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
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
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
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
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
When I saw this picture, I just wanted to blow. I am sure our relationship with dandelions is of an ancient nature. And, sometimes, a little lightness goes a long way.
I decided, when I next came across a blowball, I would blow a summers breeze and caress the silver tufted fruits towards transformation.
On a day at the end of a busy week, I walked on a new path and there they were, ball after ball of seeding dandelion. It was serendipity.
I wondered, whether it was I who wanted to transform and, in a moment, we would become a force in nature.
I think we were. I blew a gusty south westerly. In that moment, I felt present in the world.
I felt elated in my power to move heaven and earth. And then, sad, the moment of freedom lost to me as the seeds swiftly disappeared.
So, I picked another and another and another. I blew myself into awareness and was gifted with exquisite uniqueness as each was carried away on a parachute of silvery-white.
As time passed, my breath moved gently into a summer breeze and saw each slender olive-brown fruit on their way in air. I felt a lightness as I wished for no more.
Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash