treasure

long silence

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a long silence.
mute, I have been wandering
for aeons.

in the dark recesses of my past,
in the unseen glimpses of the future,

all alone underground
tunnels
chasms and
unheard of springs of
ancient purity.

gathering the wisdom
sedimented over time
by giants
and mice.

discovering jewels that
would perhaps glint
given light and time.

nuggets fill my dusty pockets.
weight makes movement slow.
how long have I been
lost to the world outside?

found to myself though;
perilously alive.
breaths of the deepest stillness
fill my lungs,
chase out dreary.

darkness sparkles
a blackness never before
as vibrant.
engulfed by unknowing;
known.

lost journal – the journal’s tale

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Only slowly does it dawn on me
that motion has ceased.
It is silent for the first time
in a long while.

I cannot make a sound
to attract attention.
I wait so still,
hoping.

It is warm between
the Financial Times
and Vogue.
But I shiver.

Swoop, arms gather the
newspaper and detritus
of flight BA0589
from Milan Linate.
I slide out under the
seat in front of you.

Will they come with vacuum
cleaners?
Not this time.  I hear the
hum of new arrivals.
Distant first,
then nearer.

Am I going back to Milan?
I recall cosy bedrooms,
grand galleries
and a few moments at a café,
when I was loved.

I miss the motion of her
pen, the flicking of my pages
and the close attention of her
eyes rereading and sometimes
looking away.

I miss the triumphant tick
in a small blue box
the sigh of satisfaction
and the sometime quick
snap-shut of a distraction.

What’s that?  Far from being
cornered by another
bag, I am being retrieved
by a total stranger.
I hold my covers tightly
shut through sheer willpower
to no avail.

Alien eyes peruse my pages.
I hope her writing turns
to scribble just in time.
My pages are flicked back and forward.
‘There’s no address’ I observe
unnoticed.  Only ‘private’ and
maybe hidden clues, who knows?

With relief, I remark
a kind of gentleness of touch.
Hope glimmers – perhaps I might
be restored to my owner?
I know she is looking for me
amongst the other
lost possessions, can hear her
hopeful tap-tapping of her plea
to find me.

I am being
slid in
to someone’s business bag.
I smell leather and Apple.
My pages snag on chargers.
For the first time, I am afraid of the dark.
I want to go home.

And I know I won’t.

lost journal

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lost journal

I lost my journal on the plane
flower print, ditsy,
‘she dreamed of diamonds
and life on the ocean wave’.

My blue-biro pen loops,
curls and lines and dots
are orphaned.
How will they manage
without me?

Tiny hand-drawn to-do boxes
will be half-unticked.
forever.
Scribbled inspirations
may never see
the light of day now.

I feel fortunate
I forged a bond
with the crew of
BA0589
from Milan Linate.
But how much was
just politeness?

And anyway, perhaps
it was an unknown cleaner
who discovered treasure
under the Financial Times?

I hover over the
lost luggage website.
It seems my life
is now in the company
of Macbook Airs, Dubai dates
and an antique firearm
(Business Class Lounge,
Lufthansa).

I slip poetry into
every non-drop-down-box
of the standard claim;
perhaps a small serenade
might lure Juliet
to her balcony.

I send the form,
and wonder.
What will they send me?

reflections on blogging, one month review, ‘discovering more beauty through writing’

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The subtitle to the blog ‘discovering more beauty through writing’ has also been on my mind.  I wrote it without any real reflection; this in itself is important for my work.  Writing is the place where I discover what I think and feel about certain things.  It seems to arrive onto my journal, a screen, a letter and it’s at that point that I find out what is there.  I know there are some people who mull over their work forming it in words in their mind before they write it down, but I’m not made like that.  Now I think of it, it’s like brewing tea (which I also love), I’m aware of phrases swimming about in my head for a certain period of time before they pour out in a writing stream.  I try to stay out of their way, because if too much conscious, analytical me gets in the way, they lose their naturalness.

There are several ways that I am discovering beauty through writing.  I love beauty – in nature, in things, in people, in adventures – and over time I have come to see beauty as a place in which magical things can happen, things like hope, healing, courage, revelation, insight.  In my own writing, I am trying to grow an attitude that sees more beauty in everything, but also to pay attention to particular instances of beauty, almost to amplify it in a world that is so often full of distress.  In addition to this, I have found that sometimes I can write about hard things and discover the beauty in them as I write.  This is because writing brings understanding and meaning, and it is meaning that can make difficult things bearable, and even redeem them and transform them into something full of honour and grace and depth.  For me, this is the true magic of writing.

Finally, knowing that I might want to write at any moment increases my attunement to the present.  It heightens my sensitivity to beauty all around me.  It makes me be on the alert for treasure that I can catch in my writing net and bring home to nourish people with.  It’s so much fun!

five luxuries

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a perfect cup of tea, made by someone else, right to the end (into my hand)

waking up on a Saturday with no alarm, refreshed, and discovering that it is really quite early

arriving at the beach to run the moment the sun comes out after the rain

making an illicit diversion to the department store on the way to work and being welcomed with smiles, chocolate, fragrance samples and a hand-massage

using a pretty-and-robust umbrella on a rainy day