Monday, 24 November 2014

little mother of constellations

i'll make room for you
afterwards and always
in the unfolding movements
and moments that play havoc
with the ground upon which i stand
and the things that hold me upright.

for the sake of light and memory
you shine your gold
through the holes you made..
little mother of constellations
attempting to fathom the lunacies.

Saturday, 18 October 2014

what is the colour of the sky?

and I mean not the blue
that immediately springs to mind,
or the quiet milkiness
of november mornings
greeted with gratitude and prayer,
nor the extravagance of the sun
in daily descent
reminiscent of the scarab
sitting in the centre of your collarbone,

a reminder,
an amulet.

or the steel of stormy skies
that leave you with the taste
of blood in your mouth,

but the colour the street lights create -
the soft fading
of something between a blush
and a bruise
highlighting the sharp lines of rooftops
before deepening
to the dark
that was there before the beginning,
before black had a name
and the bears
just points of silver light
circling
eternally
for us to give them meaning..

Friday, 4 July 2014

and all that it means to love you wildly

in your search for reasons, your quest for answers you gave me the end of summer; painted january from the window. and more. all i did was return with grasses caught in the upturned cuffs of my jeans, the edges of the hummingbird soft. what will you think of me now? for months now a stranger. beneath the same sky we weave between the stars, dance in the light and dance in the shadow, and if we're lucky dance with giants. a mistake to believe that ghosts cast no shadow. but you are no ghost.  there is no one from whom to seek permission. just be in it with nothing less than all your heart. scratched in the margins your empire of dreams, a collage of moments, things that quicken the heart. behind the lid of closed eyes where everything is waiting. more and more i talk with my hands. to feel it all, i think.  i paper the wall with your letters, the marks left behind, a preoccupation with surfaces and what lies beneath. pressing my face close i can hear you speak. was it you? your voice pours in and paints me golden. i never knew of any promises pressed onto lips in the same language as that spoken by your open eyes. but i'll never know what it feels like to be back in your mouth, more than a name aflame in autumn glory. would you have it any other way? can truth be defined as anything other than opinion? cross your heart and move in whatever way the inclination takes. the singular composed of a multitude trying to fit into a body a size too small. who ever said the love of your life had to be another person? like trees with their tangle of arms holding themselves close beneath a sky too low i envision you all wearing the crowns i created. white moths crashing at the window on a night like velvet undaunted they give themselves to the moon. the world reflected back at us. we are the moths, the trees, the singular composed of a multitude. it's too much and not enough and bigger than words, but we dance in the light and dance in the shadow and feel it all, i think.

Thursday, 13 March 2014

the sometimes language of morning

we sleep between the layers of each day and awake to the birth of it's unfolding colours. with my pillow imprinted with a night time's worth of dreams i perform these early morning rituals like a duvet stealing star taking up more space than is fair, although you make no attempt to make me smaller... one of the reasons i love you. with sleepy eyes you slowly turn yourself into the idea whilst i quietly overflow. feed me your grace and guts and suspend your disbelief from my halo. together we are draped in memories worn like amulets. as for truths i can only be sure of mine with their constant fluid edges. quietly i will you to wrap your fingers around my wish bone and pull. with both hands take what you asked for and fear not the quaking earth. stand your ground and hold yourself up to the sun. show it how to burn. set sail in your boat of bones and gently roll me over. warm me with the flames cupped in the palm of your hands and then kiss me like you mean it...





"where you are tender, you speak your plural." ~ from 'a lover's discourse: fragments' by roland barthes

Monday, 7 October 2013

meanderings on self. or "i will not be what you expect"

i am what? i am who? i am a house, a temple, a wolf, a lamb. i value my skin for the living map that it is. each scar a mumified story and memory. i question whether this skin, this body really is mine. or whether i am other. it prompts recollections of train journeys and walks through patchwork fields where, in a time long ago, someone once drew an invisible line and built walls to divide the green into what's mine and what's yours. symbolic of our territorial nature when in fact it's all one and the distinctions we make are of our own creation. i want to write this in a spiral, eventually arriving at the point which is everything, but for now it's only circles. i wonder, does my mouth spill my boreal beginnings, or did i burst into being elsewhere? even before my mother was growing inside of her mother? regardless, i am in no doubt that the collision of worlds was involved. i am my parent's inheritance. i am a fragment of the whole. and growing. i am fire and stone. apparently composed of three quarters water and able to think thoughts. i am the female embodiment of the skin bone blood able to be explained away scientifically, shot through with a root of light. each vertebrae a rung on Jacob's ladder. my voice is quiet, my mind is not. the planets circle my waist. i pluck arrows from my chest and run my lips over the shape of each name carved there. memorising. savouring. do not take for granted the soft edges, they harbour lightning... 

Monday, 2 September 2013

the prolonged absence because we moved

the white walls wait expectantly. pale blank walls invite the addition of interest. a tarnished bevelled mirror and wooden frames. twenty three copper leaves. but we're taking our time. the birds and the bells call me to the windows. windows full of sky. sky changeable in it's temperament and colours. I love watching the weather move in, which is out towards the sea. the way the light and clouds sharpen and soften the edges of the buildings on the skyline like a painting.  the way colour disperses. the grey sky thunders and holds it's water for now. there are pieces of our lives still in boxes stacked in little rows. walls within walls that hold the ghosts of the way things used to be. my dad and his amateur architectural investigations and reading of walls, he'll tell you. then the beginning of new rituals at the kitchen table. the vocalisation of a day's thanks. seventy five stone steps to a front door the colour of wine that folds in two. a ramshackle palace of cracks and draughts and space and charm. a place for the creation of new memories. a new home. reminds me of nanci and this...

Wednesday, 17 July 2013

a wish for feet to grow moss. where the voices are overpowered by the trees whose tune is a green song. skin deep. knee deep in the river the sun begins to bleed. i am the colour of the sky...