tight green bodies cluster
before the awkward change
buds begin to colour
red spreads and deepens
as they swell and ripen
black and bursting sweet
inviting the unknown
coincidence or more?
how strange it is to choose the raven when first representing myself here, and to focus in recent work on my need to “speak” – to give voice – and then register for a newsletter, receive a free gift with it and discover this gift was a series of online workshops called “sacred voice – bootcamp with raven” … this is not “just” coincidence – there’s something more afoot – I take it as an affirmation that I’m on the right track – following perhaps the raven’s footsteps …
closing the circle
We close the circle
our fingertips touch.
We are the seed
the tight-curled tip of fern
the last branch.
We sing the names of generations.
Each note of sorrow.
Each verse of endurance.
There is no pain
in ending here –
arms around
the tree that bore us.
Hands touching
closing the circle.
We are the blossom
and the fruit.
(written years ago – recognising the reality of being the last in one branch of the family)
from breath to word
the intake of breath
in sadness
in shock
the slow quiet exhalation
in wonder
following trails of thoughts
exploring
feeling your way in the dark
seeking a way to explain
sometimes thoughts present themselves
sometimes you search
putting your hand into a bag of black velvet
or a pool of dark water
the shadow space between rocks
the invisible space between words
and you can feel the brain searching for connections
and trusting and waiting
waiting
for the words to come
inviting yourself into the unknown
reaching forward to find the first word
is the bravest thing
a key turning
a door opening
onto an unknown room
stepping through a door you don’t recognise
stepping into a room you didn’t know was yours
a room without walls
of infinite size
you see everything from the horizon to distant galaxies
sunset to exploding star
a room as small as a ear of a bird
you hear the whisper of mice
and the songs of bees
the breath of a leaf
you hold your hands out
gently
waiting for the words to settle
treasures, fears,
longings, regrets
precious, tender
and you carry them back through the door
leaving it open
they arrange themselves on the table
not all want to stay
some call their kin to join them
and you help them rest on the paper
in a thread of ink
and when the ink is dry
you know they’ve decided to stay
grass as tall as me
the grass is overgrown
as tall as me
long damp leaves give way
as I run through them
soft and yielding
and green, green
a vivid emerald sea
and I run through
to the gate
and throw a handful of chalk over
into the paddock
into the docks
and dandelions
its only now
that I can see and feel it
in memory and dream
then
it was all energy
and intent
and deception
and fear
I went back there
years later
the grass overgrown
as tall as me
the house burnt to the ground
I carried a burnt jarrah post all the way back to Wellington
and I see photos from that time
and there is no colour
the grass is cut
dry in the summer
but I’m still running
running
this time of year
This slow, golden time of year
as I walk in sun and time moves with me
I think of the world’s abundance
trees heavy with fruit
tadpoles massing in the pond
sheep dozing, chewing, flicking ears
birds fill the trees with song
single notes, whole choruses
and through it all
the white noise of cicadas.
And all this exists in spite of me
I am not necessary to their cycles of life
and yet this is shared.
They let me walk among them
and I feel as close to the centre of my purpose here
as anywhere else.
Today is glorious,
one of those I-am-who-I’m-supposed-to-be days.
I will go home
with the skull I found
and light incense in its eyes.
I’ll scrape the sheep shit off my shoes
and dig it in around the lemon tree.
But before then
I will go back outside
and stand barefoot on the gravel
burning in the sun.
driftwood
driftwood worn
and rough against skin
what drew me to you
is the almost perfect circle
the hole in the centre
the witch’s eye
I am more interested
in the space in the hole
than the wood
I wonder what can be seen
by looking through the centre
can I see through into another world
can I see through to the past, to the future
to another sense of who I am
I’m aware of changing my mind
its happening more often recently
and not just changing mind
acting upon it
I changed my mind to choose this piece
my first choice was a feather
trapped in a tiny bottle
it felt too sad
too alone
too obvious
but this …
it’s the emptiness I noticed
the possibility
the potential
the circle of space
like an open mouth
This was written in response to the collection of natural objects presented as prompts/motivations for writing in the recent workshop.
The focus of the recent writing workshop was ecopsychology, an umbrella term for the intersection of environment and human, the integration of nature into poetry, how we respond creatively to nature.
This was a new area of learning for me – but such a perfect fit with things I’ve thought and felt.
kahini
We sit around the table
gentle, quiet
reaching towards each other
finding connection
reading, writing,
sharing thoughts,
asking questions
and while we talk
the sun warms the bones of this house
cicadas call
the sea laps at our doorstep
and shells gather against the walls
and birds enter the room
sit on our shoulders
listening
so – during the writing workshop one of the suggestions was to respond to the place we were in – I like the way this shifts from the concrete, realistic to a magical connection to the natural world – this happens a lot in my work – I explain things to myself through a strange kind of metaphoric visualisation
invisible necessity 