time

descent

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I find myself
long ago,
remains of memory
scraps

What were you to me?
I ask him,
whom I never saw again.

And you, who meant so much to me
at the time
what were you? a vanishing?

I pick my way between the
haunting presences,
strangely comfortable and familiar
they don’t answer
neither did they

passive
controlling
hiding in their baggage
I poke at them a final time
what have you to say for yourself?
you?

silence, their ancient
language, patrolling my
invisibility, eliminating me
slowly
colluding,
familiarity chokes me

Who did this to you?
they don’t reply
I forgive them.

the studio inside, reflections

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In the morning I wrote about the studio inside and afterwards I went to play the piano downstairs (in my neighbour’s empty apartment) and I could feel it, a cavernous beautiful space, brimming with beauty and wholeness and a kind of truth.

I will live my summer from this feeling, I vowed to myself.

Then I went to help a friend move house, caught up on work matters neglected while I was busy and ill, arranged things, visited the still-packing friend, keeping her company while I dealt with personal emails, sent birthday cards to people (late) and wrote thank you notes and thinking of yous to friends in turbulence.

It is very much easier to respect the reality of the studio outside compared to the studio inside, I notice. I become invisible to myself and then my reality slides in a direction that is at odds with my true feelings.

Yet I feel an insistence that something is alive and important that I must tend.

It requires gentleness and care. Faced with looming to-do lists, it goes to ground and takes me time to coax it back into the open. I would strengthen my resolve but the very attempt at self-mastery likewise deters this tenderness from appearing.

I need to allow for the reorientation of my being.

sea singing

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sea singing
carries from the depth
express in
jubilation
joyous in the day, the night

sea singing
shadows shift before me
open up in wonder, your heart,
your soul

rent the sky with longing
joy tears
a rift in pains
hope, hope anew

light, a faint initiation
rites a hymn of potency
a song a song a song

weave a thread of laughter
shadows mourn no more
luminous becoming
fulfil fulfil

sea singing
oh to catch this in a shell, to listen
evermore evermore

Note: this is the third poem (/song) in a series written to Divenire by Einaudi played by the poetess after a long absence. Title of an abstract watercolour in the same colours as before.

wild the sea; the spray, gold

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storm, the wildness is coming
restless, I scent the rain
distant, but nearing
me, adrift, chop

currents crush me to
each other, press into my
skin, insistent
you are mine, Mine
I don’t belong to myself

forces pull on limbs
a vast rose crimson,
pulsing in the drench

clatter, rain advancing from
another shore, nearer still,
nearer, sound the drums of
torrents, clash against clash
whip, foam, soak, slap,
gasp, yet not a drowning
yet

monstrous pitterpat
hail, rain!
splatter
tumult a poor shelter,
lift me up, hide me
may I nestle in your ferocity

dip into the pinkish hue
silence a moment
down
returning,

surface
all is rose dawn
wild sea; rain-spray, gold

Note: a second poem in a series painted to Einaudi’s Divenire, played by myself after a long absence. This life size abstract water colour is painted in Rose Madder and Permanent Rose (Windsor and Newton Professional watercolour) splattered with Rembrandt Light Gold (Series III watercolour)

loop

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Something is looping it seems to me. Here I am, after all, in this blog again, suddenly drawn to it, unexpectedly. What is there for me in my earlier self, I wonder. What is there for me in this representation of a me that you, by being there, sometimes liking, create? It’s mysterious.

I have a week in a space that completely transformed my life, over five months in the summer of 2020. Yes, that summer. Perhaps I will write more about it another time but I knew then and knew even more later, that a fundamental shift had taken place in my perception. Perception of the world, perception of self. I had joked that 2020 would be the year of seeing clearly. The joke had me.

So then here too is a loop.

And I find myself rereading the stories of my childhood.

I’m so much older that when I began this blog. I feel it. I can feel the resonances of greater substance, ontological weight, density, weariness, power. I have ‘made my bones’ but they are heavier to carry around, whereas surely there should be a more expansive freedom?

The true lightness of freedom, the true depth of well-formed substance. Another mystery.

So then there is this younger self. I recognise her and I feel triumphant. The self she was wondering was there is me. Her innocence touches me and I wonder if I can rediscover that. Surely that is a treasure? It is not-knowing and it is, I realise as I write this sentence, fear. I am at risk of an idealisation. It was terrible to be that vulnerable, continually not knowing if there was something there, risking everything with the possibility of nothing.

Something was there.

Perhaps though this is the rediscovery and the loop. That vulnerability recurs. The sight of an old tree in spring always touches me. All those frail sensitive quivering leaves on those full grown sturdy branches. It strikes me how rare it is to see those qualities in a person. Fragility is for the young, it seems, the full grown branches necessitate a kind of firmly-enforced self-protection.

I’m getting nearer some kind of reconnection and when I do I will know what it is. It will be a freedom and a lightness. It will be a reunion and an intensification, an expansion of substance.

And in the meantime, I will write this all to you, who carry the me I might become.