Tag: Am Writing

Today the challenge was to write ‘a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. For example, your mother-in-law, the moon, or the year you were ten years old.’

My Father 

His hands are my hands

and if I ever doubted 

the old man 

in the red woollen 

jumper was my father, 

I did no more.

An absent father

is like trying to fly

a kite with no wind 

or speaking 

when there is no-one 

to listen

or like when your throat 

constricts 

or when splinters 

shred your skin.

I’m off prompt today.

Here is a view from our holiday barn located deep in the Kent countryside. Although it has rained all day, the sun is now shining, bathing us in it’s warmth.

Between Us 

From across the orchard 

the sheep and I regard

each other, she with almond

ochre-yellow eyes,

I with urgent hands 

waving, wanting, wriggling.

We are aware of each other,

She of I.

I of she.

We are.

As all there is.

Basking in a golden sun.

Stillness between us.

She goes back to her grazing.

I go back to scouring 

the meadow for her lamb.

I twist in my seat, searching,

scraping the chair on stone. 

She startles, but does not run. 

I release my breath.

Her nose twitches.

Baaaaa. Baaaaa, she goes.

Her lamb skitters, gambols

from behind an apple tree,

prancing, leaping to her side.

A fragile moment of trusting, 

witnessed in presence. 

The sheep settles.

Her head lowers.

My hands find each other,

to rest in my lap.

They are full of nothingness.

The challenge today was to take an Emily Dickinson poem and craft it into something else, adding and subtracting words and altering line breaks. I chose her poem ‘Hope’ and my own feelings about a walk we did today along the white cliffs of Dover.

Delight

is a thing 

with feathers.

It soars above 

the white cliffs 

of Dover where 

buttercups glow.  

Delight 

sings without 

words. 

It rises

like the skylark,

spiralling

higher and higher.

Delight 

is shimmering 

white.

It flows in

with the waves

and settles

in the soul. 

Honesty

Today I am 

going 

to listen 

intently

and be 

present

as I am.

I lace 

my boots

and walk

following 

our leader.

It’s a kind

of love,

is it not?

An ordinary,

extraordinary

thing 

to walk?

And yet.

If I am 

honest,

today I

would 

rather 

have rolled

out my 

yoga mat. 

I am off prompt again today and chose instead to write about where we visited today :

Dungeness

Where the land meets 

the sea 

is the best place. 

To taste salt 

on my lips.

To have my hair 

whipped

about my cheeks.

To discover sea 

kale is purple 

and green.

There is space 

at Dungeness.

To be alone 

with nature.

Be free

of thoughts. 

Where the land meets

the sea

is a place desolate

in its beauty.

A place to find

myself.

Today it’s about childhood – to write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you.

The Bedroom Door 

In the night when I am awakened

by a creak or a thud, my heart still

thumps, thumps, thumps.

We think we get over things. 

I am a statue lying on my back, 

listening, listening, listening. 

Eyes glued to the crack in the door.

My seven year old baby voice

calls out:

is there anybody there?

We don’t get over things.

Not those that go deep to the marrow. 

My mother pushes open the door,

I pull the blankets over my face

as she leans over me and breathes

her smokey, Bacardi breath. 

I need to get over things.

So now when I lay down to sleep,

the door remains open. 

Today, the challenge was to write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. I enjoyed this … it came easily.

A Suggestion

Because life is complicated, why not

come into the garden and rest awhile. 

Don’t be concerned about the time like

every person obsessed with the next thing.

Forget about your do-to-list, the grass is

green in the garden, the flowers fragrant. 

Hell is but a word.

Heaven too. 

In the muddle of life, 

juggling ten thousand balls,

knowing you can step onto the grass,

listen to the birds singing and not your 

mother telling you 

not to … is like a miraculous visitation by an

oracle. 

Pulse the grass between your toes,

quietly breathe and watch awhile,

relishing the breeze on your cheek.

Savour the scent of the roses, 

Tell them how joyful you feel, let the 

Universe take your hand, feel the 

vibrations radiate beyond your physical form,

wander together beneath the arch and down the

xyst, between the cypress trees, 

yelling hurrah! 

Zigzagging as you go. 

The challenge today was to incorporate an edible plant in a poem with a comparison between some aspect of the plant’s lifespan and my own – or the life of someone close to me.

Falling 

Sometimes when I see a beefsteak tomato growing, 

I think of my grandfather, 

of the longing in his fingers as he sowed his seeds,

the space between his hands and the terrible courage 

he discovered each time he took up his rifle. 

When I see a man at the allotment twist twine, 

latching the stems of the plants to their supports,

I think of my grandfather,

of his shirt sleeves rolled up over his elbows, 

his brown-freckled arms saving me from falling.

When I notice the first flowers and early fruits,

I think of my grandfather,

a young soldier, a growing adolescent, a maturing

man among men and all the fragile bodies, falling

falling, falling as yellow petals on the ground.

Summer arrives, the beefsteaks are ripening into 

red silken orbs, the sky is the bluest of blue and 

I think of my grandfather,

the sweet loveliness of his homegrown tomatoes, 

juice trickling onto his chin and running down his wrist.

Sometimes when I hold a beefsteak tomato in both hands,

I think of my grandfather,

his searching fingers gently squeezing the ripest fruit,

his unknown thoughts about war and his unseen love 

for those he fought with and those he fought against.

I am back on prompt today with the challenge to write a poem of negation – one that involves describing something in terms of what it is not, or not like.

The Unknown

It’s not falling into a black abyss 

or the red mouth of a hungry bear,

nor an ice slice between 

your shoulder blades.

It does not even resemble 

the peeling away, layer by layer 

of your skin or the slow, gentle

degeneration of your heart.

Never before has anything 

felt quite as exquisite as this.

When at last the evening comes, 

and you are ready, it will encircle 

your form like your first shawl.

And when it’s all over,

you will be amazed 

and wonder what it was

you were so afraid of. 

This came from considering the word ‘lost’ and pondering over it.

Here 

I have a feeling I don’t know where I am.

But wait,

the oak at my side is not lost,

nor the blackbirds berry-picking

in the hawthorn bushes. 

Even the hares scampering

here, 

there,

everywhere 

are where they are.

Now.

What is this lost? 

Wherever we are is called Here. 

Here is Now. 

Now is forever.