Their hands cut you to shape. A vessel in their likeness to carry their cry crying life. A painted self. A disguise. Their want, to walk on water to a salted land. You, their keel. Now pivoted on wooden blocks on a concrete floor.
You, the open scroll, the life goods. There is no grave. You, lie in state and I, pay tribute. No name carved in stone, no burial mound in soil. I enter your decay, a salty forest floor and taste your vulnerability.
A circling of time back on itself, time and time again. Is this your unnaming, a giving back of their peril at sea? Their mind for your spirit. The decay. A slow rotting away.
The beauty in a flourish of colour peeled back bit by bit in light. The iron leaching and cragged path of worm, fungi and mite. You, crumbling in my hand as we stand in the place where river meets sea. A movement into something else.
“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way… As a man is, so he sees.” William Blake
Photos by Su Ormerod
In the past week I have been living and working close to Seagulls and this, a response to watching their young.
Waiting in the wings
A guide, feather light
Of an inborn mind
A silent flapping sound
Cries to a flightless life
On slated ground
Skirted wings hang
In an encircling nest
On a roof top ridge
No feather ripples light
In a current of air
Till hunger rivens night
Of its ungainly gaite
To dawn on the wing
The invisible dance
Of an inborn mind
On a slated birth
Waiting in the wings.
Main photo by Clever Visuals on Unsplash
Gull photo by Andrea Gironacci on Unsplash
Gull Photo by Marten Bjork on Unsplash
During Quay Fair Day in Penzance, I met Ruby with Hannah. Robert Erskine came among us in this singular moment. This blog, our response.
I felt your hands
An open book
Deep set inside
A figurative pose
The centre point
A translucent light
In the pointed nib
An inscribed sound
A universal cry
In echoing chambers
Drawn in pushed out
A deep red summit
To an open touch
A deft conversation
Arched to pure sound
You tell me: ‘Tell me now
Give me your hand
Who are you?’
I give you my hand
To give me a sign
Of who I am
Hand in Hand
“Her hand was delicate but sure; the one hand manipulating my clumsy fingers urgently and repeatedly to create a pointing hand, with the aim of pointing it to me, and to herself, in order to exchange our names. She was deft – I didn’t know at the time that she is a pianist.
It reminded me at the time of a man I once met who was disabled to the extent of only being able to move his right arm and hand, with which he was able to type messages on a typewriter. His first words to me were: “What do you believe?”
Although the two disabilities were different, the girl and the man had the same message. Forget the irrelevancies of polite conversation, and go for the most important need; our most important need: Who are you? I want you to connect with me.”
Photo’s by Su Ormerod
I am staying in Newlyn for a short time and am enthralled by the closeness of it all. The sea and land, people and place. Intimacy holds you. It tells you that close in and far out are one and the same.
A Seagull caws my sleep
Sea escapes itself in air
To surface me in skin
Sarah’s not mine, it’s 4.48
Her Psychosis on the stage
Voices know no walls
Window on window
Door on door
A stone’s throw away
A cobbled pathway
Front to front sounds still
Back to back sounds a score
Of each and every breath
Voices heard inside as out
Washing hung to dry
Stable doors give up the ghost
Of characters dissolved in time
Of a windowless outhouse
A communal space
Winding stairs, a coffin drop
Looking in looking out
Thresholds of stone
A Seagull caws my sleep.
Sarah Kane was an English playwright who wrote 4.48 Psychosis
I woke at 4.48 today.
When I was small , I settled close in to him. My gentle giant, Nana and Mrs Doubtfire. The place where land and sea meet. The place of human-animal relationship.
The sea dog
A deep call
To surface sleep
Oil slick waves
Two coats thick
Drooled ocean bed
Heart beat keep
The standing stone
No dry land
A bonded stand
On webbed feet
A mythical being
To Herculean tides
A sacred dog
The Cherokee kind
A dog tribe
The tsunami surge
To lapping shore
Of the Seadog.
I emerge from a side street.
A front and behind turn each to the other.
No dogeared page. No tree. No lichen.
No stick. No shadow. No trace seen.
Life set in concrete. A flaw.
Landlocked, I stop moving of my own accord.
In place out of place. Straight white lines.
End to end and back again. Locked.
He asks my destination. I hear the earth turn.
It is temporary, time. A rug pulled. A blanket folded.
I emerge from a side street.
Photo by Yunming Wang on Unsplash
An airless room, music holding a silent score. Words penned to a straight line.
You play in harmony. Strum a rhythmic causeway. An entry step to hearth, to home. An inlay pattern to the door.
A washing line hooked wall to wall, painted, hung out to dry. A secure women’s ward.
Clothes suspended on a Venetian breeze. Taut pegged slack. An unknown known tipping the tongue.
A string strummed to a pitch high on sacred ground. Windows a light to slated dusk of falling night.
A choral ensemble. Each voice a part, a whole.
You play an odd note. Disharmony, the invisible peg plucks air to sound the score.
An unknown knowing known.
Photo by Su Ormerod
Standing time. Her feet, at the bidding of her mind. She caught my eye as I stood still. She, stood too. It was the sea in her eye.
A push out wave gurgled as it caressed in-between toes. Curling curiosity laughed out loud. Her beginning in sand.
The beginning. Unnamed. Free. Hands of mother and mother’s mother full of sand. She lived the next moment of her life.
She came to be. In a push pull wave, footprints forming and unforming. Creativity in motion. Nameless.
She scampered, a swashbuckle uprush wave.
Photo by Su Ormerod
I went on a wild walk, foraging plants. She said, ‘there was a knack to it’ as she chewed the nettle. I wondered, whether the unknown is the forgotten. Rubbed out like the sting of the nettle she ate.
I had bought a guide to wild food. It sat on the shelf unopened for a time. For now. For then. For this place. A small wooded valley, a watery cut out to the sea.
No certain light. No sedimentary rock. No romantic idyll of a tranquil nature. I was uprooted. I picked in the shade of hemlock.
I went from place to place. Stones of moss, standing time. To running grass. To a silent flight of on off light. To a roll down meadow.
A Pennywort bellybutton. A carry me back night. An explorer of the natural state. Curiosity holding fear.
I went on a wild walk, to remember.
Wildwalks – Rachel Lambert
Featured photo by Su Ormerod
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
When I think of being on the edge, I see a penny at the front of a coin pusher. Methodical movement back and forth, seemingly waiting for something else to tip the balance.
A mechanical tide moving metal like the cars I try to ignore, as I walk along the seafront to an art exhibition of invisible narratives. The sea on the left and town on the right.
There are waves projected onto a book of empty pages, on a desk with two radios. Each, broadcasting one voice. A monologue on the lack of dialogue in place, space and time, of what’s natural and what’s man-made. An installation.
Each, ignorant of the other, voicing over and over each other. A backing track of urban instruments. A constant throwaway into breaking waves. It feels like chaos.
The penny drops.
I walk back on edge.
There are no sides
Photo by Ameen Fahmy on Unsplash