At first I don’t quite notice. Then
I start to feel the shift
begin,
a difference in attention:
a subtle, quiet rift
within.
Something is coming closer. My bones,
my blood become aware …
my breath …
Ah! The slow realisations
coalesce, fill the air:
that death.
Written for dVerse Meeting the Bar: RememberThis!
Form: Memento, created by Emily Romano
Words are marvels! Words on a tongue, or typed / inked:
written (pictured) as on a page or screen, see!
Words are the most miraculous musics; words sing
even when mute (apparently) – shown, not said.
Still we can hear, loud.
Written for Friday Writings #187 at Poets and Storytellers United: a celebratory poem in the form of a Sapphic ode.
I want that plant which purifies air. Don’t talk to me about clove oil for mould; it’s toxic to cats. (Yes, mould is toxic too, but it will do us in slower.) There’s nowhere close to find the plant. It’s classed as a weed. Then a local woman on facebook advertises a whole lot she’s giving away. I don’t even wait to put on make-up or a bra.
I wonder if I’ll be able to find the place. Just as I step in the car it starts to rain. ‘I’m having an adventure,’ I tell myself.
daring –
driving anywhere new
at my age
I choose the smaller box, more than enough for my tiny space.
‘Will you have help the other end?’ she asks me. I say a cheery no.
‘What will you do? Take a bit at a time?’
‘Something like that.’ And it is what I do: piece by piece out the back, one-handed, holding on to walls and railings as I go.
Enough! I’m proud of myself. I go indoors for a coffee.
Next day my cleaner comes. I tell him I’d like some planting this time, instead of mopped and vacuumed floors. He’s willing. Soon I have a row of tall, mottled leaves standing up like spears against the back fence.
People on facebook warn me it’s invasive. But that garden bed is edged with wooden slats, boxed in. Besides, this is just to keep it all alive until I can get some pots and potting mix. I need the stuff inside the house!
The cleaner sweeps my back veranda too, and washes down the pavers that cross the yard.
satisfaction –
directing operations
others perform
Friends tell me it has wonderfully strange names. I look up Wikipedia. Snake plant, Saint George’s sword, mother-in-law’s tongue, viper’s bowstring hemp …
Oh-oh! I discover this too is toxic to cats! I’ll have to buy an air purifier instead. Meanwhile – oh well – I wanted easy-care plants in my garden. I’ve got them now.
a little knowledge –
I introduce snake plant
into the garden
In winter, camellias bloom.
(Japanese roses, I was once told.
I don’t know if that’s true, but
I like to think it. It makes them
for me a symbol of Reiki healing,
which began in Japan … although
it really began in the far-off first
morning of the world.)
In winter, camellias bloom.
A friend brings me a red one
from her garden. I have
the perfect vase. In a home
cluttered with books and papers,
I place it in the centre of my kitchen
on a plain wooden board
on top of the 'island'.
In winter, camellias bloom.
Another friend arranges them
for when I visit, around
the edges of a big shallow bowl:
alternating deep pink and pale.
Then she gives them to me.
I find two shallow plates, one
for each colour. They float serene.
In winter, rejoice! Camellias bloom.
Shared today at my Instagram profile and with dVerse OpenNight #387.
She brings me
mandarin liqueur,
the fruit grown
in her own garden.
I pour it into
a crystal sherry glass.
(All my liqueur glasses
are broken or lost – except
the one I keep as a chalice
in my travelling altar:
a sandalwood box with also
a tiny dagger, incense,
a round white stone,
a small quartz point,
a woven cloth
to set them out on…)
The texture is lush, the taste
bursts on the roof of my mouth
both rich and delicate, spicy
and sweet. I breathe it in.
I finally realise
(I can be very slow) –
of course they are killing the children!
It’s a genocide (we all know that)
so of course they are ending
the next generation
before it starts.
Before it gets a grip.
They are bombing the hospitals,
destroying maternity wards –
the new babies, the mothers
about to give birth.
I thought they were – blindly – creating
a new generation of terrorists (war
begets war). But no,
not so blind after all.
They are busy eradicating
the whole future
of a whole people.
Contemplating this,
seeing more clearly
than I ever allowed myself:
I too have lost my breath.
Words have not been enough.
Decades of words,
a century of words
failed to save the earth
from effects of human greed.
How can I hope that words
might prevent the slaughter of children?
But words are all I have …
I contemplate changing 'they' to 'we'. Have we not been complicit?
Note:
In 1896, a seminal paper by Swedish scientist Svante Arrhenius first predicted that changes in atmospheric carbon dioxide levels could substantially alter the surface temperature through the greenhouse effect.