inviting the unknown

by

a wooden box in the winter sun

a small wooden box sits beside me on the table
crafted from three types of wood – plum, matai and kauri
glowing red and golden brown in the winter sun

the top fits snugly
and needs firm but gentle pressure
if I am to lift the lid

I almost never do

I cradle it in one hand, lay the other across the top
eyes closed, body memory recalling texture and movement
remembering what it was like to touch one small live warm soul

its been two years now

at first, I immersed myself in your image, walked past photos of you every day
until slowly, I moved beyond the raw pain, the sadness
I no longer reached out as if my touch could wake you

but a week ago I stopped, felt the tightness preceding tears
felt compelled to touch the frame
that has held its four wooden arms around you

and I thought – this is the time
this is the time to write of you, to write to you
my little heart, my elegant soul, my brave boy

long-legged, big-eared, golden-nosed
one wide band of black glossy hair from head to tail
proud-chested, regal, handsome tabby face

in your younger days you would go in to battle
with any who dared cross your boundaries
until the end, when you were content to watch from the window

you were nervous of people you didn’t know
it took you years to stay in the same room with strangers
until the end, when any lap was a warm haven

you loved to lie full length in the sun
you loved sleeping on the bed
until the end, when stretching and jumping was an effort

your bright eyes, pale greeny-gold
would gaze into mine, like two souls connected
until the end, when you were blinded by age

until those last three days
when, over and over again,
you were shaken by the hand of some cruel god

you fell and trembled, lost all control and woke wet and bewildered
and each time, all I could do was cry and hold you
clean you and let you bury your head in my arms

you deserved to go easy

the last thing I could do was help you avoid
the hand that sought to wrench you from my side
was to help you slip away, peaceful

and sitting there, as the vet left the room for potions of sweet sleep
you lifted your head and looked toward the sunlit window
you were seeing something . . .

 

red and golden wood now shelters you
and yesterday I lifted the lid
and touched the air above you with the tip of one finger

I felt a pulse – of my heart, of yours?

and passing your photo, I closed my eyes and kissed the frame
tears rose and fell, and it was slowly that I wiped them away

nineteen years you walked this earth
and now a small wooden box sits on the table
who would think the memories of so many years
could live within its walls

 

for Thomas, and all those who understand the connection between human and animal

©clairegriffin2017

by

night-quiet

unable to sleep
I sit by the window
looking out into darkness
into my knowledge
of what lies beyond the glass
my eyes see nothing
but the soft black mounds of hills
given shape by the merest light
of moon and star
filtered through cloud

and there is stillness and quiet
the night-quiet when the wind has calmed
and tree ferns hang their fronds down
relaxing their leafy arms into the dark
while the birds sleep in the trees
there are creatures about
snails edging across the driveway
cats patrolling their borderlands
and a moth that stumbles across this page
on its way towards the torchlight
that lights my pen

 

©clairegriffin2017

by

April

The first day of the month spent at a writer’s workshop. So powerful hearing the feedback from others, their interpretations, their challenges, their questions. Much that confirmed my ideas, some that surprised. 

Tasked now with the job of a major re-arrangement of text – exciting to look forward to a completed work. I can feel it in my mind, almost see it – but the work of selecting and placing text will be harder when I work on it with pen and paper, even with scissors and glue. Just realised – this work does fit with this month’s poem. 

©clairegriffin2017

by

the work of bees


The work of bees – these tiny creatures embody the valuable traits of collaboration, perseverance, dedication – they have no words for these things – they simply go out every day to forage and then return home with the raw materials to ensure the future of the next generation. Honey – the sweet product of their work. 

I wonder how much sweetness results from the work I do …

©clairegriffin2017

by

eye to eye

When she was young, she was abandoned,
she was pregnant, she was making do,
wary and opportunistic.

She was found, she was ill, her babies died,
and I had just seen the movie based on the life of Frida Kahlo,
when I saw this small, thin, lost soul in a cage,
for sale, marked down, half price.
Frida she was then, in an instant.

She came home with me.
She was half-wild, wouldn’t be held,
ate fast and then straight outside.
We found she’d made the compost bin her bed.

But she brought us gifts in those early times,
daily mice, some dead, some alive,
and three arranged in the driveway
like an installation artwork.

There was the rat, that looked like someone’s pet.
There was the tui, injured, flapping,
that I drowned in a bucket, while I cried
and she stretched out in the sun

There was the day I realised she was using mirrors
as a way of watching and staying safe.
There was the day she walked into the room and stopped,
and looked, eye to eye, heart to heart.
It proved to me, that patience is worth it, that patience heals.
Two years of waiting evaporated in her eyes.

Today she sleeps.
She sleeps and when she’s not sleeping, she wants to eat.
Having an appetite is a good thing.

And she has developed the habit of scratching the sofa, or trying to.
It’s a dance now, that we both share.
She stretches out a paw and looks my way.
I say no, and her leg lowers. She holds eye contact.
After all these years, she uses her eyes to get what she wants.

I move to the kitchen and squeeze cat food from the packet.
She eats, she climbs on me, and sleeps.

She knows who I am now.
She snores a little
and every breath
is the sound of trust.

Frida

©clairegriffin2017

by

blue

thoughts on the colour blue

I think of water
salt and fresh
rain and wave
spring and snow
I think of tears

the sea is blue
the sky is blue
lakes and rivers and
your eyes are blue

what else?

on my windowsill
my tea caddy, my teapot, a vase
and nestled deep in memory
your willow pattern plates
your cornishware jars
and my eyes and Billy’s eyes
and your eyes
all blue
all together
in a small dark wooden house

blue is the colour of love
and I lose myself
in its deep waters

now, in my garden
there grows borage and thyme
lavender, sage and rosemary
ajuga, hydrangea, lobelia
and delphinium
for years now
I have been cultivating
food for the belly and the eye
for the heart and the soul

it all comes back
to our eyes
the windows to our souls
and all the earth’s water
the eyes of this land
and our blue planet
seen from space
as if the universe was watching
holding one eye closed

©clairegriffin2017

 

 

 

 

 

by

red and green

on my doorstep
a brown cardboard box
tied with string

standing in my kitchen
I cut the string
and open the box slowly
lifting away the paper inside

and all is red and green
and smooth and curved and fresh and ripe
skin and leaves
one long green crunch of cucumber
and balls of plump red juiciness

I lift one round red globe
and the sunlight bounces off the surface
five green fingers reach out from the stem
gestures of greeting in the quiet room
I hold it close and there’s the distinctive tang of tomato
the scent of a summer garden

and so much more
I see the hands that lifted each rosy globe
felt the weight and pressed thoughtfully on the skin
the hands that snapped the ripe fruit from the vine
the hands that nestled each one into this box
arranging and rearranging for the perfect fit
I see the hands tying the string
and checking all is secure
hands that reached for me
and held me as gently
as these tender fruits

all acceptance
and generosity
the hands of a gardener
growing love

©clairegriffin2017

by

green

img_5321

your footsteps play
on the skin of the land
as on a drum
I feel the ground vibrate

you are coming

you will lie beneath me
and I will drop
sun-ripened fruits
into your mouth

you will stand still in my arms
as the wind blows around us
I move so slowly
this is how we dance

you will hear me singing to you
while you sleep
I speak so quietly
you can only hear me in your dreams

I am strong and grounded
the one you seek
my roots run deep
my tribe is many

you are a bright brief burst of life
and I am older than your generations
you are constantly astounded
my hair is green
and yet you love me

©clairegriffin2017

by

tears

the blue sea I was born in
has condensed into tears
tears that hold the history
of my ocean birth
tears drying into salt crystals
that crumble between
my roughened fingertips

pomegranate juice trails behind me
my gift to the sea
I bite down hard on the seeds
and crawl across rocks
to reach the shore

and there, as I lie nestled in the sand
schist and quartz pebbles
clutched in my hand
bones bleached white in the sun
I think of you
are your colours so different?

I came ashore
with nothing more
than the skin
my mother dressed me in

do you see?
we are all tears and blood and bone
open the door
take these stones from my hand
hold me and welcome me home

©clairegriffin2017

 

Sorting through some papers I found notes for a poem – at first I had no idea what they were about – though I was fascinated to see my thinking and editing at work while I was writing. Then the words “One Million Poets” registered – and it all made sense.
This was a poem I started at the end of last year/beginning of this – but never finished. Recent events make it so much more relevant. Working closely with the initial notes, these notes became “Tears” – a poem for immigrants, refugees, anyone seeking a home. (I’m intrigued by the cloud formation I unintentionally captured to the left of the poem – what does it look like to you?).

The “One Million Poets” project was begun by World Poetry Open Mic to address “feelings of separation” and to “share messages from the hearts of real people”.

If you’re interested in this, go to the link above, and offer a poem. The following is from their website:

How To Get Involved

  1. Write (or decide to cover) a poem that resonates with you with a some sort of message about community, humanity, and love for all of humankind.
  2. Create a simple video or audio recording of you reading it to the camera. In your video, challenge three other people to do the same within three days.
  3. Upload your video or audio to YouTube (video) or Soundcloud (audio). Make sure to write “One Million Poets” in the title. Also, if you use hashtags, make sure to use #Onemillionpoets in your description and tag section. 

 

So I took the plunge and made a video!