24. Bite

                                                  BITE

Some days have teeth that bite

In unexpected or vulnerable places.

They are the days when the journey

From waking, to the tired of late evening

Has taken an unpredictable trajectory,

Traversing territory you would wish to avoid

Or which cruelly gifts you a void,

Or emotion surfeit you don't want to hold.

Today the biting bookended life:

Waking from a dream of a rat's 

Deep incisor impression on soft flesh

And holding the vermin tight in my fist

Until he foamed at the mouth, still jaw slashing.

Asking my father to help me kill what I normally

Would have no grudge against, but for my stinging

Punctured arm and his rabid lust for blood brimming.

A bad dream.

And this evening the bite was of real death:

Telling my child her favourite, twinkle beam teacher

Had died. And yes, darling, it is very sad. And yes,

Sweetheart, she told me once you were talented

And Her Little Star. And she loved you as, my god! I do.

You took a pen and pad, after the sob water went down.

You wrote: "Mrs Hird was lovely. It just goes to show

You can never see all of the ball" and explained a lesson

Of 3D. You wrote: "You can't always see what is going to happen".

At 8, to already witness life as a rope that abruptly slackens

And can drop us without preamble or prior consent..

We cannot see all of the ball, or the direction and velocity,

The violence or constancy with which it spins. We can only know

Who we love. And choose, as I have, to keep her close to me

Through this night. Hoping that if it has more gnashing teeth,

We can blunt them defiantly with immeasurable love.

A wishful dream.

23. Moon and Kestrel

Moon and Kestrel

When I am shattered

And have nothing left to give,

It is often time to retreat 

And to find the

Constant place of arms

Big enough to embrace:

The silent, supporting constancy 

That my sofa is.

Guiltily, at first

But with gradual quieting,

I watch pulpy mush.

Possibly even open mouthed

And deeply breathing,

Emptying care, pressing pause

To my brain, so all I feel

Would be a ripple line

EEG.

The kitchen clock

Hypnotises

And the mug

In my hand

My favourite toy

And comforter.

After an hour

Of questionable TV,

 I look up.

The May Month Moon

Is almost full.

And a Kestrel

Hangs like a fluttering

Question

Fan-tailed and

Coptering

Over the hedgerow.

He watches for vole snacks.

I move to my fridge

And look in.

If I hung like that

Over my life today

What part of me is morsel

Hiding in long grasses;

And what part of me

Capable of wild precision,

Patience,

And the beauty

Of remorseless slaughter?

22. Life Nectar

Life Nectar

There is a whisper

That I can hear

If I am still long enough.

Better to be heard

Accompanied

By punctuating

Birdsong,

Muddy shoes,

And hair tucked

Behind straining,

Open ears.

Better to be caught

When studying the

Massive, grand

And prairie-

Tale fairies' tale

Hidden in a blade

Of grass.

Better to be

Understood

By my body.

This voice

Whispers relentlessly

Of the awesomeness,

Of the grand reality

Of sitting

Still,

Under the trees.

This voice

Has Child Hannah

Humming

Of bees

And life nectar.

(This image was taken of me smoking a pipe in the sunset when I was about 15, under my favourite tree).

21. Bucket

Bucket

The well is dry today.

Even as I hang my

Bucket on a rope,

Lower for words 

And hope to scoop

Fresh thoughts

Into the pail,

The bucket arrives

With metallic clanking

Cold and Empty.

I cannot see

My reflection

In the water there.

I hold the pen

And simply stare.

20. Day Moon, Night Moon

Day Moon, Night Moon.

What is it with the moon this month?

I asked her, but she did not say

Just a half smile today,

Though benign.

But yesterday

On the river

She seemed to wink

She winked, I think

At me, on the river.

I feel sure she has a secret

And has been watching me this month

To see if I might dare

Discover it.

But this evening,

Hare in the field

She may have laughed

She laughed, she may

At the hare, in the field.

Only a half face shows today

Makes it look like she is peeking

From behind a curtain'd

Sky stage.

But in the week

In the rapeseed

She showed a chink

A chink, she showed

To me, in the rapeseed.

Strange lady moon, your secrets share.

You watch me, with a mystic air

Badged cool lune of the sky

Let's play.

And through the night

When I do sleep

She might well sigh

She sighs, she might

I sleep and do not play.

19. Ripples

Ripples

1.

When we are dead

And nestled under the ground

Or scattered over favourite seas

And special places -

The mountain will say nothing

The trees will not moan

And the river will be moving slowly

For someone else. 

All that you know

All the thoughts you have owned

Will pass into nothing.

Only your vacated body

Will provide sacred compost

For those that inherit the earth.

And only those things you created

In the minds of your children,

In the people you touch,

In the art you leave behind,

Will show you have been here

And that you loved.

2.

We are 

              the stones

                                that sink 

                                               when flung

                                                                  into this

                                                                                still lake.

If we give 

                our living

                                plummeting

                                                    momentum,

                                                                         let velocity 

and passion

                      HURL 

                                 us forwards

                                                      without restraint -

                                                                                   it may be

                                                                                                   that our 

                                                                                                                 ripples

                                                                                 will reach from

                                                           bank to bank

                                          to be felt

                          by those

       we never 

                          touched: 

                                        through the 

                                                           blaze

                                                                    of our own

                                                                                    comet tail light

                                                                                                          across

                                                                                                                    their heaven.

  

 

(This poem was partly inspired by Irvin Yalom's psychotherapy text on death anxiety "Staring At the Sun", which talks about the notion of Rippling - what we leave behind us as a comfort in the face of death and a means by which we can seize our lives). 

18. Sometimes

Sometimes

A sad woman asked me

“Can this be changed?”

and hoped I would have

a key in my pocket

to fit the lock of her

despair.

The lonely man asked

“What shall I do?”

as we both sat,

with his chain ankle ghost,

that manacled

freedom.

Sometimes,

we keep our souls

in a locked box

on the window sill

and fear death’s fingers

if it rattles.

Sometimes,

we seek to hear only

clattering dialogue of thought,

clanking down the

one way tracks to

contention.

And sometimes

the truth is hidden in cell-seeds

trapped in shoulder stories,

or the anxious rope tale

of your skipping

stomach.

“What does your body say?”

I want to ask.

The answers

will hold their

breath and wait

for you.

But only in that

rejected, split off

holder, in the

soft sacred

fruiting

body bowl

Will you ever feel

the right question to ask.

The question that

tells you, finally:

it is time

to harvest.

Painting by AWM, Day 18 of his Daily Painting Project http://awmartist.blogspot.co.uk/