Plan was ... (variations on a theme)

Plan was …

(1)

Walked this morning
to the quarry,
over the crocodile track,
but took the wrong path.

(There was another way down
but that was steep
and the long grass
hid holes.)


(2)

the sign
was wrong
was down

I headed
up


The prompt for Weekly Scribblings #51 at Poets and Storytellers United is to revisit any Weekly Scribblings prompt from the past year. I like to play with found poems, so that's the one I chose (#43).

I am friends on facebook with several in this community, including Marja, and recently enjoyed some wonderful photos she posted with this text:

'Walked this morning to the quarry, over the crocodile track, Kennedys Bush track, to sign of the Bell Bird. Plan was to go down into Governors Bay but took the wrong path. There was another way down but that was steep and the long grass hid some holes. Not good for the clumsy so I headed for Sign of the Kiwi where William picked me up.'

Her words, too, captured my imagination. In them I found both of the above poems, which I see as variations on a theme. The method of composition was somewhere in between the classic found poem, which reproduces a fragment of text verbatim (or at least very closely) and the classic erasure, which uses widely separated words and phrases to create something with an entirely different meaning from the original.

 

The Knowing

The Knowing

Down in my bones I feel,

deeply, the stir of truth –

lighter than a pinprick, 

fainter than a whisper, 

easy to miss or ignore;

not so much a voice

as an echo,

not so much a ripple 

as a shiver,

lasting a moment only

unless I stop

and pay attention –

when it responds,

rising, swelling, 

making a murmur

and finally filling

my whole body:

lifting my arm, my hand,

moving my legs and feet,

speaking through my throat

with the resonance

of the absolute,

the clarity

of a slicing knife,

the directness of the heart.

Written in response to Weekly Scribblings #50: 'Down In My Bones' at Poets and Storytellers United.

Loss and Longing, Love and Light

Loss and Longing, Love and Light

Nana (my mother’s mother) was the great love of my early childhood. We all loved her, the whole family. I was only four when we lost her.

I recall her long, long hair when she let it out at night, brushed it slowly and firmly, then plaited it again and looped the plait into a coil on her neck. 

I liked to watch the lingering strokes of the brush; how deftly yet leisurely she divided the strands and laid them over each other to gradually form the plait; the placing of the long hairpins; and the last gesture as she firmly patted her bun into place.

I recall the soft lap I curled up in; the warm, cradling arms. ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child,’ she crooned, lulling me to sleep.

I couldn’t really grasp the language of the next bit: ‘Pity my simplicity’ (not too long a word for me even then, only I thought it meant I was stupid) ‘and suffer me to come to Thee’ (I didn’t like the idea of anyone suffering, thanks a lot!). But that was irrelevant. Mainly, Nana’s lap was the place to be: my place.

After Nana died, my Mum lay a long time in a darkened room. ‘Don’t cry,’ said my Dad to me, ‘you’ll upset her. Go and play.’ I wandered listlessly around the lawn and along the paths. I told myself she was in Heaven. I listened to hear her in the clouds. I felt, slightly, that I did; but aloft, so distant….  

Years later – all the years following her loss – I heard the family tales: her melodic voice; the collection of little dogs that followed her everywhere; her compassion for listening (out of the blue) to strangers’ troubles, in such a way that they felt healed. People were naturally, spontaneously drawn to confide in her, I was told. I knew; she listened to me too, although I was only small.

I didn’t have her long, but she was a light to me – a gentle light yet strong, shining continually over all my life.

They said she thought herself ugly. Laughable! Of all people in the whole world, she was the most radiantly beautiful.

Written (in exactly 369 words excluding title) for Weekly Scribblings #49 at Poets and Storytellers United: my own prompt where I invite people to write something – anything – purposefully using one particular letter repeatedly. My letter here, of course, is L. I didn't have any idea beforehand of how it might impact the writing – and I'm not sure I have now, though I hope it might lend a softness. Once I knew what, or rather who, I wanted to write about (not the first time I've written of her) I picked that letter because it starts the word Love.

The Blurring of the Days

The Blurring of the Days

To Bill

Each night the clicking comes
of the small gecko on the wall
outside my front door. I hear it
as friendly and comforting. A mark
of the progress of my day, the hours
of my day, each day the same
sound at the same awaited time.

It takes me back to those days in Bali
with the loud clack of the huge
geckos in walls of straw,
strange yet amusing, reliable
backdrop to steamy nights …
at the same time as it grounds me
here and now. How the days slip by! 

Written for Weekly Scribblings #48: Words of an Unprecedented Year, at Poets and Storytellers United. One of the words is Blursday, for days indistinguishable from each other. I have experienced some of this during the pandemic isolation – but that gecko, one of the things that gives my days sameness, took me somewhere else, to a different kind of blurring which is perhaps more common as we age.