hope

nest

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I am building a nest for you,
my love,
out of my hopes,
out of my dreams.

I am building it from sweetness,
that I allow to grow within me,
these sweet summer days,
on the threshold.

I am building a nest that will not fail us,
when you arrive,
and our hopes entwine.

I am building it from fire,
and longing,
a desire that will not snuff out
in cold winds.

I am building you a nest,
my love,
and when you discover it,
you will be amazed,
and you will hold me,
and we will be healed.

And new,
and at peace,
and whole,
and ready.

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.

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.

retreat: over half way

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So, extraplorers…

A short(ish) post I am supposed to be:

  1. Working on poems to read tonight
  2. Writing up three poems to put in the class anthology tomorrow morning at 9:30am
  3. Working on poems to be read out at our ‘reading’ tomorrow night
  4. Getting more questions ready for tomorrow’s ‘drop in’ tutorials.

Somehow despite my poem enthusiasm I seem to have spent free time in very rascally ways like walking into the local village for a cream tea, going for a run in which I got lost and having my portrait taking.

I.e. not writing (but perhaps this is the most writerly thing I have done all week?)

Anyway, to summarise my actual writing progress so far:

  1. My poem about my granny (‘someone I don’t know well‘) turned out very nicely and was received with enthusiasm from the group and positive feedback from the real poets.  I still have some feedback to consider about this such as decide whether the order of stanzas could be better.
  2. I met one of my goals by writing and reading an intensely personal poem this morning.  I have wanted to be braver about this and I had several affirming comments both on bravery and quality.
  3. I had a quietly incredible tutorial this afternoon where some of my lurking questions (‘is this too self-absorbed?’, ‘does this even work as a poem?’) were met with wonderful responses about the quality, potential and validity of my writing.  I don’t think I have yet recognised the full weight of this.

Right!  Back to work.

 

 

Waiting

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I am waiting
for spring to emerge
from the pavement
laid for
work, business, invoicing,
fee discussions and
constant demand.

I am waiting
for cracks to widen
suddenly and maybe
even causing
horror filled with wonder
as I fall in-
side out.

I am waiting
for you and for them,
and for looking back
bewildered on
the past order,
full of tired and
worn-in happiness.

Note: This poem is from the ‘poetry retreat series’.  We read ‘I am Waiting’ by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and were asked to write a poem in six minutes about something we were waiting for. This is unfinished and I would like to go back to it and bring the image of ‘breaking through’ into greater clarity and power.