"We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by times waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years..."
From "Adam's Curse" by W. B. Yeats
Winter blinds me to blue sky by day.
I tilt my head at night instead.
My eyes search out constellations,
reading Braille by stars:
Orion the Hunter,
Taurus the Bull,
Canis Minor...
It steadies me somehow to feel the stars in place.
Not so the waxing, waning moon.
She's a bright sharp sickle tonight.
Like Yeats I have a thought for no-one's but your ears:
That I have been too quiet in love.
We wound ourselves on the sharp edges of each other,
And I'm weary-hearted and hollow,
Breaking stones until the moon is full again.
Sunday, 22 February 2015
Thursday, 8 January 2015
Joy
Halfway across the Millennium Bridge she stops and asks me to take her photo. The day is fading fast and she wants evidence that she was here in this moment, as night falls over the city, smiling from ear to ear. She has been promised this trip for weeks - a belated birthday present is a night out in the West End to see a musical. She doesn't even try to contain her excitement. She fizzes and sparks like a Catherine Wheel.
As the old year faded and this new one began, I chose the word Joy to carry me forward. I needed more of it in my life and wondered where to find it. There on that bridge, trying to frame her bright little face in the dark window of my phone, I realise its been right in front of me all this time. Even her name affirms it, a name we chose for her because of the joy she brought us at the end of a year foreshadowed with pain. As I take her picture, I see how perfectly positioned she is between the dark shilouette of Tower Bridge in the distance and the brilliantly illuminated Shard in the foreground. She stands like a link between the old and the new, the dark shadows of the past and the bright promise of the future.
Picture taken, we move on. She never stands still for more than a minute. She's unimpressed by the installations in Tate Modern, every moment of her life is art to her and she needs to be living it. We leave and walk along the Thames and back across Blackfriars Bridge, pointing out landmarks as we go; St. Paul's, Big Ben, the OXO tower, the London Eye. Her eyes are wide open, not wanting to miss anything. We eat in a busy Italian restaurant close to the theatre and she asks us the time every few minutes. She eats quickly, declaring it to be the best food she's ever tasted when in truth it's a mediocre plate of sausage and chips. Joy makes even the ordinary seem extraordinary.
Finally we're at the theatre and she tells the lady who checks our tickets that she is soooo excited. The show is everything she hoped it would be. We give her the aisle seat because we know her feet will be dancing, every part of her straining towards the stage, itching to be up there singing her heart out too. As we walk back to the station afterwards, she asks me how she might go about auditioning!
The trains are packed with people heading home and we sway as we stand, her arms wrapped tight around me. She tells me she loves me and I ask her if she's tired and she shakes her head vehemently although it's nearly midnight and she's been up since the first hint of day. She politely refuses the kindness of strangers who offer up their seats. She holds on to me to keep us both upright. I see that now - how beautiful a gift she has been to me, joy for a heart bent towards melancholy. I remember once when she was very little, how she looked hard at me for a moment and then asked me why my smile was upside down. She sows seeds of happiness wherever she goes. Even there late at night on the underground when January couldn't be more joyless, she hears a young couple talking in Mandarin and gives them her widest smile as she tries out the little Mandarin she knows. They turn to her in surprise and can't help but smile back and ask her her name. She tells them and it echoes down the train like a bell pealing...
As the old year faded and this new one began, I chose the word Joy to carry me forward. I needed more of it in my life and wondered where to find it. There on that bridge, trying to frame her bright little face in the dark window of my phone, I realise its been right in front of me all this time. Even her name affirms it, a name we chose for her because of the joy she brought us at the end of a year foreshadowed with pain. As I take her picture, I see how perfectly positioned she is between the dark shilouette of Tower Bridge in the distance and the brilliantly illuminated Shard in the foreground. She stands like a link between the old and the new, the dark shadows of the past and the bright promise of the future.
Picture taken, we move on. She never stands still for more than a minute. She's unimpressed by the installations in Tate Modern, every moment of her life is art to her and she needs to be living it. We leave and walk along the Thames and back across Blackfriars Bridge, pointing out landmarks as we go; St. Paul's, Big Ben, the OXO tower, the London Eye. Her eyes are wide open, not wanting to miss anything. We eat in a busy Italian restaurant close to the theatre and she asks us the time every few minutes. She eats quickly, declaring it to be the best food she's ever tasted when in truth it's a mediocre plate of sausage and chips. Joy makes even the ordinary seem extraordinary.
Finally we're at the theatre and she tells the lady who checks our tickets that she is soooo excited. The show is everything she hoped it would be. We give her the aisle seat because we know her feet will be dancing, every part of her straining towards the stage, itching to be up there singing her heart out too. As we walk back to the station afterwards, she asks me how she might go about auditioning!
The trains are packed with people heading home and we sway as we stand, her arms wrapped tight around me. She tells me she loves me and I ask her if she's tired and she shakes her head vehemently although it's nearly midnight and she's been up since the first hint of day. She politely refuses the kindness of strangers who offer up their seats. She holds on to me to keep us both upright. I see that now - how beautiful a gift she has been to me, joy for a heart bent towards melancholy. I remember once when she was very little, how she looked hard at me for a moment and then asked me why my smile was upside down. She sows seeds of happiness wherever she goes. Even there late at night on the underground when January couldn't be more joyless, she hears a young couple talking in Mandarin and gives them her widest smile as she tries out the little Mandarin she knows. They turn to her in surprise and can't help but smile back and ask her her name. She tells them and it echoes down the train like a bell pealing...
Wednesday, 31 December 2014
At the Year's End
"Every leaf-scar is a bud
expecting a future.
The earth speaks in parables.
The burning bush. The rainbow.
Promises. Promises."
From "The Year's Midnight" by Gillian Clarke
Promise.
My glass is still half empty in her company. I still eye her warily, doubt her reliability and wonder if she's everything she says she is. I wish she was more straight-forward, less ambiguous. I want to be able to see her whispered future with my own eyes and not have to walk blind into another year.
And yet this year she's turned me aside to many a burning bush and a rainbow. It ends much better than it began. She was right about that at least.
There's a rose still blooming in the garden in December, irises and primroses too. When did I stop believing in improbable things? At the Year's midnight I let go of what was and look forward to what will be. There is no wrong season for some things. I want to believe that's true.
expecting a future.
The earth speaks in parables.
The burning bush. The rainbow.
Promises. Promises."
From "The Year's Midnight" by Gillian Clarke
Promise.
My glass is still half empty in her company. I still eye her warily, doubt her reliability and wonder if she's everything she says she is. I wish she was more straight-forward, less ambiguous. I want to be able to see her whispered future with my own eyes and not have to walk blind into another year.
And yet this year she's turned me aside to many a burning bush and a rainbow. It ends much better than it began. She was right about that at least.
There's a rose still blooming in the garden in December, irises and primroses too. When did I stop believing in improbable things? At the Year's midnight I let go of what was and look forward to what will be. There is no wrong season for some things. I want to believe that's true.
Monday, 1 December 2014
A Handful Of Light
A handful of light
Some days that's all I have to hold back the swallowing dark.
I clutch it tight, pray it's enough as my world tilts
and slides underfoot.
The ice is thin.
It splinters and cracks.
Long lost frozen things, many winters buried,
thaw to life again.
I'm told it's a good thing.
Embrace the fall.
Let it all give way.
Have faith someone will catch me.
I'm faithless.
There is no-one to catch me.
Those I love are standing on their own too thin places.
I can't break apart.
I need to hold together and bear the weight.
My handful of light -
It's a gift given in the dark places when all other lights go out.
It fills the hollow places in me,
cuts through the night,
burns away fear.
I clutch it tight, pray it's enough as my world tilts
and slides underfoot.
The ice is thin.
It splinters and cracks.
Long lost frozen things, many winters buried,
thaw to life again.
I'm told it's a good thing.
Embrace the fall.
Let it all give way.
Have faith someone will catch me.
I'm faithless.
There is no-one to catch me.
Those I love are standing on their own too thin places.
I can't break apart.
I need to hold together and bear the weight.
My handful of light -
It's a gift given in the dark places when all other lights go out.
It fills the hollow places in me,
cuts through the night,
burns away fear.
Thursday, 18 September 2014
Grace and Grief
"Everywhere she dies. Everywhere I go she dies.
No sunrise, no city square, no lurking beautiful mountain
but has her death in it.
The silence of her dying sounds through
the carousel of language, it's a web
on which laughter stitches itself..."
from "Memorial" by Norman MacCaig
September lengthens like shadows in the falling light. The trees let go and abandon their leaves and memories of her last days haunt like ghosts... Her ragged breath and the dark hollows of her eyes. The way her hands shook as she tried to eat. The silence that stretched for hours.
Sat in a room full of people last night, I was asked to tell them a little about myself. I was tongue-tied as usual. We will be doing life together for the next two years, there will be no hiding. "What would you like us to know about you?" the tutor prompts. I play it safe and tell them about my marriage, my three children, the places I've lived and the work I've done. The story I didn't tell is the true one... Once upon a time there was a mother who had a daughter... I don't know how it ends.
Three years feels like a long time and yet no time at all. Tomorrow isn't promised. I wake in the dark this morning and watch the sky lighten, trying to find a balance between grace and grief. My littlest one wakes too and finds me in the half-light. She slips her arms around my neck and I pull her close, my hope, my chance of a happy ending... Once upon a time there was a mother who had a daughter...
No sunrise, no city square, no lurking beautiful mountain
but has her death in it.
The silence of her dying sounds through
the carousel of language, it's a web
on which laughter stitches itself..."
from "Memorial" by Norman MacCaig
September lengthens like shadows in the falling light. The trees let go and abandon their leaves and memories of her last days haunt like ghosts... Her ragged breath and the dark hollows of her eyes. The way her hands shook as she tried to eat. The silence that stretched for hours.
Sat in a room full of people last night, I was asked to tell them a little about myself. I was tongue-tied as usual. We will be doing life together for the next two years, there will be no hiding. "What would you like us to know about you?" the tutor prompts. I play it safe and tell them about my marriage, my three children, the places I've lived and the work I've done. The story I didn't tell is the true one... Once upon a time there was a mother who had a daughter... I don't know how it ends.
Three years feels like a long time and yet no time at all. Tomorrow isn't promised. I wake in the dark this morning and watch the sky lighten, trying to find a balance between grace and grief. My littlest one wakes too and finds me in the half-light. She slips her arms around my neck and I pull her close, my hope, my chance of a happy ending... Once upon a time there was a mother who had a daughter...
Saturday, 28 June 2014
It all counts
"...what's redemptive about every relationship, is accepting this one truth - that it all counts, that the good and the bad are part of the alchemy of loving someone, the base elements break and boil and bleed, but one day there's gold. Then you are able to say, despite everything: I wouldn't be the person I am today if not for you."
AMY HOLLINGSWORTH from "Letters from the Closet"
I keep your letters in a box high up on a shelf. I need a ladder to get to them. It's better that way because I have a habit of glancing back over my shoulder, always trying to keep the past in view.
I dared to tell you once, how not a day goes by when you don't cross my mind. I hoped you'd understand, that you'd know I didn't say it to change anything but only because I was tired of skirting around the edges of myself, of trying not to remember and pretending none of it mattered. It all counts - that's the only way I can make sense of it, how I have never been able to lose sight of you after all these years. I thought I had to define it somehow: right/wrong, love/friendship, past/present... I thought maybe if I could just separate out the base elements I could undo whatever you are to me and never once look back again.
The truth is I carry you with me always, a part of who I was and who I am, where I've come from and where I'm going. I can't help but remember us, seventeen, an ocean apart, wanting and waiting for the distance to disappear. I think that seventeen year old me will always be waiting. Many years from now, when every hair on my head has turned grey and my life can be read from the lines on my face, there'll be a knock on the door. I'll answer it and you'll be standing there and I won't be surprised.
It will feel like a promise that in the end, despite everything, we kept.
AMY HOLLINGSWORTH from "Letters from the Closet"
I keep your letters in a box high up on a shelf. I need a ladder to get to them. It's better that way because I have a habit of glancing back over my shoulder, always trying to keep the past in view.
I dared to tell you once, how not a day goes by when you don't cross my mind. I hoped you'd understand, that you'd know I didn't say it to change anything but only because I was tired of skirting around the edges of myself, of trying not to remember and pretending none of it mattered. It all counts - that's the only way I can make sense of it, how I have never been able to lose sight of you after all these years. I thought I had to define it somehow: right/wrong, love/friendship, past/present... I thought maybe if I could just separate out the base elements I could undo whatever you are to me and never once look back again.
The truth is I carry you with me always, a part of who I was and who I am, where I've come from and where I'm going. I can't help but remember us, seventeen, an ocean apart, wanting and waiting for the distance to disappear. I think that seventeen year old me will always be waiting. Many years from now, when every hair on my head has turned grey and my life can be read from the lines on my face, there'll be a knock on the door. I'll answer it and you'll be standing there and I won't be surprised.
It will feel like a promise that in the end, despite everything, we kept.
Tuesday, 3 June 2014
Writing Down the Bones
“I write because I am alone and move through the world alone. No one will know what has passed through me... I write because there are stories that people have forgotten to tell, because I am a woman trying to stand up in my life...I am trying to come alive, to find the distance in my own recesses and bring them forward and give them color and form... I write out of hurt and how to make hurt okay; how to make myself strong and come home, and it may be the only real home I'll ever have.”
NATALIE GOLDBERG from "Writing Down the Bones"
I stop writing down the bones and start to feel for them instead. Watching the numbers fall away, I think I can keep myself from falling. It's not about wanting to be thin, but about trying to balance the weight of it all. It started over half a lifetime ago when I carried hurt inside that felt like I'd been cut right open and sown up again with a belly full of rocks. I wanted nothing more then than to be pure spirit, to be free of all that held me down.
I write to make myself see these things, to remember how the scars were made and how the pain was fleeting. I'm a burden-carrier. I've always known it. But to carry the weight of others' broken I need to learn to carry my own. My strength lies in words. I forget it over and over again and forget to eat instead. I write to make sense of my life; to untangle the wild, crazy, bewilderingly beautiful mess of it all and hope that after the unravelling and the reravelling, the spinning and the weaving, I might yet count it all joy.
NATALIE GOLDBERG from "Writing Down the Bones"
I stop writing down the bones and start to feel for them instead. Watching the numbers fall away, I think I can keep myself from falling. It's not about wanting to be thin, but about trying to balance the weight of it all. It started over half a lifetime ago when I carried hurt inside that felt like I'd been cut right open and sown up again with a belly full of rocks. I wanted nothing more then than to be pure spirit, to be free of all that held me down.
I write to make myself see these things, to remember how the scars were made and how the pain was fleeting. I'm a burden-carrier. I've always known it. But to carry the weight of others' broken I need to learn to carry my own. My strength lies in words. I forget it over and over again and forget to eat instead. I write to make sense of my life; to untangle the wild, crazy, bewilderingly beautiful mess of it all and hope that after the unravelling and the reravelling, the spinning and the weaving, I might yet count it all joy.
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