Listen.
Trees have
the whole story.
They
balance their
roots and canopy
So
every fibre
is provided for;
a
solid base
nourishes every thing.
I’m
going to
copy the trees.
I’m
going to
dig in deeper,
look
after my
foundations, to grow
tall
and wide
and bloom resplendent.
I sit on the bed, cross legged,
window open. Hearing a kid
scream, a car engine revving.
And there, just then, a seagull
flies by carrying bunch of leaf
and twine in its beak. Say you,
what you building? Stealing?
It’s now I’m aware of the trees
trees outside coming into leaf.
Buds unfurling like green ton-
gues with beard and feathery
flower clusters. What tree are
you? And why do you reach so
to the sky as if all that matters
is to grow and thrive? Zooming
traffic, loud, draw my attention
away from nature, from inside
But that’s usually the case with
modern life: a distancing from
our true nature with incentive
of moving faster, go anywhere,
produce anything of fake worth
as if our life depends upon it.
After Anne Carson @carsonbot
The misty fret rolls
in from the North Sea
covering the bay
like a shroud.
There is no silence
when everything changes.
Grief strips the skin
from your body and leaves you raw.
Down along the shoreline
terns are turning and turning.
A question coaxed from your throat,
And this is how we love ourselves?
Onwards. There is so much beauty
in the world which you fail
to notice on a frenzy.
But if you allowed
each breath to be a prayer
you will enter the museum
of God and already
be inside of your body.
a spongy carpet;
clusters of green stars
holding water
storing carbon
amongst cotton grass
big rosemary and cranberry.
Curlew, Steng Moss Bog
peatland upland graasland.
blue stockinged long long legs
wading curved bill down.
I miss the air
against my skin
flicking hair impressions.
before they breed
the male bubbles a call
high pitched across the greyish mist.
threatened they skim
mudflats and dig for shrimp.
this closeness to nature
of cream of buff
of feather is like love
being ripped out
from the roots and fashioned
to fit the narrow folds of life,
yet still being golden and wild.
like the sound of the sea
coming into shore
I lean in closer
seeking comfort
swelling with love
like a wave
Sycamore, sycamore.
Say your name our loud.
Sycamore, sycamore.
A whisper plays
upon the wind.
A spell to conjure
you to life before me.
Between Milecastle 13 and Crag Lough,
at the end of a cliff, on an outcrop of Whin Sill
sandwiched between the Roman Wall,
Sycamore, Sycamore
I come to you.
Once, one of many,
you stand alone
in your splendour.
I come carrying
Hollywood images
of bows and arrows
and thieves. Fake.
Sycamore, sycamore.
I touch your truck.
Reddy-grey fissured bark
and white tender lichen.
I stretch my neck back
to look up and up
onto your foliage.
Magnificent.
Every shade of green
spreads wide.
Shining out from your
everlasting soul.
Sycamore. Sycamore.
April brings with it the challenge of National Poetry Writing Month. One poem per day for the next 30 days. What better way to kick start my next 100 days of blogging if you take up this challenge. So follow along as for the next 30 days , I’ll be sharing a poem I create, sometimes in response to the prompts posted over here, sometimes from other inspirations. But I’ll be hopefully following the theme of Nature for this body of work.
Day 1 – In these troubling times, our way of being comes into sharp focus
Taking out the rubbish
I’m met by a bully of a bird
on our backyard wall.
He doesn’t take his leave.
Indolent, he waiters along the bricks
beady eyeing me.
Mum used to say things
must be rough at sea
for seagulls to be so far inland.
Today, I don’t think this is the case.
I think people are no longer at sea
forcing these scavengers
reliant on the discarded chip
or bit of fish to become urban
into backyards where citizens
take their recommended
or is it permitted
daily shot of sun while in lockdown.
This seagull surveys the scene.
One foot, two foot, two foot, one.
Head jerking alert, yellow sickle beak,
hooking the air with it’s call.
Grey wings once settled now stretched
wide with an inkling to take flight
but it decides to stay, close.
Two foot, one foot, one foot two.
A shared landscape it’s always been.
Perhaps, now, more obvious
how we all have to adapt
to a new way of being
which might have us all eating grass yet.
I’m nearing the end of #100daysof blogging, my first 100 days project of 2020. Last year I managed to knock out three different 100 day projects and I definitely feel the benefit of such daily practice this year. There is more of a flow to my practice; less friction, more ease.
With this in mind, with about two weeks to go on my blogging challenge, I have decided to continue with the blogging for another 100 days. With April just around the corner, National Poetry Writing Month, I think it would be remiss of me to not pick up this challenge and explore my poetry skills here.
So come the beginning of April, get ready to see 30 days of poetry, based around the theme of nature. I’m excited about this as this has been something I’ve been exploring in my personal and professional lives for the past few years. It’s a pity that my access to the outdoors will be limited for the foreseeable future with the Coronavirus but this could be a way to keep the spark alive; the connection with nature alive and present.
I might even bring back in my practice of creating haibuns. But I definitely want to emulate, ‘ The Country Diary of a Black Women’, something I created years ago after being inspired for Edith Holden’s books and made it my own.
Living Wild Studios 