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?

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Campanula

          When I grow up, I want    |     When I grow up, I want
to be a campanula, growing     |     to be a campanula, self
tight to rocks     |   sufficient, hard, persistent
to stones     |   resistant
to walls.    | resistance.

         Spreading and reaching     |   Reaching and spreading
into the crevices of the     |  roots creeping though
humanmade world.      |  cracks in domesticity.

Patiently establishing myself;    |    Weakening structures
dainty, delicate lilac petals     |   forcing a new perception,
– miniature stars.   |  a new perspective.

When I grow up, I want
to be a campanula, a paradox.
Lover and fighter.
Darkness and light.
A fairy-flower-wall-tumbler.

And no one to expect any less from me.


I struggled with wordpress formatting this.. I tried all sorts but it wasn’t playing friendly with me… The first three stanzas are two columns, side by side, the left column is aligned to the right so they butt up against each other.  I’ve used |’s to separate the sides.

No One Is British

No one is British

On an island that has only existed

Eight millennia,

 

In a world that was born

Over four and a half

Billion years ago.

 

No one is British

In a land with a muddy,

Rain sodden history

Of raiders and invaders,

Of settlers and leavers

 

Rome took a chance

And Rome took charge

Then Rome retreated.

 

Not the first

And not the last

To dip a toe

In this archipelago.

 

Picti and Scotti and Attacotti

Preyed upon the shores.

Ravaged and rampaged

Looted and left.

 

In need of a place

To replace

Lost homes, Saxons and Angles

and Jutes showed up.

Desperately colonising

A nation of future colonialists.

 

No one is British.

On an island that has only existed

Eight millennia.

 

Keep your racism.

Keep your hate.

 

No one is British,

Not even you.

Roses and Castles

Roses and Castles is the name given to the artwork which adorns the barges of the canals.  Traditionally it is made up of bright flowers and pictorial scenes, including but not limited to castles.  Similarly, images are not limited to roses and daisies, marigolds, pansies, primroses and many other species can be found.  Diamonds, compass patterns, crescent moons, scrollwork and painted borders are all used along with bold, vibrant colours.  Cottages, churches, rivers, lakes and even lighthouses are all depicted to build up images of romantic landscapes.

Whilst the origin of the roses and castle art work is unknown, it became popular at a time when canals were starting to be less lucrative.  One theory is that, as families had to move in the barges full time, the women were trying to make them feel cleaner and more homely and turned the dirty boats into something they could be proud of.  Polished brasswork and woodwork shone and dazzled and every available surface became painted in flowers and romantic scenes.  It was a decorative form of art and appeared on everything, from the boat itself to the harness of the horse.

It took root when many other traditional crafts were dying out, no longer valued in the age of industrial revolution and perhaps it is this novelty that means it survives today.  There was a pride amongst the boat owners and the artwork, with it’s rich colours and cheerful designs, possibly provided an antidote to the drab age of industry.

There are similarities in the style of art to that of the folk art from Scandinavia and Germany and echoes the elaborate caravans of the gypsy culture.  But regardless of why or where it started, the roses and castles style has become eponymous with canal life and it’s hard to image a barge without the iconic paintwork.

Roses and Castles

Down by the towpath

Rests Halcyon Days

Nose to nose with Blue Moon

Whilst Drifter floats away.

 

Roses and castles

Daisies and chapels

Abound on the waters

Of Leeds Liverpool canal.

 

Layers of green and layers of red,

Interlaced with paint as close

to gold as you get,

clothe narrowboats with daydreams.

 

Scenes of happier times?

Of richer days?

Or art to bring romance

To the industrial ways?

One Wednesday Night, the Poem

I was talking to a friend about poetry and she’d generously let me read one of her pieces of writing.  When I did, I was reminded of advice that my old English teacher gave me.  He was the first person, offline, that I showed my writing to.  He taught me for four years and, unlike many teachers, he would talk to me like an equal.  It felt like he valued my opinions and we would debate the Shakespeare biased curriculum time and time again.  My stance being that he wasn’t the only playwright and we should get variety.  Anyway, come sixth form, when he was no longer my teacher, we shared poems we’d written and he’d ask for my thoughts on his and offered his thoughts, gently, on mine.  He played an important role in my life and in shaping who I became.

But back to the point.  One piece of advice he would give me time and time again was to use what I’d written but say it in less words.  Strip it back.  See what it becomes.  And in doing so, you learn a lot about what you’re saying, the point you’re making and the language you’re using.

Having offered this advice to my friend, I went through some of my old poetry and tried to find one to exercise brevity on.  But nothing caught my attention, none of the poems I returned to hooked me today.  And then I picked up a copy of One Wednesday Night which I’d printed to critique and that did hook me.  A poem about nosebleeds and tummies would be hard to pull off but I liked the starry sky part of it.  And so I picked out a few words and phrases and started to play with them:

A dusty sky; the stage is set.
Leading role – the crescent moon.
Venus; shining golden in the spotlight.

Before my tired eyes
Dots begin to glow

– the constellations of closed eyes?

The supporting cast step out
From hiding in the wings.
The starry queen holds court;
a dancing bear and timid cub perform.

Street lamps conceal stage hands
and then, like the curtain closing,
the cast, the stars and stage

All fall away.

The play is lost to sleep.


NB, the stars you see when your eyes are closed are called phosphenes.

A walk: 15th April

I went on a walk with a friend this weekend and we took a few pictures to try and identify some species when we got home.  I also wrote a list of some of the plants and animals we saw on our route.  This was a good exercise in helping me remember and learn names for flora and fauna but it also meant I realised how much we saw.

Using the same idea as the natural history guide exercise, I wrote an “I am” poem.  Again I used the guide to get a bit of info about the species and I used my jar of words.  I also pulled a tarot card to give a direction or theme for my words.  This turned out to be the ace of wands which is a perfect, spring energy, kind of card.  The words I associate with this card were used to create the first line.

I am spring, flame thrower, life igniter.

I am the Norway maple, buds forced open like shooting stars.

I am the drifting, pungent catch of wild garlic in the air.

I am the paintbrush who’s sure and steady hand splashed the purple speculum on the female mallard’s back.

I am the heart leaves of the lesser celandine, serenading without permission.

I am the boggy carpet under the feet of Canada geese.

I am the committed blackbird, bringing squirming specimens to my love.

I am the golden jacket outlining the small great tit.

I am the velcro crackle of cleavers scrambling unapologetically.

I am the listening, learning, crow, holding tight to my caw-caw.

I am the family squabble of coots quarrelling

& I am the woodpigeon, perched, surveying, taking in the power of spring.

I enjoyed pulling together the images and I really like the use of the natural history guide as it adds another dimension to the images – without it I’d not have known speculum feathers were even a thing!  The information from the guide adds more precision as well.

I particularly like the image of the cleavers and, along with I am the music played in the teeth of a dandelion, before time is wished away from last time, I’m hoping to spin out another piece of creative writing.

I also created the line I am the queen of death, the glossy social climber; ivy but it was entirely out of sorts with the rest of the images.  Perhaps one to put in my pocket for a walk later in the year when the cycle of life turns again…