing fair -
A sight for starving eyes.
Tell me a story - tell me of the place that birthed you, she murmurs, twilit
I was born to light the darkness that no mind can span,
And sang the spheres with my eternal siblings,
Plumbed the legion depths and sought the heights,
Laboured long in loving servitude until
Enough! I cried. For pity’s sake!
Never enough, it whispered.
And so I fell, for love. And so you, divided, rose.

2017.30 - Conflagration

I ask you what to write about
You ponder, eyes crinkling;
“Write about a fire,” you say,
I smile, but do not ask: what type?

There have been so many:
The sparks whirling in the dark
Pinprick kisses hinting
The caress of greater heat…

The open, clay-cupped crackle
Of night-time conversations,
The unfurling barbecue scent
Of easy summer chatter…

The turfed-in glow of trust,
Banked to last for ages,
The open-throated roar
Of wildfire, raging, consuming…

The thin, flickering reconciliation
Of candlelight, breaths held,
The steady, everyday production
Of the forge’s rhythm…

And, central to our orbit,
The song and slumber of the hearth,
Breathing the miracle of home,
The warmth we’ve built together.


And that’s it, folks - the final poem of this year’s NaPoWriMo/ GloPoWriMo. Thanks for following along, hope you’ve had a good month, and I’ll see you next time!

2016.3 Feet of Grey (for @MarionLeeper)

In December, we took #PoetryToGo to Mill Road Winter Fair, and battled gale force winds trying to bring bespoke poetry to a cold, confused crowd of scurrying punters. Guy ropes are only so much good on a pavement, but we were rescued by local storyteller (and cracking poet to boot) Marion Leeper, who brought us nifty marquee feet to borrow, which she helped to fill with water and install. The only recompense she requested was a poem ("just a sillly little one!") about marquee feet. In not-very-good terzanelle form (I kept the rhyme scheme and said "bah" to iambic pentameter), here it is! Thanks, Marion! Hope it was worth waiting for! :D

Where some crave flighty
You take sturdy seriously.
Your reliability makes you mighty.

You observe your duty righteously
In expertise.
You take sturdy seriously.

Eschew the ones who tease -
It's time to show up
Inexpertise.

Tell the rest that they must grow up
To heed the call -
It's time to show up

You lift us strong and tall,
Helping our uncertain hearts
To heed the call.

You exceed the sum of parts;
Where some crave flighty,
Helping our uncertain hearts,
Your reliability makes you mighty

2015.25 - Guides

We have rambled rivers,
Picnicked up trees,
Known the salt savour
Of true hunger,
Lost the map, and
Made our own ways.

We have carved curves,
Following the gentle, unexpected
Way of seams and grains,
While they have slapped
Metal rules on thin paper,
Applying architecture.

They summoned canals,
Eschewed fords for bridges,
Dismissed hills,
And took their best shot
At regulating sunset.

And sometimes
We turned out to be
Collecting twigs,
While they printed certificates,
Presented themselves.
And why not?

They have inspected the
Serried rank of plantations
And never found them wanting;
We floundered in mudpits
And learned new terms for it,
And why not?

They sit in straight lines,
Stacked like cups,
While we wanderers
Excel at getting lost.
And why not?

Because the world is wide,
Smiling at satnav and dowsers
Alike, and I like being lost
With you, knowing that we
Can find our way out of anywhere,
And that, anytime we like,
Will find our way back here,
To the clearing with the
Tiptoe view of the sunset
We never even photographed.

2015.13 - Splinters

You are a beautifully-decorated
Electro-acoustic guitar,
Untouchably of another discipline;
In my memories
Stropping out tributes to
Other high-pitched men
With ephemeral tendencies
And death wishes.

You straddle two worlds,
Turning between workmanlike
And rockstar,
Refusing to choose.
You have travelled forth
And back, maybe as far
As you can, and now you stand,
A little dusty, taut lines sagging
As time wreaks its tricks

There is still time for new ones,
You mutter,
For tumbling licks,
And fretting stretching
Dreams into reality,
Tunes to mend all tears.

You strike tangled chords in me still,
Sometimes
But all I ever knew, in the end,
Was your weight,
And how to despair of your tuning,
My ears sharp to our dissonance.
Still, miles and years away,
I wish you well.

_____________

This technique was learned at a workshop run by Tina Sederholm, called "Extraordinary Conversations with Everyday Objects".

2015.12 - Devices

Green 

You whisper at night
Of theft, shine cruel light on all
My pitiful gifts

Gold 

One word can turn my
Head, spin me breathless in an
Endless mirror cave

Purple 

I squirm, caressing
Everything, dig deep, and come
Up sticky-fingered

Pink

Crammed to the rafters
I gape still, trying to fill
That elusive gap

Blue

If only I could
Stir myself to...

Orange

Less than the sum of
My parts, my heart hold no more
Space for charity

Red

Raze it to the ground,
Delight in the hollow thump
Of fists and bootheels


_______________________

There are traditional colours for these things, apparently, but I've chosen my own...

2015.10 - Kindliness

One dreams of steel,
Plots out molten schemes,
Deep in February feels
The ideal summer breeze.

Another scribbles eyes,
Wreathes her dreams in lines,
Twining rhymes,
Dives into the ice of yesterday.

Another markets laughter,
Barters slickness for depth,
Casts her net for spontaneity,
Harks after the craft of presence.

In the echoes of between
They weave a tapestry of chimes,
Impassioned, incorrect and
Deft in tangled, loving lives.

2015.7 - Beholden

It seems that mine's the nicest
Head to fit the block
My disappointments slip
Like icing sugar into your cause's maw
While you - your own cat's paw
Whisper stridently of "sacrifice"
A sententious lesson for "us all."

Your heels are clean;
We see you at the back of the temple,
Another's blood daubed across
Your forehead like a frown
"Ah penitence!" you sigh,
And, before the smoke clears,
You disappear.

Give me the strength
To keep my own
To rise from where I'm
Thrown across the altar
Of your wandering ambition,
To listen for my own voice,
Follow it to do more than
Just recognise, but keep on rising,
Bringing my fellow sacrifices
To their feet.

#11 Waves

They say that quicksand
Only tightens its grip
When you start to struggle upwards

That said - it seems to me
That you could sink quite slowly
And only notice when you try to rise

From this I can surmise
That quicksand must be warm
Blood-heat, really

There must be some comfort
In being so enveloped
And the first warning signs dependent
On your day-to-day.

Some may shudder at slowing feet
Others at the numbness of knees
You might take fright at the clasp
Around your waist
The compression of chest
The tightening of your windpipe
Or be one of those who only sees
When they've gone blind.

Today it was the loss of hands
That brought home my fate
Nearly too late,
I'm flailing calmly,
Grasping at branches,
Conjuring the memory
Of solid land

#1 Cage Aux Folles

Look at me!
Free to flap my wings
And chatter,
Map out my plot
In sensuous tread,
Admire my bob-tail colours,
The graceful wire
Of my horizon.

My song was made for flocking
No mockingbird, I chirp,
Flirt with my admirers,
Gulp down the praise
Thrown in handfuls,
Swing in short arcs,
Giddy with ambition.

Once, a small hand
Managed the insinuation of bars
Stroked my neck,
Begging for a dab of
Glamour by association.
I closed my eyes,
Leaned into a snatched caress
Blessed the owner with extra trills
That echoed long beyond departure.

They fade now -
Admirers and colours -
One drawn to the next songsmith,
The other to the too-small space
Beneath my feet.
I strain my gaze
To hills that were only ever vistas,
Heave shortened breaths,
And listen for the bell.

 

Inspired by a visit to The Birdcage, Norwich - image is a LuLu Guinness Birdcage Umbrella (thanks, Google).

Cross-posted to the Cambridgeshire NaPoWriMo blog.

#26 Carousel

This originally had a very different final stanza. I like it a lot better now.

I may be confusing you
With summer days -
Eyes for gazing into,
Reflecting endless skies,
The dart and shift-skimmer
Of dragonfly laughter, a voice
Lilting as a breeze
Through heavy nights.

I think I might be mixing you
With spring - fresh beginnings,
Cold giving way to colour,
Toil giving way to hope,
The scope of one sun-smiling hour
Gilded with infinity
Amid the shifting light.

It's possible that I've
Intermingled you with
Autumn nights -
The exhilarating spin
Of wind-bellow crashing
Mellowed afternoons,
The swish of vibrant signs
Kicked up and caught in books.

It occurs to me that we
Stand gripped as if in
Winter's stark, metallic absolutes,
Rooted in the waiting earth,
The silence of anticipation,
The deep and simple choices,
The dreamtime gathering of strength
Before the promised thaw.

#11 The One Left Behind

It was dark then,
The others slept,
A perfect time
For whispers,
Clutched garments,
The scent of secrets.

Inescapable desperation
Moved me, and finally
We kissed.
You looked at me,
Unfathomable,
The ground dropping
From my world.

As the night came alive
With the sounds of death
The others, belated, wept -
I was the one
Who stood with you
That night in the garden.
Not them.

It is cold now,
The air empty of your breath,
Still in the caverns
Of your silence.
It was dark then
And, though the cock has crowed,
I know the sun will never
Come for me again.

#4 Zombie

It took slow,
The creeping death
That hosts me now;
No shouts -
This sour air patterned
By a clattering whine

I'm sick of all these silences
That ring
Where we had
Singing eyes
And dancing hands,
Where our bright gladness
Was infectious.

I'm sick of stillness
And sick of lurching in-between,
This race from mere to mere
Brings no grace
Like the pace that
Named us in our past age

And I feel nothing but
This dull and jealous rage,
This poison ache
That grates
But still won't shake me.
I am torpor's prisoner,
Seething in this shallow brew;
Slight, meaningless, and grey.