attention

disturbance

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And then, not quite the moment I’d mentioned the word ‘rhythm’ but not long after, the pattern has been disturbed. I forgot to bring my journal home from the studio, disrupting my normal writing time first thing in the morning. Then I realised that my carefully-herded into a less obstructive timeslot client meeting now required a fully powered laptop, but that that the ageing battery was at 73% and could not be relied on to last. Rushing over to the studio where the charger had been left meant that there was no time to play the piano before I left home.

And so on and so on..

In the wider scheme of things these minor turbulences are, of course, negligible. But I cannot live my creative nature patrolled by the legitimacy police. My creative work is to try to shimmy myself into the tiny cracks of the most vulnerable, neglected places of (my) being. That process is easily disrupted and I cannot help but be protective of it. A luxury, one might remark, and yes, in the context of what is going on around us that luxury is stark. But in the context of my own story it’s not quite so indulgent as that term implies, and perhaps if our world spent a little bit more time and care on its vulnerable places we might sleep easier.

So then, disturbance (category: small, agreed). As the etmology unveils, it is disorder, grief, agitation, turmoil, bewilderment, muddying, stagnation.

In the lightness of this season though, the disturbance, while apparent, is less of a suffering. In one of my favourite television programmes, the idea of ‘stirring up the waters’ is seen as having value, of offering a way out of weary patterns.

Has my rhythm already become a confinement?

Unknown.

I traversed all the minor disturbances, and now I am back in a more or less calm serenity. Or do I delude myself? I am awaiting a message and that message may have power to truly disrupt me, so then, yes, perhaps I am serene, but I am also aware of something stirring the nature of this calm existence, something beyond my reach and beyond my control.

And I wonder what it has to offer?

last pelargonium

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It was really quite white
when I found it,
the last pelargonium,
but I was on a budget
and it was reduced
so I bought it
although really I wanted a pink one.

It’s a ‘mårbacke’, said the florist.
It’s a traditional kind.
But it was white
so I doubted.
Do you know the place?
I didn’t.
It is the home of a famous writer,
Selma Lagerlöf.
A current barely stirred.

And anyway,
I was on a budget
so I bought it
although it wasn’t pink,
but white.

I stood my white pelargonium
in a mixing bowl.
I didn’t own a plant pot
and was on a budget.
A mixing bowl was all I had.

It stood, a little self-conscious
on my step.  Two flowers giving me
joy, but white, and no others
arrived to join them.

I looked up Lagerlöf:
A woman writer
native to this land,
winning prizes,
when women didn’t.

I wished my plant was pink.

I went away for work,
asked an almost-neighbour
to water my pelargonium.
She took it in its mixing bowl,
didn’t comment.

A while later I returned,
settled in and eventually went
to retrieve the last pelargonium.
It has probably died, I told myself
to preempt disappointment.
The neighbour may not have been there
all the time.  It’s been hot.

I wandered up the path,
curved around the corner.
I spied the last pelargonium
covered in flowers.

They were pink.

a very golden sunlight

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a very golden sunlight
shafts suddenly across leaves
yellowed with glowing
oldness.
Illuminates memory,
gilding years of
subtle pain,
revealing glories
yet unknown,
to come, yes, to come,

the cold grass is dappled
for a moment,
warm here and there.

the red squirrel pauses
with its golden acorn,
tentative, suddenly
awareness rich,
hesitant to scurry
to store its treasure
for another day.

gone grey a moment,
mundanity takes
back its familiar
places, but not forever;
a golden knowing lingers.

absence of things (small children)

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There are no small children in my house today.
I shall describe them: tiny newborn crying
baby tears and ‘needs changing’.
Eleven and a half month old
holding onto every edge, nappy hanging.
No dainty little girl, proud
with a ‘real haircut’, a red-cherry hair clip
and her mummy’s handbag.
There is not one serious little boy,
five years old perhaps, just started school,
new shoes a single scuff and
wants a knight sticker book and a playdate at Zach’s house.

I have, of course, held open a heart of hope
and my longing is so deep, so true, and there is so little time.

Note: This is from the ‘poetry retreat series’. We read David Hart’s ‘There are no chairs’ and were asked to write a poem about the absence of something in about four minutes.

ode to the teapot

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Every morning you
wait, hear my
step
step
step
down the stairs
glimpse the dawn
of the dishwasher door
pulled open.

You, teapot, are
fully alert
lest, by an early morning
misstep
of crack or knock
you are relegated from
‘daily’ to ‘occasional’.

sitting proudly on
your dove blue
tray and blossom-patterned napkin
you listen
to the music of bubble
and steam, the faint
pliff of teabag
dropping
from a short height.

And welcome the
sharp, hot, dark stream
into your
shallow depths.

Oh teapot, how
content you are:
two or three minutes
pondering eternity
full of mystery
and mastery you
brew
nestled in your cosy.

And now, revealed
you relinquish yourself
to tilting, tipping,
teeming with
tea perfection.
Your sidekick
mug and you
a happy
mismatched couple.

A moment’s respite
white porcelain
teapot to consider
your antecedents
your factory provenance
and the luck that brought you
to me.

Another cup?

Teapot?

Note: this poem is from the ‘poetry retreat series’. We read Pablo Neruda’s ‘Ode to the Clothes’ trans. by W Merwin and were asked to write a poem about a familiar object in six minutes.