Unspoken

My friend, who folds in on herself,

does not say, ‘I am hurting too deep 

for words; I am protecting myself

with a mask and a cloak; I am hiding

in a deep cave of silence, leaving only 

my replica outside (acting and smiling).’

She doesn’t tell me: ‘I’m about to shatter.

If you touch me even lightly, even if 

your voice is soft with sympathy, that

will be more than I can bear. Please

pretend that I am normal. Pretend

that you notice nothing. Smile!’

One by one, I see processions of her

acting on a stage. Her lines are always

word-perfect. (Not, of course, her own.)

But I can barely hear them. They fail

in the clamour of the shrieks that she

is not uttering, which I hear too loud. 

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What Time of Day Do I Like Best?

 

On hot days, it's evening 

when I open both doors. Cool air 

floats inside, soothing my skin.

On days of rain and thunder,

bedtime’s best: I snuggle

indoors, warm and safe.

On busy days, the best time

is after dinner. I shrug off

duties, responsibilities; relax.

On lazy, self-indulgent days,

restored, I come alive at night

to dream or plan … in the nurturing dark. 

Written for Poets and Storytellers United in response to Friday Writings #211: Write about the time of day you like best, and why. I have written a number of times already about my preference for the night hours, so I thought I'd look at the question differently. However ...

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First Harvest

Do you call it Lammas 

or Lughnasadh?  (I like Lugh.) 

Do you hold it 

on a hilltop or by a well? 

And at which exact point 

between Solstice and Equinox?

How do you gather the grain?

Where do you store it?

Can you tell me what I should do —

not growing my own food,

living in a country

with different spirits,

whose only native God 

is our Mother Earth?

What is the way, here,

to turn the Wheel of the Year?

Not being indigenous either,

though lifelong in this land, 

born to country

I too claim as mine, 

have I not the right (I believe)

to make my own rituals,

even to use some 

which echo old traditions?

Will you smile

as, by candle or moon,

I cast a circle of air,

call the directions,

say a prayer of thanks, 

break bread and drink wine?

Do you see? There are spirits

unknown, kindly, drawing close. 

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #210 Great Combination/Collaboration.

One I wrote a few days ago, not specifically for this prompt, but I think it fits, as it questions how to combine old traditions, based in the Northern Hemisphere, with being an inhabitant of a very different land in the Southern Hemisphere. (The ‘you’ the speaker addresses is not anyone in particular, so much as others in general who follow the Pagan path.)

Here, this Sabbat happens on 1 February, 6 months away from its Northern Hemisphere date, 1 August. As Lammas, it is often associated with the grain goddess, Demeter. Some traditions, calling it Lughnasadh, associate it with Lugh, a figure in Irish mythology, a god of harvests among other things.

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Pentridge Prison Reflections

‘I wouldn’t have trusted,’ she said

about friendships I made

in the poetry workshops in prison.

‘I grew up with criminals,’ she said.

‘They were all charismatic!’

The thing is, my guys weren’t.

To me, they were just poets. 

I didn’t think to judge anything else.

Seeing that, they trusted me.

But later, when some got out?

I found there were those who did 

have a criminal mentality.

Then, the friendships dwindled

in quiet, regretful agreement.

Others, though, did not.

Inside the prison 

there was no way, nor reason

to know the difference. In there, 

we all – inmates and tutors –

shared the prison mentality.

Written in response to dVerse Poetics: Folsom Prison Blues, where we were invited to be inspired by Johnny Cash's song of that name. 

My books (memoir and poetry) about the Pentridge experience are soon to be on Amazon.

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Viewpoints

 

I catch myself in a shop window

pushing my walker,

my bottom sticking out backwards

further than I think, 

my crochet sun-hat pulled down

nearly to my eyes.

My pretty, floaty purple dress

doesn’t at all disguise

the weighty body inside. Who IS 

this doppelgänger I fail to recognise?

A rueful smile. Ah well,

I guess this is being old.

A much younger woman

pushing a laden shopping trolley

diverts to the nature strip

to let me past. 

We share a laugh

at how narrow the path.

‘You look lovely in that dress!’

she throws over her shoulder.

‘Thank you, my love,’ I call back

(she’s a stranger), 

‘You’ve made my day!’

She has no idea how much. 

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My Ink

The first, I chose decades ago: a tiny pink rose, low on my right shoulder-blade. Secret, to be seen only by a lover.

The next I took from the Wiccan Rede: ‘When misfortune is enow (a very old word for enough) wear the blue star on thy brow.’ Therefore not permanent, not indelible – drawn rarely, only when badly needed; removed again whenever it no longer applies.

Recently, I decided on some animal totems: my left-hand guardian the owl, my right-hand guardian the serpent. One of each, on the correct forearm, in fine outline. A reward to myself for getting through all that hospitalisation and surgery, a little over a year ago.

Today I looked at my wrinkly 86-year-old arms, picturing how that surface would spoil the artwork, and thought, ‘No. Too late.’

The pink rose never happened either. (Tattoo parlours got such a bad name for such a long while.) I have no lover now, and no plans to find one.

The blue star happens occasionally, yes – by visualisation and intention, not with actual ink. Not even a blue biro. On my forehead, unable to be fully hidden by my hair, that would be too visible, too weird.

*********

I only need look inside my mind and memory to see my tattoos. I dwell on them. They are beautiful. I love them.

Nocturnal

 

I live in a cul-de-sac at the top of a hill.

At night I hear silence, an occasional dog.

Inside I have non-stop jazz on late.

I leave the passage light on, not to trip over.

All night I hear silence, an occasional dog,

and my black, nocturnally wandering cat.

I leave the passage light on, not to trip over her.

Time stretches out vast in the early hours.

Watching my black, nocturnally wandering cat,

I feel my skin start to breathe, my back straighten.

Time stretches out vast in the early hours.

I must go to bed, I tell myself, but I don’t.

I feel my skin start to breathe, my back straighten

inside the non-stop jazz I have on late.

I must go to bed, I tell myself, but I don’t.

The cul-de-sac is alive, here at the top of the hill.

Inspired by a prompt from Padraig O Tuama at the Poetry Unbound substack. He has some novel instructions for creating a pantoum. (This is an unrhymed pantoum, which is not traditional, but in my reading I notice it's becoming a common variant.) I must have subscribed to this substack at some point – and how glad I am that I did – as this post turned up in my email today.  How could I possibly resist giving his method a try?

At Poets and Storytellers United, Friday Writings #209 asks us to be inspired by the following quote by Arthur Ashe: ‘Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.’  While I didn't write this poem specifically to that prompt, its creation and subject matter exemplify the advice.

As a matter of interest, my original lines in response to O Tuama's prompt questions were:

I am in a cul-de-sac at the top of a hill.

At night I hear silence, an occasional dog.

Inside I have non-stop jazz on late. 

I leave the passage light on, not to trip over

my black, nocturnally wandering cat.

Time stretches out vast in the early hours.

I feel my skin start to breathe, my back straighten. 

I must go to bed, I tell myself, but I don’t.

(Not a bad little poem in itself, as it happens – but I do think the pantoum version is more interesting.)

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