Summer Solstice Sea
creativity
Not quite wild yet
The heat has been on for the last week or so and then today a downpour that didn’t seem to want to stop. But it was needed. There needs to be some kind of release.
I’m in the thick of organising house moves and exhibitions and lectures and just writing them gives me a headache never mind completing it all. And complete it I will do as that’s what I do. But at what cost to my health and sanity?
Today I’m resting for some and then doing/ working for some. Breaking up the rests with work instead of the other way around. And it’s working. I feel better, lighter and more productive but never doing more than I can handle.
I have loose ends that need to be tied up which are sapping my energy but some things are just out of my control. So I’m sitting with these uncomfortable feelings trusting in the ancients that they will allow things to turn out for the best for me.
I have to believe it when I get lost in the mix or start to doubt the path I’m on. That the universe has my back. That these things happen for a reason. I just wish sometimes things where a bit easier for me.
Studio Notes @ Substack
I’ve just spent the last half hour or so crafting this month’s Studio Note over on Substack.
I’m still not to grips with it all over there. Still features I haven’t explored yet but I’m enjoying the ease of it all. Simple.
Go check it out and see what I’ve been musing about in the heat/ heart of summer, summer, summer.
Summer Wish List
Sheree may you offer yourself light
Sheree may you offer yourself grace
Sheree may you offer yourself rest
Sheree may you offer yourself love
Sheree may you offer yourself ease
Sheree may you offer yourself softness
Sheree may you offer yourself mistakes
Sheree may you offer yourself movement
Sheree may you offer yourself a deep clean
Sheree may you offer yourself hope
Sheree may you offer yourself deep breaths
Sheree may you offer yourself adventure
Sheree may you offer yourself surrender
Sheree may you offer yourself healing
I only saw his shine once it was too late to feel it
In the dream, he comes back to me, whole and young.
He was always young in my eyes. When I used to ask him at each birthday how old he was, Daddy would answer, 45.
He was always 45 in all the years I knew him. All the years I was living, he was dying.
In the replaying of images, I play it differently.
I keep my distance until he asks for me to bring his slippers or newspaper. I offer them with bowed head. I don’t throw them at him as I used to. Escaping his rage, escaping the beats.
I keep my distance, but I want to be close to him. To hold him. To feel his love for me. Then and now, still needed after so many years gone.
To serve, he brought me up, to serve. Instead of getting the vacuum clearer out, he had us on the floor picking up the bits of fluff and crumbs. To hear his pride at a job well done was enough.
When I enter the chapel of rest, it’s like I’m floating on air, light as the flowing curtains concealing a prize. I see him now, as then …
he‘a surrounded by gold satin, his mahogany black skin shines, relaxed and unlined, sea-black lips wave-curled and still.
He looks younger than 45. Even though the plaque on the coffin lid reads 1920 -1981 – he was 61. And the time he was dying. I was living.
Poem – An Act of Faith
Isn’t that what a poem is?
Elizabeth Acevedo
A lantern glowing in the dark.
Just as dusk is falling, I walk. Affected by the elements,
head in pain from the wind, I force myself out into the dim light,
believing moving my legs will strengthen my heart.
Motherly care, higher forces in radio silence. Walk
The moon pale blue and silent. But still there. Always.
Like the ancestors, guiding. Allowing me to find my own way. Tonight.
To falter, make mistakes and loop back. Remaining open.
Trusting these windows of silence as still inspiration.
Hope holds optimism. Optimism holds joy.
The touch of joy, fine-grained dark jasper, I search for along the path.
This spiritual path of putting pen to page, again and again.
Like one foot in front of another. An act of faith.
Black Aliveness
“We are not the idea of us, not even the idea that we hold of us. We are us, multiple and varied, becoming. The heterogeneity of us. Blackness in a Black world is everything, which means that it gets to be freed from being any one thing. We are ordinary beauty, Black people, and beauty must be allowed to do its beautiful work.” Kevin Quashie describes in Black Aliveness, or, A Black Poetics of Being.
A little list of gratitude
Sometimes we can be our worst enemy. Sometimes we allow thoughts and feelings to invade our calm, our peace. Why?
Something I fail to understand or have a handle on. All I can do is practice. Have faith and trust.
So this little list of gratitude is practiced with the intention of appreciating what is right in front of me instead of skipping to the end and getting all the wires and paths crossed.
Today I am grateful for rest.
Today I am grateful for coffee.
Today I am grateful for the page and pen.
Today I am grateful for the time and space to commune with myself.
Today I am grateful for hot buttered toast.
Today I am grateful for the music.
Today I am grateful for the dawn chorus.
Today I am grateful for the sea.
Today I am grateful for the earth.
Today I am grateful for the light.
Today I am grateful to love and be loved.
Confessional POetry Course
(Speaking about Robert Lowell’s poetry) “Lowell removes the mask. His speaker is unequivocally himself, and it is hard not to think of Life Studies as a series of personal confidences, rather shameful, that one is honor-bound not to reveal.”
M. L. Rosenthal’s article “Poetry as Confession.”
I’m taking a four week confessional poetry course with midnight & indigo. Founded in 2018, midnight & indigo is a small publisher and literary journal that provides a space for Black women writers to share their narratives with the world.
Tw weeks in and I’m loving the course, Tell Me Something Real: How to Write Confessional Poetry. Not only is the tutor, Schyler Butler knowledgeable, and thorough providing great examples for poetry within this genre all from Black women, but the group of writers signed up for the course bring it every week with their insight and feelings around each poem we read and discuss.
And then we get to trial out what we’ve learnt through these close writings within our own writing, as the sessions finishes with time to write a first draft of a poem and then share it with the group. I’m enjoying what I’m coming up with after being inspired. Because in all honesty, from time I’ve been a confessional poet but have never smashed the term on it.
Confessional poetry in essence can be distilled to 4 main components.
- Be of an intimate subject matter.
- Use the first person.
- Be autobiographical or seen/ appear to be.
- Use skilled craftsmanship.
I’m working on a new body of work now. So still in the draft stage but I’ll share a poem from time here, as evidence of my appreciation and dance with this form of poetry.
White Women
Within my family, there are white women.
White women who married black men. I forget,
neglect the fact that their blood flows through mine.
Trace the past, a sea of faceless white is mine.
The black men forefront, a mist of women
behind. Their names, I don’t know or forget.
They are the enigma, shadows. Forget
the cleaning and cooking, their duty and mine,
they went against the grain, steadfast women.
In the corner of the frame, you white women
are not forgotten. Your spirit is mine.
Family Album, 2011
Living Wild Studios 