No, don't move
Stay just there, right there where you are
At the bottom of the stairs
Caught in the laughing light
Radiantly alive, shining, golden.
Stay right there
And let me stand here watching
From a half opened door
Lost in quiet shadows
And a trembling personal dusk,
Falling, falling, drowning.
Please, no please, don't go
Don't leave and leaving
Take the very breath, the essence of life with you.
But if you go, before you go, turn
Remember me for a moment
And bequeath me the memory of your smile.
Monday, 30 April 2012
Saturday, 28 April 2012
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
My Most Beautiful Thing
My Most Beautiful Thing is just this
And it may not be clever or long
And it may not scan or make rhyme
And impossible to turn into song.
My Most Beautiful Thing might be short
And it might be sad or a comic exchange
It could be invented or dreamt of or real
It could be common or garden or strange.
My Most Beautiful Thing is just this.
That I can listen, I can think, I can see
That I can dream this and write this and live
And be unafraid, and willing and free.
Friday, 20 April 2012
a beautiful thing
Is it your one
year old niece's golden smile? The pale pink peony buds in your
garden? A silver ring given to you by your grandmother? Your shiny
red Vespa scooter? Is your most beautiful thing a place or a
moment? Is it a philosophy or a value?
On Tuesday the 24th of April, I'm taking part in a Blogsplash to celebrate beautiful things, inspired by Fiona Robyn's new novel, 'The Most Beautiful Thing'.
People all over the world will be blogging, tweeting & writing about their own most beautiful thing.
You could post a photo or write a prose piece about your most beautiful thing. You could write a small stone or show us a piece of artwork you've made in honour of your most beautiful thing. It's completely up to you. You could be extravagant and post a whole series of your most beautiful things.
Writing Our Way Home are making a directory of everyone who's taking part, and they will also re-post their favourite entries on their blog over the following month.
If you'd like to join me, email fiona@writingourwayhome.com for more details.
On Tuesday the 24th of April, I'm taking part in a Blogsplash to celebrate beautiful things, inspired by Fiona Robyn's new novel, 'The Most Beautiful Thing'.
People all over the world will be blogging, tweeting & writing about their own most beautiful thing.
You could post a photo or write a prose piece about your most beautiful thing. You could write a small stone or show us a piece of artwork you've made in honour of your most beautiful thing. It's completely up to you. You could be extravagant and post a whole series of your most beautiful things.
Writing Our Way Home are making a directory of everyone who's taking part, and they will also re-post their favourite entries on their blog over the following month.
If you'd like to join me, email fiona@writingourwayhome.com for more details.
Thursday, 19 April 2012
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
Friday, 13 April 2012
Another Place; The Square Box
You stood before me in the haze and light,
Already mellowing soft, an afternoon.
I, on a bench of wood, long grass, tall daisies,
A warm wall nearby, russet earth.
A window open, deep silled, a red geranium in a terracotta pot.
Perhaps I held a book, Maugham or Henry James.
You seemed to be all white cotton and khaki
And in your hands you cradled a collection, objects,
Your elegant fingers the graceful custodians of precious things.
I cannot see them now; I no longer know.
But I did know that you needed a box to put them in
And that this was something, yes, that I could do for you,
Because in my mind I saw it.
Squared, shallow, soft dove grey cardboard
But strong, perfect in its symmetry, its close fitting lid, its worthiness.
And imagined this way, so it became and it was here.
We must have spoken. At least, I recall some words
Your mouth, your lips moving,
Your lips. That crumpled shirt.
The hairs on your bare arm standing, backlit,
You seemed all golden and stillness and I spoke your name.
Oh cherished remembrance of the warmth of us,
The grass scented, rich and fertile air, a sudden singing bird,
The drifting of a spent dandelion's clock..
What was the time, when we sat
Gazing, side by side, into the box between us?
I wonder still.
And I wonder still, what was it that we saw?
Already mellowing soft, an afternoon.
I, on a bench of wood, long grass, tall daisies,
A warm wall nearby, russet earth.
A window open, deep silled, a red geranium in a terracotta pot.
Perhaps I held a book, Maugham or Henry James.
You seemed to be all white cotton and khaki
And in your hands you cradled a collection, objects,
Your elegant fingers the graceful custodians of precious things.
I cannot see them now; I no longer know.
But I did know that you needed a box to put them in
And that this was something, yes, that I could do for you,
Because in my mind I saw it.
Squared, shallow, soft dove grey cardboard
But strong, perfect in its symmetry, its close fitting lid, its worthiness.
And imagined this way, so it became and it was here.
We must have spoken. At least, I recall some words
Your mouth, your lips moving,
Your lips. That crumpled shirt.
The hairs on your bare arm standing, backlit,
You seemed all golden and stillness and I spoke your name.
Oh cherished remembrance of the warmth of us,
The grass scented, rich and fertile air, a sudden singing bird,
The drifting of a spent dandelion's clock..
What was the time, when we sat
Gazing, side by side, into the box between us?
I wonder still.
And I wonder still, what was it that we saw?
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Herbal Highku
Rosemary fresh picked;
Pungent, vital, vigorous.
Scent punching the air.
Hands plunged amongst leaves,
Such freshmint memories burst forth
Upon my open palms.
Parsley, bruised and crushed.
A violent sacrifice
On the tongues'altar.
Pungent, vital, vigorous.
Scent punching the air.
Hands plunged amongst leaves,
Such freshmint memories burst forth
Upon my open palms.
Parsley, bruised and crushed.
A violent sacrifice
On the tongues'altar.
Friday, 6 April 2012
Spring and Zen
All winter
These buds have been fiercely closed.
Armoured, carapaced, primordial.
It's almost incomprehensible to me,
This sudden bursting forth.
The fragile living filigree
Of leaf and flower.
Witnessing the magic
Of this timeless mystery,
Unchangeable and unchanging, perpetual,
Without beginning, without end,
I begin to understand my nothingness.
These buds have been fiercely closed.
Armoured, carapaced, primordial.
It's almost incomprehensible to me,
This sudden bursting forth.
The fragile living filigree
Of leaf and flower.
Witnessing the magic
Of this timeless mystery,
Unchangeable and unchanging, perpetual,
Without beginning, without end,
I begin to understand my nothingness.
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Silver Linings
If it hadn't been for the hanging grey sky,
Those strange tree leaf blossoms would have passed me by.
If it hadn't been for the fading light,
That creamy retro Vespa wouldn't have seemed so bright.
If it hadn't been for the suddenly cool air
I wouldn't have rushed home and found my coffee waiting there.
Those strange tree leaf blossoms would have passed me by.
If it hadn't been for the fading light,
That creamy retro Vespa wouldn't have seemed so bright.
If it hadn't been for the suddenly cool air
I wouldn't have rushed home and found my coffee waiting there.
A Most Beautiful Blogsplash
On the 24th April, I'm taking part in the My Most Beautiful Thing Blogsplash to celebrate beautiful things - inspired by Fiona Robyn's new novel, The Most Beautiful Thing. Bloggers from all over the world are taking part and writing or posting pictures of their most beautiful things today. Find out more here and on the day you can see everyone else's blog posts here. Sunday, 1 April 2012
Another Place; Lilac Wine
I will take refuge in you here
And we will be quiet together.
There will be a gently ticking clock,
The breathy sigh of pages turning
And the tinkling ring of spoons
Against lustrous roseate china.
We will be held in the loving embrace
Of the old chintzed and shabby sofa
With its secret nesting corners
And its glorious overblown cushions.
And through the open windows
French , wooden, eau de nil,
A drifting sky will ruffle curtains
And gift the aching heady scent of lilacs.
We will not speak, we need no words
But when at last the end of day
Sees light slip stealthily to another place
You will catch the book as it closes and falls,
Press your cool fingers against my flushed and beating brow, my wearied eyes.
And I will cast myself adrift
On your strength, your life, your youth,
Rapt to the end with the aching heady scent of lilacs.
And we will be quiet together.
There will be a gently ticking clock,
The breathy sigh of pages turning
And the tinkling ring of spoons
Against lustrous roseate china.
We will be held in the loving embrace
Of the old chintzed and shabby sofa
With its secret nesting corners
And its glorious overblown cushions.
And through the open windows
French , wooden, eau de nil,
A drifting sky will ruffle curtains
And gift the aching heady scent of lilacs.
We will not speak, we need no words
But when at last the end of day
Sees light slip stealthily to another place
You will catch the book as it closes and falls,
Press your cool fingers against my flushed and beating brow, my wearied eyes.
And I will cast myself adrift
On your strength, your life, your youth,
Rapt to the end with the aching heady scent of lilacs.
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