poetry

by

discovering who I am

Version 3

I’ve recently seen a photo of me
at about age three
climbing onto the verandah railing
and leaning out
leaning forward
bare feet, toes clinging on

I stand on the edge now
the edge of memory and time and history and loss
seeing my past self
a little girl who was funny
who was adventurous
and loving
and curious
and smiling
and brave

that little girl
looking into the future
full of hope, full of happiness
when I first saw her
I was astounded
I didn’t know that’s who I had been

and now
when I look in her eyes
I recognise myself
its taken a long time
I discover who I am

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

by

you find me

You find me
and I am completed.
I had not known
I was lost.
A space,
I did not know was empty,
has been filled.

It was hard to find balance …
The instant recognition,
when I saw you pass the window – I knew you.

But the present now disrupted accepted history.
Emotions surged.
Truths were challenged.
I had to reinvent my entire sense of self.

And yet I knew you –
and it was easiest thing
to be claimed by you
and to name you as mine.

I wonder sometimes
who I would be now
if I had known you sooner…

But it is enough
to know you now
and be loved.

© Claire Griffin 2016

(a poem written for my father and given to him a couple of years ago… with much love)

by

milk strawberry

IMG_4047 (1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
“MILK STRAWBERRY”
pink and brown
and sweet

a gift from a friend
“celebrate memories” you say
and I do now

I remember the sweetness of first love
I remember the pink blush
of embarrassment, of excitement
of tongues and lips and other bits
I remember the warm brown skin
from lying together in the sun
the brown of the wooden walls
brown hair falls forward
brown tiger’s eye falls forward

and milk
straight from the glass bottle
passed from hand to hand
white and cold and wet
all we ever needed to recover

© Claire Griffin 2016

(With thanks for thinking of me and for your friendship – you know who you are ♥)
by

black diving

hills disappear
mist swifts down
past houses
a moving whitewash
flattening colour
wind made visible
thickening, deepening
cloud come low to ground
all is white – the hill is memory now
near my window – trees still present – green intense against the white
tui settles on tree fern branch – holds on determined in the wind
head turns
attention shifts
beak leads
wings follow
black
diving
into
fog

(not a cento – all me – © Claire Griffin 2016)

by

walk into the sun

An overcast day
low tide
the pier exposed
individual piles stand alone
in formation
a structure imposed.
I walk toward them
revisiting the past
seeking shelter
in the spaces between.
Sun breaks through cloud
colour floods
but its all an illusion.
Water pools around my feet
heels start sinking
the nearer I walk to land
the more decay and damage.
The piles falling slowly
sinking slowly
as the sea advances and retreats.
But the sea itself is shelter
and where the water is deeper
they still stand upright
resisting the pull of the land

and I walk between them
I walk into the sea
I walk into the sun

by

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)

by

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

 

by

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.