poem

poem by the light switch

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(For Ruth)

Water is taught by
click – on
thirst; Land 
wipe off grubby finger mark
click – off
by the oceans passed;
Transport, by the throe;
click – still off,
click, change bulb,
click – on
Peace, by 
‘What do you mean,
“what am I doing in there?”‘
its battles told.
Love, by memorial
click – off,
(distant) ‘I’m here now’
mould; Birds,
by the 
click – on
(forgot something)
‘oh look it’s…’
click – off
snow.

Note: This poem is an homage to my friend’s music teaching room where she had taped lines by Emily Dickinson to her wall, above the light switch. On investigation, the lines are from poem CXXXIII in the ‘Time and Eternity’ section in Collected Works (1924).

a beautiful diminishment of beauty

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Get ready
for a beautiful diminishment
of beauty.

I am braver.
Expect the ragged,
messy and bits of
mud and blood,
thorns and straw
poking everywhere,
astray.

I will drag through a hedge
backwards and
not care a jot.
I will go flying,
fall face down and
laugh
brazenly,
with tears.

I will wade into
a torrent,
snare my bare
foot in stones
along its bed,
soak right through and
nearly drown,
with longing.

I will try so hard
to form the impossible
that it will form
in me,
and you,
so beware.

Beauty is on its
way out because
it’s coming.

 

inside out

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I sat at the long table the other day
under a window that spewed sunlight
onto me, and onto my chair.
Sat with the same old brand-new
journal
in the same old stance
at the same old beginning of
the new year.

The customary pen
hovered quite
unexpectedly,
did not pick up the
thread, turned back
to me pointing
questions.

Which I could not
answer straight away,
which I had seen flit by,
but they had been
minding their own business.
Now they looked me in
the eye.

Reached inside and pulled.

My feet left
the ground,
somersault in
existential wonder,
zero gravity,
disintegration and
very me,
distilled,
substantial,
astonished,
delighted, dizzy
with relief and marvelling;
a new-born truth:

I have become her.

I had no idea
it was even possible.

all your silence

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I am sitting
in all your silence.
Who knows
if it is the silence
of neglect,
or instead of deep
processing of
all our questions.
Who knows, indeed,
if it is the silence
of busyness,
or of distraction;
internet gaming and
endless repeats.

It is a choice,
I know,
to sit in
all this endlessness.
I could turn my back
and the silence
to you.
Leave you alone
instead.

Some inner
music,
that even I
cannot hear,
holds me back
from turning.
A music playing
silently,
to which I listen,
which I obey.

And so I sit around
in all our
endless silence.

A calm descends.

It is out of my
hands now.

 

ode to a bobble hat

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There’s a bobble
kind of wobble
to the walker
on the cobbles.

If you oggle
at a bobble,
it will never
be a gobble.

Not a woggle
nor a goggle,
not mistaken
for a toggle.

There’s a wobble
to a bobble
that can only
be a bobble.

Not a giggle,
nor a wiggle,
and not a hint
of wibble.

There’s a wobble
to a bobble
that can only
be a bobble.

If you snog-gle,
if you snuggle,
you will never
feel a tuggle.

There’s a wobble
to a bobble
that can only
be a bobble.