An untitled poem about autumn

Her Midas touch
turns all to gold:
                the light
                the leaves
                the conker’s sheen.
All honeyed under rich veneer.

Palette of pumpkin spice
               and kicking leaves
               in smoky air.
A mask.

Cracks in the façade reveal
threads of decay,
and Autumn’s truth.

She’s Winter’s catalyst.
The cog that turns
warmth cold,
bright dark,
hope harsh.

Sets the stage for
Winter’s empty monologue.

The girl in the sea

Back in February I did a course about poetry and paintings. One if the exercises was to imagine yourself in a painting. I couldn’t immediately think of any paintings so I was writing myself into an imaginary one, but here it is:

The girl in the sea

She is knee deep in riptides
angry greys and blues and browns
swirl round her feet.
Dark cliffs loom behind her

merging with heavy storm-
filled clouds.

I am hot, sticky and oppressed
by the humidity of a city summer.
My blue cotton dress reflects
off the protective glass
and I threaten to overwhelm her.

I step closer
squeeze beneath the gilt frame,
between glass and oils
and sink into her world.
Breathing with relief for a second
as the cool air embraces me.
Then icy spray
spits at my bare arms
leaving goosebumps.

I should have chosen that picnic scene
in the last room;
the one with glasses of wine
and the glow of autumnal gold.

The girl still stares towards the horizon
knee deep water becomes waist deep
and I become afraid.
The sea is untamed and will think
nothing of taking her as prey.

I don’t think I can save her.

My bookshelves… Poetry

And a couple of poetry writing books…

Responding to a poem

I am part of a poetry group and due to Coronavirus we have had to cancel meeting up but we have continued via email. So instead of meeting up yesterday, one of the group sent round a prompt for us. She asked us to take a poem and write a response to it.

I thought it appropriate to start with Poems for a World Gone to Shit and found In Preparation for the End Times by Francine Elena.

In Preparation for the End Times – my response

In preparation for the end times
I plan to build a time capsule,
think of it as a future curation,
a warning styled as a museum.

Walls will be lined with loo rolls,
antibac will flow from taps.
Everything in the kitchen will be pasta,
the table and chairs as well.

Half read books and unstarted
projects will be piled up
on the floor.

A stack of unused face masks
will be built up like a house of cards.

Boxes of gloves will fill the bath
and bottles of water
will form the sides
of an isolation pod.

In a display marked
Well, it can’t hurt…”
will sit cures next to their
fake news headlines;

cocaine snorted
sterilizes nostrils”

“drinking cow piss
will wash out the virus”

“eat more garlic
to wipe out the toxins”

And as you leave
you’ll pass through
a bleach shower

and maybe
just for good measure
be asked to drink some too.

Poetry about paintings

On Saturday I attended a course about writing poetry based on paintings. It’s not something I’ve ever tried before but my poetry group was going and it looked interesting.

Most of my writing wasn’t great but then I was writing about very different subjects to normal. Throughout the day we wrote about being part of a painting, about moving into or out of a painting, about meeting the artist and being the person who was posing. It produced some fun experiments and got me outside of my normal thinking which is always beneficial.

For a couple of my exercises, I chose to think about a cave painting of a bison.

If I could paint like the cave woman…

…you would see animals dancing across the rock
…you would feel the beat of your heart
crash with each thrash of hoof

I would show you the creativity of nature
so you want to reach into the stone
and pull out your own magic
– personal, powerful, empowering

and then you, you
could create your own universe
with your own mystical imaginings

I want to be like the cave woman

I want to be like the cave woman
feeling the rock and knowing
that’s where the spirit of horse
or bear or bison lay
& knowing how to release them
from their prison of stone.

I want to be like the cave woman
who knows earth, and air,
and stone as kin
& the plants that crowd the forest floor
as well as she knows her child.

But I reach out in the dark
of my bedroom, not cave,
to the untamed sculpture
that is my bed
with its heap of books
and phone chargers
searching for the lamp switch.

I could never be without my sacred
night space, it’s coccoon of safety
edged with fleece and teddy bears
and the convienece of electricity
that the cave woman could never have dreamt of

I want to be like the cave woman.
I want to know my home and land
with the intimacy that comes from survival,
but with the comforts that turn survival
into certainty and in doing so,
render the relationship
between the land and me
nul and void.

The making of a witch

The making of a witch

There was a storm once
– long forgotten –
when Night threw flames
and set the galaxy spinning.
Here you’ll find Her eyes.

Scratch at constellations
until stars fall
to sand; this petrified
lightning is Her wrath.

Look for old stone stacks,
moss covered, lining paths
that are not passed.
Fight the brackish tentacles and thorns.
Release her Scold’s Bridle
and unsilence Her tongue.

Find the place where the tide
rips over scorched limestone
and quartz.
Buried below is Her heart
pressed to coal
over lifetimes.

Listen for the
shrieks of foxes fighting
and the night splitting scream
as an owl releases its prophecy.
This is Her song.

Hold a hurricane
in the cup of your hands.
This is Her.

To love Her
is to offer your heart
to smouldering ashes,
knowingly.

To resurrect Her
is to summon
the souls of the women
who were wronged.

For witches cannot be made,
just reignited.

The Night Stage

The Night Stage

In tired eyes
specks glow
and grow
like the constellations
behind closed lids

A liquorice sky; the stage is set.

Overhead, Venus shines golden
and the Moon casts a spotlight.

From velvet draped wings,
the supporting cast
step out.

Under the gaze
of the Goddess of Love,
Act One unfolds;

A vain queen holds court.

The Great She Bear
and her timid cub
watch an arrogant
huntsman petition
for the banishment
of the scorpion
who threatens his ego.

Night’s shadows conceal
stage hands
as they flip the scene

& then

without a curtain call

the cast

the stars

the stage

all fade
away.

The play is lost to sleep.

The making of bats

The making of bats
is an act
that must take place
in the darkest of spaces;
no full moon,
no starlit skies.

Instead shadows and coal,
Silhouettes and pitch.

Hand to heartwood,
whisper wishes to the owls,
pray they take them, swift winged,
to the goddess of the night.

If you are blessed,
hear the sky fill with wingbeats.

The making of bats is a gift,
goddess given,
not a right.


If you haven’t already, take a look at my post on spontaneous generation and read about some of the ‘recipes’ that were believed to create animals prior to the 17th and 18th centuries.  You’ll realise that my own recipe isn’t that unbelievable!

The making of a witch

Summon the queen of death.

Split open the sky.

Scratch at constellations

‘til stars fall

to sand; petrified

lightning – her wrath.

 

There was a storm once

– long forgotten –

the night threw flames

and set the galaxy alight.

Here lie her eyes;

Deep, mysterious, dancing.

 

Look for old stone stacks,

Moss covered, lined up on paths that are not passed

– her unmoveable will.

An ancient mountain.

 

Find the place where the tide

rips over scorched limestone

and quartz.

Buried below is her heart.

 

Listen to the trees,

the whistle of the leaves.

Hear her.

 

In fog, shapes slowly transform.

In the making of witches,

earth turns to flesh,

stones turn to bones,

and fossils to blood,

under the pressure

of oppression.

 

To know her is to hold a storm

in the cup of your hands.

 

To love her is to offer your heart

to smouldering ashes,

knowingly.

 

Do you give it?

If a mama bear gets angry, imagine the Mother of the Mountains…

The Mother of the Mountains

If a mama bear gets angry, imagine the Mother of the Mountains.
Mess with Her children, She’ll dust off an avalanche;
step out of line, She’ll realign your bones.
She’s a blue-eyed beauty,
and the mountains have their Mother’s eyes: deep lakes.
Gaze into them, you’ll see their thoughts like fish –
quick schools, slow rainbows – look deeper,
and you’ll learn to dream like a stone.
What does She feed them? Rain for breakfast.
Anything else? She peels them the sun for lunch.
And at night? Big helpings of quiet,
then the Mother of the Mountains sings them to sleep with snow.
The trees are Her grandkids; She brings them birds to play with.
Whenever it’s their birthday, She gives them an owl
’cause though She’s a blue-eyed beauty, She’s still kind.
Even soft  . . . even fragile . . .
Wolves howl to Her to show their gratitude. What about you?

Rob Carney

I love this way of looking at the mountain, a true deep personification, the mountain as mother, as provider and as oh so loving.

*  *  *

If a mama bear gets angry, imagine the Mother of the Stars.
Mess with Her children, she’ll scatter white hot embers
and comets that burn
slowly
making Icarus seem like the lucky one.

Step out of line, She’ll set Draco on your trail.

She’s a wild eyed goddess
and the stars have their Mothers smile: radiating luminosity, intensity
burning bright.
Daring you to look and
punishing if you try.

What does she feed them? Diamonds and moon dust,
meteorites and wonderment.
She picks planets as though they were grapes,
offering them out as treats.

And at night? She drapes the sky with lush black velvet
then the Mother of the Stars steps back into the wings and lets her lovelies shine.

The milky way hides her grandkids as they grow;
She brings them tales from the cosmos, millennia old,
to fuel their fires and light the sparkles in their eyes.
Whenever it’s their birthday, she gives them pencils of sunlight
to practice joining dots into constellations.

Down on earth, eyes heavenwards, owls gaze in awe and gratitude.
What about you?