poetry

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!

by

the black jacket

this black jacket
has become a costume for talking to the past
rows of ribbons are metaphors
for the loves and stories and moments lost
stitched into the fabric
with the black thread of memory

(original short thought)

 

this black jacket
has become a costume for talking to the past
rows of ribbons are metaphors
for the loves and stories and moments lost
stitched into the fabric
with the black thread of memory

I have been revisiting my past
time-travelling as I stitch into the black
hearing and seeing I reach back
I put my hand on my younger shoulder
and say “beware”, “slow down”
I hold her while she cries and tell her
“I carry your loss, it is with me always”
I am the voice she didn’t hear
I am the voice she couldn’t speak

these memories are deeper and darker
than I expected
but they connect me with my self
I am becoming whole

I am becoming the wise woman
all edgy energy and persistence
I am becoming the dark
the black that attracted me as a child
the black I wore as a young woman
all depth and shadow and suggestion

these ribbons are the feathers and flowers
that connect me to the wild world
my collar is turned up
against winds of criticism and ignorance
my sleeves are edged
with beaks and thorns and claws
I would add mirrors and shells
I would carve runes into bones
and hold them in my pockets
tools of divination to read the times
all strength and resolution and power

this jacket, a cloak across my shoulders
a veil to cross into the night
darkness and mystery calls
and yet it is the light that gives me shape
there is no shadow without the sun
it is is the light that draws me forward
the truth
is the voice I speak
the future
is the path I walk

(complete version)

©clairegriffin2017

so – this began with a real black jacket. I was adapting it for a themed eighties party – but as I worked on it – I reflected on my self at the time – and the only idea I felt comfortable with was something I would have worn if the me I am now was transported to those times and could influence the me I was then

by

stepping through

don’t let me know when you’re opening the door
close me in the dark, let me disappear
this time tomorrow I’ll know what to do

soon there’ll be nothing left of me
nothing left to release
who can I be now?

I don’t know who I am
here, there’s no music here
I’m lost in streams of sound

here, am I nowhere now?
everything has changed
it’s the beginning of nothing

the trees die standing
the night was always falling
I’m walking down

it’s nothing to me, nothing remains
I don’t stand in my own light
there will be no tomorrow

I’m stepping through the door
and the stars
look very different today

©arrangement-clairegriffin2017 (all text by DB)

Ever since the beginning of last year, I’ve been meaning to make a found poem using lyrics by David Bowie. So this year, I committed to getting it done. This poem is not what I expected – I was imagining something strange and wild and colourful – but I kept being drawn to these words. Natural enough I suppose, since I started this just a day or two after the anniversary of his passing.

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Low – I think this was the first Bowie album I bought – quite possibly based on the cover alone. I thought he was just the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Then I worked backwards, buying everything I could find. I watched his music videos, and the movies he was in, and I marvelled at his ability to transform, to use costume and makeup and gesture to convey different personalities.
His work helped this shy, insecure 18 year old to recreate herself, and showed her how to use appearance as a tool to enter into the world. I’ve remembered that ever since, that transformation is possible, that our selves are fluid and we can present ourselves to the world in different guises.
And, that the confidence gained from that can then begin to re-work the inner self.
Thank you with all my heart – starman, bluebird, Mr Jones xxx

by

calendar 2017

At the end of December I was doing two things, looking for a calendar, and reviewing the photos I’d taken this year. That’s when the “a-ha” moment occurred.

So I went ahead and made myself a calendar – something to keep myself inspired and motivated – just in case I need it 😉

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At the start of each month I’ll share the relevant page – here is January.

step forward into the new year
dance to the end of the song
write to the end of the page
easy like breathing and walking
setting one foot in front of the other

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©clairegriffin2017

by

I am …

I am the dark night
the bright star
the rushing wind
the winding river

a still pond
an open flower
the cloudy sky
the evening shower

I am the sunrise
I am the thunder
I am the mountain
you shelter under

I am the brown earth
I am the green leaf
I am the fallen fruit
the bird released

I am the blue ink
and the blank page
the unrhymed verse
and the mind engaged

I am the thoughts that circle
and the wings that beat
I am the wild pulse
beneath your feet

©ClaireGriffin2016

the last poem for 2016 – something of an affirmation to greet the new year…

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Its 8.15pm New Year’s Eve here in NZ and I’ve opened a bottle of bubbly ready to reminisce and begin to look forward to 2017.

I want to wish everyone a positive, rewarding year – stay strong – kia kaha. Thanks to everyone who has visited here – to view, to like or to comment – it means such a lot to me.

And in this new year – remember to pay attention to the things that help you to connect and grow and shine and smile.

coming in 2017:
move . seek . indulge . read . find . shift . walk . watch . notice . balance . reach . relax

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discoveries and intentions – reflections on 2016

I’ve taken up the suggestion to reflect on this year. I hadn’t intended to, but once I read Michelle W’s suggestions on The Daily Post, it immediately seemed such a helpful thing to do.

discoveries
This year is the first time I’ve really committed to writing and what I’m most proud of is the amount I’ve written throughout the year, and that I’ve stuck with it. Although its interesting to note that my posting peaked mid-year, I wonder why…?

I like getting feedback – and responding to others’ work. From being initially so hesitant about posting anything, this year has seen me grow in confidence, and much of that is due to the positive feedback I’ve received. So thank you to all who took the time to write something to me – it means more than you might realise.

Realising that getting only a few likes on a piece doesn’t mean its un-liked – it may just have gone unseen.

I’m getting better at using tags, and this may help bring my work to more people.

Participating in challenges eg: “intro to poetry” (responding to daily prompt words) was indeed challenging, but also rewarding. It pushed me to explore my work, and question my habits. It provided opportunities for increased interactions with other writers.

It was interesting to look through this year’s posts, and follow the suggestion of using the ten with the most “likes” to make a wordcloud. These aren’t necessarily the ten I would have chosen – so I made two wordclouds – most likes and my choice.

intentions
Be brave and keep sharing my work with others. Make the most of opportunities eg writing workshops. Set up regular writing cafe sessions with a friend who writes. Send some pieces out to magazines etc – and/or self publish?

I’ve been working through this year’s crop of poems – and its interesting how I can work on crafting these now – much more objective – more able to think yes-that stays, no-wrong word-change it, no-that doesn’t belong-cut completely.

Tidy up the photography section of my blog – and add more to this. It was meant to be a stand-alone category, but I found that the photos I took became integrated into my writing – so I need to think about whether I even keep it. I still need a photo of a “list of birds”.

And – I realised I never did write something for Bowie – this may well come early January next year – “its been a year …” – listening to Blackstar and thinking about the lyrics eg: “spirit rose a metre and stepped aside”, “you know I’ll be free”.

I welcome the new year – I wonder what it will bring?

 

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the day begins

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surfacing from the dark
feet cold on the hard floor
black sky softening
trees a muted green
birds waking, calling, invisible

she is there, waiting
but she turns her face away

All this week, hoping to catch a glimpse of her promised glory and now, there are only moments between clouds when she shines.
Before this week, her face would have been welcomed. It was all romance and possibility and a sense of the future. Now, I can’t wait for her to leave. I am waiting, I am wanting, I am denied.

street lights fluoresce a pale orange
a row of miniature suns
marking a runway, a landing strip

see – here – here you could land
you could bring yourself to earth
and let me hold you
and let me be held

scaffolding surrounds the house
a white plastic chair glows in the half light
the stream is full with the run-off from the hills
and birds call
birds call
and the trees are moving

5.30am update / buildings are closed / people evacuated / sea life threatened / seabed raised / the weather is clearing with a forecast of morning showers / southerlies / 15 degrees

she hasn’t moved
I am waiting for her to drop
to slide behind the hills
but she is contrary, stubborn
hanging still as clouds pass by
like so many unsuccessful suitors

at least I see her
but I wanted so much more
I am disappointed
that she waits til now to show herself
all week, going about her business undercover
a beautiful anarchist
creating chaos
mad woman of the sky
you have betrayed us all

clouds glow apricot pink
and draw attention to the left
yellow eyes watch from across the room
a shadow, a black cloud
full of anticipation and patience

6.00am parliament / questions / earthquakes / recovery / entry to the drift

There has been enough waiting and as the sky lightens, I return to warmth and comfort, shining one small bright light into the darkness. And I read “This moment is all there is” and I think, here it is, synchronicity at work.

this book of light
is full
and slow to respond
full of dead poets
Rumi, Tuwhare, Cohen

There has been so much loss in so little time. Storytellers and singers, poets and priests, all are slipping away. The ground moved and we looked to the heavens. The rains came, and our tears were added to the flood. Myths abounded as we looked for reasons to explain the unexplainable. The moon that came too close. Too much moon, too much gravity. Facing the inevitability of time and the pain of too much love, too many memories.

Whatever the cause, the reality is – the very ground we walk on has proved unstable. We have a fragile peace between aftershocks when we take a ragged breath. We do not know if it will be safe to breathe out…

the black shadow sits heavily across belly and hips

6.40am Kaikoura / slow cooking using bricks from the house

bricks re-purposed
from a broken home
necessity brings invention
disillusion gives way to hope
disenchantment never quite took hold
the sun has risen
the cat is fed
and so

 the day begins

(the result of a writing workshop with Pip Adam – to focus on the details of one day – Friday 18 November 2016 – to observe, record and then transform. This is the result of the writing done the following day, Saturday 19 November. Still working on it – currently in prose, fewer “voices”, and managing to get past 6.40 am 😉)

©ClaireGriffin2016

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feeling conflicted and affirmed – why do I write?

On Friday 9 December, I went to a concert, the result of which surprised me and led me to reflect… This is about the influence of another poet and my own writing.

Ten years ago the poems of a well known (but sadly departed) New Zealand poet, Hone Tuwhare, had been set to music and performed. Now, many of the original composers and singer-songwriters had gathered for a one-off tenth anniversary performance of the works. A celebration of the poet, and a tribute to those who were no longer with us to perform, Graham Brazier and Mahinārangi Tocker.

One of my favourite poems, “Rain” was performed by Don McGlashan. His interpretation and singing a perfect fit for the poem. I cried. The woman beside me cried. It was one of those moments – the music set the tone, an expectation, a plaintive longing, and then the words followed, intimate and sensual.

Tuwhare had a way of bringing the natural world into direct connection with the human, through devices of personification and metaphor, and a way of speaking directly to the elements, for example: “I can hear you making small holes in the silence/rain… and I should know you by the lick of you…” 1, “… the lone tree guarding the point from the sharp-tongued sea…” 2, and “We are stroking, caressing the spine of the land… Squirming, the land wriggles in delight…” 3.

As I listened, I was aware that my breathing was shallow, my chest was tight. My emotions shifted from initial recognition and connection, to a feeling of affirmation, and the tears came. I accepted that my tendency to animate the natural world, to give voice to trees and birds and the land, was a valid way to write. I’d always wondered. Here were Tuwhare’s words on stage and accepted by hundreds of people. It was a validation.
(And possibly a point of origin. I was first introduced to his work when I was 15, at school. Perhaps what I absorbed then has informed my subconscious ever since).

But then, something unexpected happened. I had felt such a strong connection that I cried, but then I began to question whether there was really anything left for me to say. It was as if Tuwhare had said it all, and quite possibly with this one poem. I left the theatre feeling as though I should just throw away my pen. I knew this was an over-reaction, but still, it made me question what I was doing, and whether I really had a voice of my own.

Later, I realised I needed to take my ego out of the mix. If I am true to myself, I don’t write to compare myself to others, to be recognised, acknowledged as clever, or unique, however satisfying that might be. I write because it is something I can do. I write because I like it. I write because it helps me understand myself. I write because it’s a creative process and I am bringing something into being that didn’t exist until I placed one word after another. I write because it’s been with me since I was a tiny child. I write because when I’m writing I feel as though there is nothing else I should be doing.

Today I re-read many of the pieces I’ve posted here this year. I’m surprised by how much I’ve done, since this is the first year I’ve committed to writing like I really mean it. There are pieces I love, pieces that could do with some editing, pieces that are a bit self-indulgent, pieces that might be better off as prose. But its done and its here and its mine, and if Tuwhare’s work in any way lies behind some of it, then I’m happy and grateful to have his influence, and to have him as one of my poetic god-parents.

So after feeling conflicted, I’ve cycled back to feeling affirmed. I’ll keep writing because others have told me that I can say things in a way that means something to them. So I’ll keep writing for them, and for myself, because it makes me feel real.

1: “Rain” from Come Rain Hail, 1970
2: “Friend” from No Ordinary Sun, 1964
3: “Papatuanuku (Earthmother)” from Making a Fist of It, 1978
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An early burst of assertiveness,
“Do not change the words but if they are not spelt right correct them please”,
written when I was about seven at the end of a poem of questionable merit
(though it showed I had managed to master rhyme and rhythm at that young age).

©Claire Griffin 2016

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super moon

the eye of the universe draws nearer
she turns towards us
watching side on
like a great white whale
surfacing, curious, yet wary
she brings a gift to us
her own body, her luminous skin
she has come from the depths of space
to show what it looks like to be whole
she has come to bring light to our dark night
she has come to bring hope
she has come …

Monday is the night
of the perigree full moon
a supermoon

our pain, our cries of disappointment
and anger have been heard
and we have woken the spirits of our world

©Claire Griffin 2016

I was working on this almost three weeks ago, and was planning to post on Monday 14 November, the night of the supermoon.
However, Sunday night, early Monday morning, New Zealand was hit by a major earthquake, and my notions of a benevolent moon seemed naïve and sentimental. I’ve been a bit distracted ever since.
I never really finished this – but it fits with a few pieces that have emerged from the events of the last few weeks.

12 November – revised 1 December 2016

 

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tears in the sky

it has rained for three days
rain and fog and mist for two
and yesterday – more rain in a day
than usual for the whole month

the land itself was grieving
for the ones who’ve left us
for voices silenced
for songs unsung

Te Ihorangi and Hinewai
are the gods of rain and mist
male and female together
holding us in their embrace

as mist lay heavy on the hills
cloaks woven of all the tears
we’ve shed these last few days
these last few months

crying with us
until we are ready
to stand and turn our faces
to the sun

©Claire Griffin 2016

In this land, rain is often interpreted as a sign of grief, as if the land itself is crying in recognition of the passing of a great leader. This is an extract from the lament, ‘E pā tō hau’, for Te Wano of the Ngāti Apakura tribe:

E ua e te ua e taheke
Koe i runga rā
Ko au ki raro nei riringi ai
Te ua i aku kamo.

Come then, O rain, pour down
Steadily from above
While I here below pour forth
A deluge from mine eyes.

http://www.teara.govt.nz/en/tawhirimatea-the-weather/page-4

Citation: Basil Keane, ‘Tāwhirimātea – the weather – Rain’,
Te Ara – the Encyclopedia of New Zealand,
http://www.TeAra.govt.nz/en/tawhirimatea-the-weather/page-4
(accessed 13 November 2016)
Full story by Basil Keane, published 12 Jun 2006