inviting the unknown

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a deeper impression

my body holds me close to the earth
I’m grounded, weighted
no risk of losing myself
of being overlooked
of drifting away

when I was younger
I was insubstantial
innocent and inconsequential

oh, but I could dance

I could lose myself in the music
it would carry me and I could fly

now walking leaves a deeper impression
air moves to give me space
leaves bend but may not straighten

my body has caught up with my mouth
full and curved
but it is heavy now, and its harder to fly
my hands the only slender thing about me
as they dance across the page

I am present, barefoot
feeling the wild pulse of the earth
light passes over and around me
my shadow stretches and contracts

gravity is drawing me home

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

 

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the visitor

fantail1-223

the decision had recently been made to leave
but the heart was torn apart, and still struggling to accept it
standing alone in the centre of the square kitchen
the inside light was subdued and everything quiet and hushed
bright afternoon sun shone outside, the back door stood wide open

a fantail entered
flew silently around the room
and then calmly back out the door

it felt as though time had slowed to a standstill
barely breathing I turned following the bird as it circled the room
feeling both highly aware and slightly stunned
recalling the meaning given to visitations like these
but still, welcoming it, feeling chosen
aware of what I was seeing, how incongruous it was,
and what I was sensing
space and time expanding with every wingbeat
then contracting as the bird left
snapping back to the pace of a heartbeat and the blink of an eye
the wild world had crossed the threshold,
had stepped in to my time and space to be present with me
it was an affirmation, a reassurance

and ever since
I’ve kept the door open
the thin veil pulled aside
an open invitation
and ready for my own departure

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

photo by: D. Mudge
image sourced from : http://www.doc.govt.nz/

 

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the fallen

IMG_4226
the ground beneath is hard and dry
not a place to rest, not a place to lie
this far down was only ever for foraging
wind-rivers here can not carry
but blow dust flurries into eyes
dust rose and settled, glossy black coat undone
reaching into air but finding no purchase
eyes opened blind to the sun
fallen
fallen
this far down
all horizontal, all solid, all still
body cooling under sun
hard nest of stones and dust
bones and black
sight gone, shine gone
fallen
still

walking home she saw the contrast
black against the blonde ground
small lost body in the dust
she sensed fragility
approached cautiously
blew gently revealing the dull eyes
fingers nested, lifted
warm hands enclosed
one finger stroked away the dust
revealing the shine
compassion carried him away
her quiet voice shared secrets
whispered into tiny ears

she found a box and a doll’s blanket
and made a bed
she lay her black prince to rest
she knew this sleep was forever
there would be no wakening kiss
she tucked the blanket around him
to comfort and protect
a final nest
and blessed him in silence
a small child’s sacrament
a small child’s attempt
to honour the wild world
to care for the fallen

to an only child
anything could become animate
anything could become the voice of her imagination
he was her pet, he was beloved
he was a sleeping prince
a treasure, a secret
a gift from the world she walked in
at one with the raw pure energy of childhood
not yet disconnected

she felt the need to share
this treasure felt too much for one so small to hold
she showed her mother
expecting softness and awe and sensitive respect for her care

the mother snatched the box
threw it in the bin
half-filled with ashes from the coal-range
clouds of grey ash rushed up on impact
then settled slowly over the small black body
this last wind
this last nest
a desecration
a child’s heart broken

looking down
the blackbird thanked her, blessed her, kissed her tears
she would remain known to the birdworld, the greenworld
the elemental consciousness of nature
granted access
and held the thin door open

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

 

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the earth shifts

The earth shifts –
moving
she stirs to wake me.

This air I breathe –
is your breath.

This land I walk –
is your body.

All that time away,
the image of this land burned
on the back of my eyes.
I saw nothing –
but through the after-image
of mountain, lake, forest, river, sea.

Here now, whole again,
to read the map of my land
to walk my own path.

                 I would be one with you.

© Claire Griffin 2016

We had an earthquake last night –
and I remembered this poem,
written after the first earthquake I felt
after my return to NZ from the UK.

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silence

IMG_4221

silence
is all I can offer

I hold my hands out
and lying in them
my fallen children
my crafted acts of love
my gifts to you
my words lie crumpled
orphans of war
you forgot them when
you turned to confront me

your words have desecrated
the space between us
I cannot offer mine
I cannot risk losing them
in your wasteland

any words I offered now
would be seeking
your understanding
you cannot give me that

silence
is my only offering
while I am
trying to keep the peace
trying to be peaceful
trying to piece together
the fragments of memory
that I can hold with love

you turned to confront me
I turn away

all I can offer
is silence

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

This is a companion piece to “screen“.
I wish I didn’t need to keep writing these sad, dark poems
(don’t worry – I won’t be putting them all here).
But for now – they are still helping me to process and understand
a significant relationship, myself, my past.

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the listener

Version 2
she listens
reassures
sitting quietly
feet floored
being present
giving space
giving time
waiting for the words to circle
find their place
tell their story

she listens
she waits
sees through the confusion
and the pain
asks questions
offers thoughts
that draw me forward
and bring me home

she listens
and I am heard
every word she allows
to float around her
gives me strength
every word she hears
rebuilds me

by being heard
these words
are given weight and value
and as they settle
they are reformed
and rearranged

a story told
a new understanding

she listens
and I hear myself
in her silence

© Claire Griffin 2016

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reflection on 3 day quote challenge

Re-reading these three quotes – I notice they have something in common – the theme of “entering”.

Light enters through the crack, in the words of the songwriter, revealing beauty in imperfection.

Fox enters the dream and mind of the poet, a visceral metaphor representing the imaginative, creative process.

Colour and love enter the painter’s room, bringing memory and inspiration.

 

Interesting… I wonder what I would discover if I chose three more quotes – but I’d need to put the idea of a common theme out of mind. It could easily influence my choices.

 

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3 day quote challenge : Day Three

So far I’ve chosen a singer/songwriter, and a poet, and I wanted to round out the set with a visual artist, and another male. (I’m thinking of exploring this challenge again, drawing from female sources of inspiration.)

Day Three

I’ve chosen a quote from Marc Chagall (1887-1985).

“I had only to open my bedroom window, and blue air, love, and flowers entered with her”.

(Chagall, quoted in M. Chagall, My Life, London, 2003)

And I wondered – who is “her”? His muse, his imagination, inspiration? His wife died in 1944 – perhaps he refers to his memory of her, her spirit?

I loved the imagery of his words – how they formed a poem in their own right, and how they seemed as much a work of art as his paintings.

I had only to open
my bedroom window
and blue air,
love,
and flowers
entered with her.

I can’t remember when I first discovered the work of Chagall. I don’t know how old I was, or what I was doing at the time, or how I first saw his work – book, postcard, gallery? … no idea. But I do remember being equally enraptured by the dream-like quality of his work, and then confronted by his used of colour. There are only a few pieces of his work that I could probably live with on a daily basis – but then – that’s not the point of art. The fact that I find much of his work unsettling and confronting is what draws me back to it.

And then to look for quotes by this artist, whose work I’ve found so powerful, was another discovery. I love the way he talked about colour and its importance to him.

When searching for the source of this quote, the following link was suggested by the mysteries of Google:

http://www.christies.com/PDF/catalog/2015/CKS10379_SaleCat.pdf

The Christies sale catalogue situates the quote with a brush and ink a from 1954, “Grande nu à la fenêtre”, showing a naked woman standing in front of a window, and in front of a man sketched into the background. However, I felt a closer connection to another work pictured in the catalogue, “L’inspiration de l’artiste” (circa 1980). For me, although there is no window evident, this work contains both literal references to the quote – someone flying into his space, flowers and the blue air/sky, and the sense of movement, energy and anticipation in his words. And love – well – the more I read, for Chagall, love was in everything he did.

chagall

Today, the sky was a clear vivid blue, the colour so bright it was almost tangible. The air was crisp and cold at the start of winter, here in the southern hemisphere. If I could paint, perhaps I would try to capture the icy chill, maybe using the cleanest, clearest white I could find.

If I were Chagall, perhaps I would use a colour that represented the feeling of cold – maybe a bright orange, or magenta – to show how fingers, toes and nose, once exposed to the cold, actually start to feel as though they are burning.

 

 

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3 day quote challenge : Day Two

So – just disrupting the challenge here – knowing I’ll be busy tomorrow – hence two quotes in one day 😉

Day Two

from the poem “The Thought Fox” – by Ted Hughes (from his first collection “The Hawk in the Rain”, 1957).

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

The fox as a metaphor for the imaginative process. This last stanza – the moment when the poem itself is written. I’ve always loved this poem, and I think it has informed my own strong affinity for metaphor.

I’ve always thought of the fox in both a literal and metaphoric sense. As alive, as real, something the poet may have seen as he looked out into the dark night, and at the same time, visualised it as the poetic imagination, the creative energy that wakens when the poet seeks to begin a piece of writing. The vital imaginative energy of the fox enters the poet’s mind. The fox representing something wild and dark and mysterious, a tentative essence that cautiously moves closer until it chooses to enter the poet’s head.

This metaphor represents the idea that the poem comes from somewhere beyond the poet, some kind of mystic, supernatural inspiration. Poetry, any kind or writing, is also a lot of really hard work, it takes a conscious effort on the part of the writer. If we waited for inspiration to walk out of the night, we may never bring anything on to the page. I think that writing is a balance of the two.

What I find even more interesting is Ted Hughes’ description of how a fox came to him in a dream. He was struggling over an essay and finding it impossible to write. When he finally slept, he dreamt of a large fox that walked upright, its fur burnt, as if it had walked through fire. It placed a bloody paw on his paper and said “Stop this – you are destroying us”.

I wonder who was meant by “us” – his unwritten poems perhaps?

Fox as real living creature, poetic metaphor and Jungian dream symbol. Something to investigate…