Mis-timed Opening
are quick to open
this spring.
A sudden frost
shocks them.
(Like the heart opening
unexpectedly)
Confused
by changes
in the weather.
(Thought it was meant
to be a stable climate now
all blue skies & easy sunshine)
Mis-timed their moment.
A thousand tiny hearts
opening too easily at the
first hint of spring
Fragments
I see Housmans Bookstore.
Still standing.
Not moved on
like the junkies and hookers
who used to hang round the Scala,
old Kings Cross wiped clean.
Capitalist exploitation replacing sexual exploitation.
I had forgotten till just now
how much I used to inhabit Housmans
browsing shelves with books on radical feminist theory
jostling with Queer Studies.
Anarchist books & leftist tomes
I step through the doorway and
sense a fragment of my younger self
here, drifting through the space.
[London's like that
Layers of memories,
Fragments of our former selves
glimpsed in
unexpected corners
old haunts,
familiar streets]
Is that her, looking at the handmade zines
hoping to feel like she belongs here
when she didn’t before?
She loves it here
in this massive city
million times bigger than anywhere she lived before
the anonymity of it,
the crazy, chaotic nature
[but sometime she is scared too
of being cast adrift, alone, rootless,
of falling through the cracks.
But today, I’m a tourist
on holiday from East Dulwich
a middle-aged mum,
School governor,
Fully paid up member of the mortgage paying class
a respectable sell out
Whose only act of radical protest is to
refuse the normalcy of the marriage vow.
How did that happen?
How did I become so grown up?
Where did those 23 odd years between now & then go?
Two voices distract me, turning me.
I envy the freedom of the two young women on
the till, earnestly discussing oppression.
They are not snatching moments from
children
meetings
work
responsibilities.
I turn away, looking for her, my younger self
She is still drifting round the shop.
Funny thing is that now
I can see her now looking forward
as I look back.
She is dreaming of a life like mine.
of fully knowing she belongs to somewhere.
I want to reach out through 23 years
hanging between us here
in this bookstore,
whisper in her ear
words of comfort.
This post is part of the WordPress Weekly Challenge.
Mess
piles of books occupy most spaces
and dust lies in undisturbed corners
in my messy home.
{sometimes I wish I was like the
women in the big houses round the corner
keeping bedrooms tidy, pristine
spotless windows
perfectly transparent
no streaks.}
there are streaks
on all my windows
They do not shift
{Although, I’ll admit, I do not try to hard}
And in my bedroom – well,
my bed would make Tracey Emin proud
with the sheets and quilt askew
tea stains on quilt that I never managed to
shift.
This is the bed my boy was born in
the mess of giving birth spread over
plastic sheeting laid out by efficient midwives
catching blood, and wee and placenta
I never felt so primal
an animal,
groaning and growling;
at every contraction
my body was
taken over by a deep force
outside my control, outside logic
body split in two.
{I thought at one point I would die;
told the midwife that I didn’t want to have this baby.
She sharply spoke ‘Don’t be silly. Get on with it.’
And I didn’t have a choice so
yes, what else was there for her to say?}
Messy stuff, birthing.
I used to think that there would be a time
when I would be free of mess
that I could glide on ice skates
on the clarity of my mind,
the calmness of my heart
and the compass steadfastness of my will.
And my:
heart laughs
mind smiles
and my will roars with laughter.
Funny thing mess
It’s what we are born into,
it’s what we are made of.
inspired by a passage in Quaker Faith and Practice ‘We are all wounded; we all feel inadequate and ashamed; we all struggle. But this is part of the human condition; it draw us together helps us to find our connectedness.’ ~ June Ellis, 1986
This post is part of the Word Press Daily Prompt – http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/04/29/daily-prompt-dickinson/
Sunday at the Skatepark
Sam poised on the top of the skate-ramp
balanced on his scooter
one foot in front of the other
ready to fly.
my throat catches as he pushes off
he & scooter soaring down the ramp.
and nonchalantly he rejoins the boys on
the other side, holding his own in the midst
of the rough & tumble group.
Glancing at me, he wants to know I was watching
Still wanting my approval,
Still wanting to know I was impressed
Which I was.
(But am I a bad mother
for not making him wear a helmet?
it is a long way to the
ground, a far old way to fall)
In another part of the park, young men -
louche & sexy with their shorts almost falling off their slim hips
confidently doing sophisticated tricks on skateboards
(not seeking approval from mothers I note)
the world is their’s, they own it.
I look away, searching for my boy.
Beside Sam now, a 10 year old girl with
long, long, long brown hair scoots.
They bond immediately amongst the rough boys on their
roller blades & exchange tips & their scooters.
Back and forth, the glide and jump
sometimes side by side & sometimes a weaving dance.
The sun holding them in a soft, warm light.
My heart expands
and I feel my throat catch again.
Note: After a long afternoon at the Skatepark with my boy on Sunday, I wrote this poem in part as an (imperfect!) response to this weeks Weekly WordPress writing challenge
Mind Moon
my mind is clattering
like the teacups
I set out in the kitchen.
Be still and cool in thy own mind
Oh but George, my brain is spinning
like a mind-moon orbiting erratically
round my body,
disembodied.
In expectant, waiting silence sit
others. I wonder ~ are their minds
cool & still? Or racing?
In a bid to control the world,
my mind is
working overtime at:
desiring
scheming
worrying
catastrophizing
fantasizing
But listen to the pulse underneath
whispers a voice
ancient wisdom echoing from the past
breathe down into the hara
and I do,
breath connects
head, heart and hara
Mind-moon slows, coming into
alignment, connecting again to the body.
Ask the silence,
the wisdom,
the divine,
A question you are longing
to be answered.
‘What shall I do now?’
wind blows trees waving leaves
outside the meeting-house windows
the answer comes
Just be
Be the white snow drops emerging shyly from frozen ground
Be yellow goldenrod plants seeking sun
Be the light that shines and dims with the clouds and seasons
Be tides that ebb and flow with ease and grace.
Never grasping
but like cycles of nature
ever open to change,
to surrender,
to the unknown
without fear,
without scheming.
Be still and cool in thy own mind
And I am – for this moment, I am.
‘Be still and cool in your own mind and spirit from your own thoughts’ – George Fox, Founder of the Society of Friends (Quakers), 1658.
This post is part of the Weekly WordPress Challenge – to take a photo of something iconic and write about it. This photo is a photo of an iconic quote by George Fox, Founder of Quakers
.
Passing Through
I watch the airplanes fly into
weighted-down
black clouds above london
from my train that is just now
passing past industrial south of the river -
Battersea Power Station & lonely dogs
small and cold,
howling in concrete kennels
So many planes seem to be
crisscrossing the clouds today
I imagine the passengers above
nervous, looking down
as the solid London skyline
disappears
their plane hurtling through
those dark clouds,
turbulence shakes and rattles
like my train now rattles along
South London tracks.
Soon they will pass through
to blue clear sky and sunshine
en-route to adventures and countries new.
On journeys,
in transit,
transitioning.
Passing through, passing through, passing through.
Cake Karma
I wrote this poem in response to this weeks Daily Challenge to write on the theme ‘The Devil is in the Details’
Cake Karma
Auguszt Cukraszda could be in any European city.
Or could it?
The devil is in the details.
Crystal glass chandelier shines light high
above the customers retreating from the
grey cold wet day;
Outside the large glass windows at the front, yellow trams
cheerfully trundle through the slush.
Two grande dames enter and hang their
fur hats and coats carefully on the coat rack.
Soft, leather handbags, classy knee-length
leather boots, tastefully they move to their regular
table for strong coffee and good conversation amongst friends.
An older man is talking with intensity, passion.
to a genial, paunchy slightly younger man nodding and smiling.
Three women in the corner beside them eating cakes,
laughing and talking ~ slightly too loudly for this city
(for the general level of conversation here, they have already noted,
is quiet & hushed unlike other cities they have known)
They are not natives of this city or country – that detail is clear.
The visitors are speaking English and only one a native speaker;
the others two speak with accents that are subtly different from each other
Other customers discreetly observe this (and other details) wondering how
this mismatched trio
came to be here, at this time, at this place
The trio fall into conversation with the intense older man.
‘What do you do?’ one asks curious
‘Are you a teacher?’ says another
‘I teach others the ancient Japanese art of the Sword – Iaido.’
‘Ah, a sensei.’ they say
The other man is his student – he suits his role of assistant to the master
Discourse flows on the merits of striving to draw the perfect circle
freehand & the sensei points out how we can never achieve perfection
yet in the trying we are bettered, we learn more, we are have more compassion.
‘That is the point of iaido’
With that he excuses himself, he needs to write now.
The assistant lingers at this colourful table but the trio make plans to leave
and he reluctantly returns to his sensei
‘What synchronicity, what luck we had to fall into the perfect cafe’
They say, gathering their coats and scarves.
‘We must have very good cake Karma’ says one
laughing and laughing they fall out of the cafe.
Through the back of the cafe, the wise old cat inhabiting
the grand courtyard (it’s staircase of decayed grandeur
descending downwards gently) is roused briefly to stretch and sniff the air
as if to say
‘Cake Karma indeed’
before returning to curl up, to dream of days gone by.





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