Postcard

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

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

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

A wild walk.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Edge

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

 

Invisible Narratives

Photo by Ameen Fahmy on Unsplash