water. sea. ocean.
the black body. from Mother stolen.
learning to swim. for freedom.
foam. air. white.
the black body. walk back home.
Learning to die. for freedom.
poetry
Day 9 – Concrete Poem – being in the moment
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.
Day 2 – The Sycamore Gap Tree
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.
Day 1 – NAPoWriMo – In these troubling times, our way of being comes into sharp focus
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.
My Sister, My Wound
While the lockdown has been going on, I’ve been leaning into my creativity. One resource which has been helping me with reading and writing is the Social Distancing Writing Retreat hosted by Amanda P Moore.
Each day, there are four parts to each prompt. First there’s a poem to read followed by an essay on craft. Bearing these two in mind, there’s a writing prompt followed by an outlet, a place to publish your creations recommended.
I’m behind in the prompts but I’ve been finding this retreat a rich oasis of inspiration for my writing.
Here is a piece, I’ve redrafted today after following the readings for Day 6.
My Sister, My Wound after Ross Gay
No matter the mauling.
No matter the removal of face awaits.
There is no coming back
from coming to you.
My body betrays me
offering myself just like that.
With arms furred with pollen
like bright things at your feet;
marigold, opal, purple kale.
Biting my tougue, smile open
singing my insides our like an angel,
for you, to you.
I place my head into your mouth
knowing I’ll lose my head,
just like the sky biting down
into my torn flesh.
Moving Forward
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.
Beware of the Trees
Beware the trees, they said. A sure way to your soul, they said. It was far too late for me to listen. The trees had me at their straight green-grey hello. At their bare scrunched heads, balled up waiting for fresh buds. They had me at their mossy sides, their swaying branches and deep, ancient roots.
Beware of the trees, they said. Too late for me to listen. Or to care. The trees have already laid a deep furrowed path through my wild, wild soul.
Between Landscapes
The walk is blustery. A chill sets in. The stone wall from centuries past worn into smooth layers, slips and trips around memories.
She breaths deep and releases aeons of pain. Her body relaxes into the currents. And with arms wide, she lets go. Her shadow is a moving dark mass across the landscape.
Her heart, the energetic space of unconditional love beats for all, pumping the blood of life throughout and between this landscape and hers.
Lady on Fire
Proud as a wolf, protective and loyal, she still burns for the life that could have been. If she has said ‘no’ instead of yes. If she had walked on instead of stopping to pay attention.
Burning from the inside out, she has mastered the guise of calm and delicacy to anyone watching her. She has mastered the guise of contentment and love. But she smoulders.
But sometimes, a flicker escapes usually when out in the wilds. Usually when alone under the pale moon. Then you will see her prowl. Then you will hear her howl.
Living Wild Studios 