Hands like spiders he preys on his plate
Sitting in silence she waits on her fate
Forking through the pasta
Won’t make time go faster
Sometimes you’ve just got to wait
I touched on an idea there for a moment
Of possession and repossession
Of dispossession and time
I reached out into the world
To lay the claim
And smooth my way through the pain
And yet still they lie
Coiled across the path
Taking away my life
And turning it into a tale
Of two halves.
Patience, my friend
Whole Milk UHT
Ten millilitres inside
To open lift tab.
Best before see base
First May Twenty Seventeen.
Warning contains Milk
That every leaf that falls carries a story
Collect the leaves
When autumn comes
Collect the leaves
When autumn comes
Let them fall from my hands like leaves falling from trees
Let them grow,
Piles of leaves.
Leaves of a book
The leaves that talk in the night,
In the forest,
In the woods.
These leaves have seen it all
These leaves can talk
What story do these leaves tell?
Tell me their story
Way up high
The tree top
Reaching for the sun
I reach out for you
I watch you play
I watch you grow
Leaves, leaves, leaves
What colour are you?
Can I hold you?
Reach out to you
Reaching out to me?
Leaves, leaves, leaves, leaves
What purpose a leaf?
I leaf through my leaves
Looking for the perfect example of oak or maple or ash
I’m still talking about the leaves
Not being the leaves.
I’ll just leave this here.
I climb into the shower
And begin to wash her, you
From my hair.
Just three short hours ago
When I, you held me tight
In our final Embrace.
A short, snatched time
Before your, my life continues
Here, not there
Hot water runs in rivers
Down my face, chest
Washing smoke and ash and earth
To my feet
And they still remember
Standing on your paths
Through the night
As the rain washed in rivers
Down your face, breast.
And when the sun rose
That, this morning
In your blue eyed sky
I knew my, our ending had come.
All that was left
Was to say goodbye.
And I waited, delayed.
Etching every detail into memory
From the way your hair, trees
Moved in the wind,
The line of your warm winter coat,
Desperate to be shed,
Crying out ‘Spring! Spring!’
Down to your feet
Planted so firmly
In that, our land.
I washed the last of her, you
From my hair
The smoke from your fires
Joining the salt from my tears
A torrent of grief that can never
Wash her, you from my memory.
The Loneliness Project is being run by Theatre Cloud in association with the touring stage production of John Steinbeck’s ‘Of Mice and Men’. In their own words:
Today, we still see many examples of people being isolated and discriminated against because of their circumstances and who they are. During the current financial crisis, we’ve seen attacks on the poorest in receipt of benefit allowance, as well as 744,000 people on zero-hour contracts. Meanwhile, in the current refugee crisis, people have been disparagingly described as cockroaches and swarms.
Society has changed in big ways since Steinbeck wrote Of Mice and Men. We now live in an information age, where many connections are made or continued digitally online through ‘social media’. We have hundreds, even thousands, of online friends or followers. We use dating apps such as Tinder and Grindr, scanning and swiping for someone or something. There isn’t even a need to speak to anybody when we buy our groeceries anymore (unless there’s an unexpected item in your bagging area, which of course, there isn’t!).
Take the opportunity to get involved by submitting a poem or duologue or just by heading over to the website and showing your support.
This Blue Journal
I stare silently at the pile of books beside me
Green Mindfulness, red pocket book, blue iPad,
Orange poems book
And this blue journal.
Sullenly I despise them all and what they represent.
Reading and writing.
The pressure to conform or to do.
The commitment to spend the required time reading and writing.
I breathe deeply and regularly
I observe everything about this room
The way the side curtain waves in the breeze
The two buttons on the back of my jacket
The kettle and empty crisp packet holding dead tea bags.
Outside, the grass and the sunlight
The sound of the wind through the trees
The two horses that died yesterday
Weigh heavy on my mind.
I begin to relax into this day
And I am pretending it is not happening
Little blue book knows nothing of the anguish and anger in my head
My thoughts, wondering how it can mean anything
And I know it doesn’t
Yet the shoulds and woulds and could have beens
Fill my head
And I guess I am being unreasonable
Or at least feeling unreasonable
For I am still here and have the power to still be
One more tea, then it’s time to go
One more tea.
– See more at: http://theatrecloud.com/get-involved/creative-projects/the-loneliness-project/this-blue-journal/1675
Source: The Loneliness Project | Creative Projects | Theatre Cloud
Once again, a poet has emailed me, peeved that a poem of hers that appeared in Vox Populi is not anything like the version she sent me. The line-endings and stanza-breaks are scrambled. Her careful crafting of white-space has disappeared. Her neologisms have been auto-corrected to gibberish. The indentations are… Well, I’m embarrassed. She’s embarrassed. […]
‘Angels In My Orchard’ currently displayed in the window of the Rabbie Burns Museum in Dumfries as part of the Burns Windows Project 2016.
From the project organisers:
“In January 2012 we invited contemporary poets to send us a piece of verse to be exhibited in the windows of notable buildings in the town of Dumfries, South-West Scotland, in time for Robert Burns Night on 25th January. We only accepted poems which were the poet’s own work, written in their own handwriting and signed. We sent out the plastic sheets , a permanent pen and a stamped addressed envelope to over 250 poets as far afield as the USA, Sweden, and all over Europe, although the bulk were to Scottish poets.
Our inspiration came from Robert Burns himself. He lived in Dumfries from 1791 until his death in 1796. While here he frequented the ancient Globe Inn in the town’s High Street, where he inscribed verse in the windows of his room using a diamond ring or stylus.
We wished to channel the spirit of Robert Burns by inviting writers in the present day to emulate his example by speaking of their own time in a transparent way…
The poems that were returned were displayed and showed the vitality and variety of contemporary poetry, not to mention demonstrating the continuing relevancy of poetry as public utterance.
One poem was selected by a ballot of Globe Inn customers and has been engraved on a window pane in the Globe Inn. Kris Haddow’s wonderful ‘On Times Austere’, a poem in Scots and speaking of the times that it was written in, was a fitting poem to be installed in the bedroom where Burns himself lived for a time.
The Project was such a success, its curators – artist Hugh Byrden and literature lecturer David Borthwick – are doing it again in January/February of 2013.”
The project is taking place again now in January 2016
Video of Angels In My Orchard recorded at Embercombe, Devon. This poem is dedicated to the memory of Steve Onyett and Bruce Laurie who both passed in 2015 and were the Catalyst to bring me to this place at this time in my Journey.
Angels In My Orchard
When the time came
Not many at first
Barely troubling the fruit laden branches
And the boughs grew heavy with apples and pears
And those angels
Who rested there
Showed a silent respect
For he who had passed
And they waited
To carry him home