Circumambulation

I May Be Wrong

 

I may be wrong but I’ll say it anyway

surely that is the point.

Jung’s theory of circumambulation says

“Give it a go”

Follow that glimmering thing

that interests you

down the path of development.

Heed the call to adventure

let new parts of you manifest.

Be the fool as precursor to

the Jedi master.

 

It’s an error ridden process

to venture on as interests dawn.

Progress is punctuated by pitfalls

and catastrophes

as you learn what you shouldn’t do

before concluding what you should.

Unlearning is painful and here

Nietzche leaps in demanding

a will to stupidity.

 

Take those tentative steps

each moving away from the starting point

leading you to a new more focused

vantage point.

Embrace failure

reject all that you’ve been told,

discover your authenticity

or roll over.

Join the paralysed ponderers

waiting for a perfect idea,

a less stupid idea.

Waiting for a perfect opportunity

to present itself…

waiting, waiting…

until you rot to dust and fade away.

 

So don’t stop.

Move a little further along the path.

Don’t stop learning.

Circumambulate

to be the best that you can be.

 

Sunflowers and Old Boots

I recently stumbled upon a website which had the letters written by Vincent Van Gogh to his brother, family and friends. Completely absorbed I was lost to research for hours on end, compelled to learn more of this painters fascinating life story. Here is the resulting “found” poem which uses lines written by Van Gogh himself to describe his experiences, collated in a way which hopefully does justice to his tale. All credit given to Leo Jansen, Hans Luijten and Nienke Bakker who edited and published his letters on line.

 

This horror of life

I disgust myself as I look upon faces terrified by

my attacks of crisis.

 

Unexpected voices sound in my head

Things appear to change before my eyes

frightening me beyond measure.

 

Leaving a cracked jug of acute melancholy

a repulsion for life, not wanting to move

not wanting to wake again.

 

But extreme sluggishness is a crime!

I must climb back up from this dejected state.

I am very much behind. I have lost too much time.

 

I have dazzling ideas in my head, more than I could ever keep up with.

If only I’d been able to work without illness

How many things I could have done, what the land would tell me!

 

Those who don’t understand, that art preoccupies

accuse me of working too fast

but I should work as hard as a shoemaker, assiduously to make progress.

 

 

Money is the enemy before the troops

One cannot deny or

forget it

 

My dear brother I have bought a suit for 35 francs

But it will last the year

Yet I have need of shoes and a few pairs of drawers

 

I must paint to recover the money to produce

Perhaps, one day,

I’ll be able to repay all that I have spent.

 

If I had private means perhaps

My mind would be freer

To do art for art’s sake.

 

I could sell my bed for the price of a train ticket

That I may see you again

but no, I am condemned to inconveniences.

 

I must stay locked up in the asylum

So not to inflict suffering on those I love.

Here I don’t frighten anyone.

 

The sufferings of anguish aren’t funny when caught in a crisis

But comfort can be found amongst inmates

Who show kindness to one another – it isn’t so sad.

One man hasn’t stopped talking or shouting for a fortnight

Another honourable madman always wears a hat,

spectacles and carries a cane.

 

Some howl, rave, are manic and angry, some filthy, some dangerous.

The food smells musty and is hard to digest

But there is gentleness, we look after each other.

 

Frequent and decisive attacks mean I’m forbidden to paint,

Apprehensive of a relapse, I suffer a thwarted artistic will.

It’s a shipwreck of a journey.

 

In Spring, out in the park,  I have the clarity for work

But the winter is dangerous

I am too damaged by grief.

 

I fear for what reason remains

And capacity for work may be lost.

 

I long to be freed from surroundings and circumstances

I don’t understand and be once more

Bathed in a benevolent sunshine.

 

A warm handshake as I say goodbye,

Vincent.

 

*Lines taken from VanGoghsLetters.org/vg/ edited by Leo Jansen, Hans Luijten and Nienke Bakker

Aldi Sunset

Still catching up on Napowrimo, this is the response to Day 14  “celebrate a place, thing or idea” This poem evolved midway into a poetic prose…or possibly drifted into a stream of consciousness.

 

Aldi Sunset  – April 2020

 

An acre of tarmac; white lines map territorial rights

measured in inches of space filled

with the low growl of engines.

 

Security guards count single adult entries held 2 metres apart

in a snaking queue, but there’s no hurry

only patience and impatience marks time.

 

Waiting in the car, my daughter takes care of the shopping

It’s a new boundary for her to tear down.

We both win.

 

From this new vantage point, the clatter of metal

slamming together in the trolley park

seems musical.

 

Early evening light dapples through popular trees

edging the car park; a precious necklace of beauty

never previously noticed

 

As families load car boots with groceries, domestic chatter

is as serene as birdsong in this new oasis of peace

in the surburban landscape.

 

Cheesy 70s hits blare from an open car window

the driver’s paunch strains buttons on his acidic striped shirt.

He sings along, parking, reversing, correcting, reversing

aligning, reversing in time with the beat.

 

Sunglasses perch on bleached blonde hair, a dainty lady struggles

to manoeuvre an overladen trolley towards her Audi convertible.

She pauses to consider how her bulk bought goods will fit

into the postage stamp boot. After 3 bags fill the space, she loads the interior

propping up wine with frozen peas and cartons of lemon sorbet.

 

Her sultry daughter remains seated throughout, scowling at a world

which doesn’t sufficiently entertain, glowering at the domestic inconvenience,

wondering why no-one has responded to her latest Instagram selfie.

 

Skimming Stones

I’m completely out of sync with #Napowrimo due to being rudely interrupted by Covid-19 but I think this poem loosely answers the prompt for Day 11 Write a poem about a missed connection (I’ve spun it slightly to the futility of avoiding a connection.

 

Like a stone skimming across the water

we glance together

causing only the faintest ripple on the surface

before pulling apart.

Hidden to the rest of the world

but known to us

forces are already in motion.

Drawn back together

again and again

and again.

The distance between us all the time

narrowing.

Both scared of the inevitable

as the stone breaks the surface

plunging into the depths

sinking,

drowning

in

you.

 

 

** Image by Laura Zombie “Drowning In Love”

 

 

 

Near Rhyme Hell Whilst Corona’d

Napowrimo Day 6 using prompts from Christina Thatcher.com

Write a poem about a project, collection or activity. Distracted by my symptoms of Corona Virus I have used artistic license in that my “activity” is making sense of my day!

 

Near Rhyme Hell Whilst Corona’d

 

A symptom of corona virus is confusion

I was outwitted by a simple lock mechanism

So please forgive me the occasional delusion

I’m personally finding, within it, amusement

I shall isolate in my castle of seclusion

So not to spread to you my infectious pollution

I hope to soon see a swift and final conclusion

Full recovery, not the end of my inclusion!

 

*Featured Image by Parvez Taj

**Opening the patio doors outwitted me; I couldn’t fathom the key turn and lever arm mechanism, which alerted me to something being wrong (other than the cough and lack of energy). I hadn’t realised this was a symptom until consulting NHS 111 online. If you find yourself in this position please bear it in mind. You dont need to have a fever to have Corona Virus.

Dream Home

Napowrimo Day 4 – Write about a dream

 

It started with a dream

of a home in the forest

with a ceiling of stars

of a life non-conformist

 

I climbed a great oak

there I laid the first planks

made a bed in the boughs

with moonbeams for a lamp

 

I drank from the waterfall

I ate berries from the bush

I forgot about the city

its pollution and the crush

 

Time evaporated into air

joy took its place

I was living without a care

I lived at my own pace

 

Wild roses were my perfume

small animals my friends

birds serenaded daily

leaving my soul fully cleansed

 

My pulse did not race

my arteries didn’t harden

I was healthy, I was happy

In my rustic home and garden

By Gum!

Day 3 of Napowrimo – use rhyming words

 

My resolve I now need to harden
Got the look from my prison warden
Was summoned to tackle the garden
The weeds she sees cannot be pardoned

Before this beautiful day closes
She kindly, thoughtfully proposes
I should prune and cut back the roses
Their fragrance will once more thrill noses

So I’ll summon my strength and amass
The inner strength to mow the long grass
Perhaps I may scrape by on a pass
Though the neighbours compete and outclass

Kneeling weary on two creaky knees
Carpe Diem! This day I will seize
Though I huff and I puff and I wheeze
I’m determined to win by degrees

Such joy now the long winter is done
Mopping my brow I turn to the sun
Need a massage and bath but By Gum!
I came, conquered, I weeded, I won!

Schooldays in Accrington

Day 2 of Napowrimo – write of a specific place

 

I remember the hypnotic sound of incessant rain

beating against the classroom window on a grey afternoon.

I remember a crate of tinkling milk bottles arriving in class,

each with it’s own paper straw.

I remember the harsh smell of little oblong bars of green soap

in the school toilets.

I remember holding my breath in case the fumes burnt my nostrils

whilst I washed my hands.

I remember rough grey green paper towels.

I remember reading a Ladybird book of Cinderella, she had

two ball gowns, one pink, one blue and at the end of the story

a fairy tale white wedding dress.

I remember wanting real fairy wings and a wand for Christmas.

I remember Julie Hesmondhalgh striding onto stage in a school pantomime

holding everyone transfixed with her booming voice and incredible energy.

I remember wanting to be Wonder Woman, spinning around endlessly

on flagstones outside our corner shop.

I remember being locked in a cemetery late at night, terrified,

with blood pounding in my ears.

I remember living two streets away from Jeanette Winterson.

I remember the hushed whispers in the bookshop as furtive ladies

bought “Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit.”

 

The Sycamore Prince Returns

Today is a momentous day for me. Today is the first time as a member of the Write Out Loud Poetry Group Stockport, that I feel accomplished. Not through being published, not through any quality of poem produced but… to be able to pull out of my bag a poem previously written and read, re-edited and rejuvenated.  You may think this unremarkable, but allow me to explain. In the last two years of joining the group, I have been running to keep up. Each meeting a theme is set and we have a month to write a poem ready to read at the next meeting. I have always been envious of those poets who can say, “I may have read this before, it’s one a wrote a while back.” This month, with the publication of my new children’s Picture Book “The Fixer Man” (shameless plug – I’m sorry!)  I haven’t had the hours needed to write a poem for the group…but I do have “one I have read before, one I wrote a while back” and there you have it… I have now reached the point where I have my own back catalogue of poems, which I can delve into and pull out when called upon. I feel I’ve earned my stripes, done my time, passed my test, graduated into poetry. Today is a good day.

 

 

Each year impatient for his return

marking time until the majestic moment arrives.

In a shaft of pure light, when reverent air lies still

on a soft whisper he comes.

 

The Autumnal Prince towers

above ethereal mists caught

between earth and sky.

His slender ebony limbs outstretched beneath

the canopy of his golden crown.

 

A silvery sun showers him in sparks

igniting flaming hues.

Baptised in fire a volcanic blaze erupts

burning with vibrant life,

copper passions and saffron embers smoulder.

 

But one who burns so bright cannot stay,

his reign fleeting.

Cool light fades. Cruel chill winds blow

loosening the desperate grip of his fragile hands.

I mourn each yellow fingered leaf

as it falls and returns to its roots.

His glory too quickly lost.

 

Cast into wintry shadows,

our dreams left to sleep for a season.

Picture Book Perfect- Tiny Tree Titles — My Shelves are Full – reviews The Fixer Man

Thank you to My Shelves Are Full, for this wonderful review of The Fixer Man, there’s no better gift to an author than to post a review, many, many thanks x

I love Tiny Tree books, they are publishing fun, colourful and engaging books. These three are top of my list! This is a lovely book, it features a heart warming story, gorgeous illustrations and a rhythmic rhyming text. The fixer man lives alone fixing broken items with a clang, bang,fizz. When he finds a nest […]

via Picture Book Perfect- Tiny Tree Titles — My Shelves are Full