Postcards Home

This past week has been rather magical. The unexpected, seemingly expected all along. People met and conversations had full of such synchronicity.

Loose, ocean deep threads sewn in to the tapestry that I am; a making ready for the coming voyage from West Penwith to Manchester.

All, rather surreal and I momentarily question Lao Tzu’s thought that we each have the answer and know what we want. And The Unknown Self of John O’Donohue comes to mind who:

“At times, …will lead you strangely,

Magnetised by some resonance

That ambushes your vigilance.”

Certainly, it is Rebecca Solnit’s words that resonate with  her suggestion that “That thing the nature of which is totally unknown  to you is usually what you need to find, and finding it is a matter of getting lost.”

To explore, get lost and figure your way back – there is something in that.

More in the post next week.

Photo by Bundo Kim on Unsplash

Photo by Elena Ferrer on Unsplash

A Peg

Oftentimes, I write with an image close by. It is the peg for what I will write and this, a realisation of that creative process.

 

 

She stands between the front and back of her dress. A peg. A name. A coat. A shoe bag. A doll. A hat. A box. A tent. A dress. Her dress for the wash, a day coupled with night. Her own creased packet in the bright early light. A peg on the line. Secure. Random. Free. Nonsense. Impression. Connection. In the wash. A washing line. Disembodied. Unarranged. Configured. Framed. Context. Urban climbers. Exotic dancing menageries. Paper doll cut-outs. Atmospheric choreography. Dressing up undressed. Suspended. Dangled. Naked. Significant moments. Remembered. Imagined. She repeats as she takes in her clothes. Logical. A pattern. A cut. Instinct. Form.

 

Photo by Ezequiel Garrido on Unsplash

Photo by Killian Pham on Unsplash

 

 

 

A Blackbird on the vine

After what felt  like forever in lives other than my own,  I spent time with a friend in this beautiful land of Penwith and this poem, its imprints.

 

 

You hold still the wings of flight

To sound the start and end of light

Time cut on caterpillar ground

 

A glasshouse inside out till night

No open door nor window to scent delight

There the beginning and end in sight

 

A clustered sun hangs on the vine

Circled in the ring of your eye

A momentary love, a purple shrine

 

A sweetness with a seedless taste

An imprinted song plucked to sound

The Chaise Longue a dog-eared page

 

A breath forms a drop leaf to leaf

You wing air to shivering crown

A Blackbird on the vine

 

Bird photo by Balint Szajki on Unsplash

Vine Photo by Robert Erskine

Mez Creis


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

Waiting in the wings

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

A Mudra & Hand in Hand

During Quay Fair Day in Penzance, I met Ruby with Hannah. Robert Erskine came among us in this singular moment. This blog, our response.

 

A Mudra

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.”

Robert Erskine

Photo’s by Su Ormerod

Looking in looking out

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.

Seadog

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

 

Water resistant

Oil slick waves

Two coats thick

 

Drooled ocean bed

Life saved

Heart beat keep

 

Living being

Instinctive breath

The standing stone

 

No name

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.

 

In place out of place

 

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 odd note.

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