The span of time over which these poems were written is roughly nine months long. The subject matter therefore varies dramatically according to what was happening in my life at the time. For clarity I have split this set into two groups, Past and Present, according to whether the subject matter they cover was something happening at the time of writing, or something that had occurred previously. A few of these poems still look back over the ruins of my last published set (here if you want to read), it’s a grieving process that has taken months, sometimes seeming to leap forwards, other times I have found myself right back in the same place, asking again what is wrong with me. However, as I think the two final ‘Present’ poems will show, hope and optimism have steadily regained ground, and though some things will never leave me, they have at least moved aside for the moment. I feel as if this set looks more inward than my last, leans less heavily on a single outside influence and seeks to touch on a broader range of experience. The poems below are records of loss, belief and ultimately healing.
Past
Avebury Ritual (written Jan 2018)
This time last year
We drove out into the country,
Out of the smoky haze and into the bright;
Every so often when the ground rocks beneath me again
I still feel
That ancient west country pull.
The nature of the magnet I cannot be sure of,
Is it simply the pull of place, or of time?
You cast a long shadow on Avebury plain,
A human shape amongst the stones,
I understand why people worship what they cannot see.
Trying to see myself in your shadow,
Moving in that constant darkness thrown over me
To keep me questioning
To keep me confused,
To keep me near enough to be useful,
But not so near to allow me safety.
I think now that it was the golden light that had me confused.
I looked for myself in the wrong shadow.
Women do not find themselves in the shadows of men.
We are in the stones,
Gathered around in a circle
We face each other and know ourselves
Through the strength of our sex,
In the unashamed way
That we can always look each other in the eye.
The ancient circle of sisters resists weather and time,
Survives the wars and skirmishes of men,
Who have always been given care of precious things,
And who have always been reckless,
Always breaking, abandoning, forgetting.
Blow your empty gales around us,
Still our shadows are cast long and proud
On that great golden plain.
I wish he had left me something to burn,
A pagan sacrifice to my ancient mothers there
To cleanse him from that place and from my memory of it.
Yes, I still feel that ancient west country pull,
But now I seek the stone
Which was always warmer than the man.
The Many Lives (written Jan 2018)
I have been many things,
But chiefly I have been a fool.
Prostituting myself for morsels of bitter affection,
Prostituting myself for the cause, ever the martyr:
‘It’s a sad day when you stop believing people can change’.
A sad mystic,
I have drained the cold stars of meaning,
Completing my own resentful circles,
Meeting my younger self at the join,
Looking at the mirror, both sets of eyes sorry.
Desperate priestess,
A long rotten system of belief
That allows me to worship at the bloody altar
Of my own making, of your restoration,
Kneeling, I always hand the knife to someone else.
Innocence and experience come in waves,
One never keeps the other down for long.
What is the point of living and learning
When the learning stops the living
And the living is what we need.
Present
Sleeping (written Sep 2017)
These days I sleep in the centre of my bed, head on both pillows
If there's no space for anyone else, was there never space for you at all (?)
I do little things like this to fool myself.
I often go to bed with a hot water bottle now too,
Unsure if I'm like a child holding a doll or a doll holding a child.
These days I sleep in the centre of my bed, head on both pillows
If there's no space for anyone else, was there never space for you at all (?)
I do little things like this to fool myself.
I often go to bed with a hot water bottle now too,
Unsure if I'm like a child holding a doll or a doll holding a child.
Oxford November (written Nov 2017)
“He said ‘grab your things I’ve come to take you home’” - Solsbury Hill, Peter Gabriel
There’s a place in my mind
Where I keep uncorruptable moments
Everything seen through a solid glass orb,
Solid so there are no echoes -
Memories do not talk back.
----------
It’s bright mid-afternoon
Though I can sense the freshness of morning.
Faltering a few times
I fall into step with someone I no longer know.
We slept on a bare mattress
On the floor and I can still smell him on me
Bundled into two days worth of clothes
I am curiously light - it’s the heavy sunlight
Which pins me to the present
I would call him a ghost
But the scene is too substantial perhaps,
The sky the bricks the road
Myself
Awake for the first time since the wreck
I hadn’t realised I had been kicking
So hard to break the surface
Now I fill my lungs again and again.
Unshackled from my pain
For one easy afternoon.
Leave the magic at the door,
That’s not why I came,
Do ghosts chase away ghosts?
I doubt you’ll ever catch each other.
As for me?
Try to hold water in your bare hands,
You’ll understand.
Storm on Water (written May 2018)
“Thunder only happens when it’s raining.” - Dreams, Fleetwood Mac
The air is thick with it,
Heavy night under green canopy,
By black still water,
Steady stream of woodsmoke
From the lazy embers.
The air is thick with it,
Flashes are gaining ground,
And the great lurching roar
Is growing closer,
Breathing deeper, heavier.
With a great heaving boom
It is all around, inside outside
I wait with animal anticipation
For the sky to split
And spill it’s liquid sigh.
Animal senses: you smell it before you feel it
Hear it before you see it,
One, two, one, two
Running onto the boat
Find my human voice: “It’s here. Come.”.
Rain on skin is primal, wet on warm
Snarling at the sky, it roars back
And I open myself to the touch
A burst of light and noise.
Wait
Wait
There are eyes on me.
