There is no such thing as a real void

There is no such thing as a real void.

I just read this

in ‘seven brief lessons on physics’.

No thing is ever really empty.

The glass, or the bucket,

before it is filled,

swarms with the tiniest of particles –

invisible forces that leap and bump,

disperse and collect, like a

flock of finches in the midst of flight

gliding across the vast and open sky

as if inseparably, one.

There is no such thing as a real void

so when you tell me you are empty

or lost to yourself, when you say

hope has dried up and left

behind only a hollow husk

I know we are blinded by sight.

There is no such thing as a real void.

You contain multitudes

and I am determined to leer

beyond the first glance

beyond the grime that lurks at the surface

beyond the reach of my arm

and its inability to grasp air, space, time

and loss. I am determined

to leer into the void

where all that is born

is of the same celestial seed,

where snails and turtles,

butterflies and humans

all share one ancient ancestor

and where, in the darkest and loneliest

and bleakest of holes,

all we know

is that when a star collapses

a universe is born.

2017 Incantation

A call to spaciousness, to
space that looms between – 
opening outward and upward
like the lotus and the lily,

a hand written invitation
to all of love’s names
in its fluid multiplicitous 

roaming in the forlorn emptiness
between the luminous stars, 
the planets and all of the un-named
spheres of plasma and gold – 

breathing, in the soft exhale
that meets the gasp 
of your inhalation –

flying, on those imperceptible gusts
that guide the monarch
to unforseen landings – 

hiding, in the hypen – 
that line that joins
and separates the noise
from the silence –

each, the space that holds
the possibility of the other,

and finally, living – 
in the body’s razed desires
to inhabit the world 
and to be inhabited
by nothing less than
the infinite promise of
the ellipsis…

an indwelling of it all,
of the and, and, and,
of a lively and radiant universe
that never stands still.

Thin Traces

Thin traces
of tracks
not yet laid
like invisible lines
or a long thread,
golden and white
running through,
held at either
end, at once taut
and loose,
swayed and buoyed
by forces
of love and
time, like a guide
that beckons
from a past
into a future,
mouthing your name
in sand
or rocks
or steel,
a formless form
that winds its way
to make a track
or make a life,
both,
yet to be
laid
down.

Forget everything

(Image: Iain McGregor)

 

The land was empty,
alone,
bereft of the world
that once occupied her,
was she mourning
for the lost sounds
of children’s
hearts and feet,
pounding to the beat
of their laughter, lives
and freedom?

A no-man’s land,
mile after mile of barren
green, of do-not-enter, no
unauthorized access, of long,
stripped harakeke clumps
and a naked river
that mends its way along
cracked roads
and blocked off streets
with names
that used to belong
on google maps,
but now when you look
all it says is
forget everything.

Forget what breathed
and flourished here,
the barking dogs and
sleeping cats, the
gossiping neighbours
and lifelong friends
sharing food
and love and stories,
their water, porta-loos
and their breaking, aching
exhausted hearts.

Forget how the earth
shook and cracked
and ripped apart,
once, twice and
5000 more times until
you can forget
no longer, for the shaking
earth lives here
in your bones now.

Her core is buried deep
in yours, like a ghost
and a vampire, she haunts
your nights, and treads
lightly through your days,
at your side, ready to pounce
and steal
your breath,
when your children are too far
and the building is too high,
and there are too many
people between you
and the exits and in this
new city there are too many
buildings that could come down
and even though
the shaking ground
was only a bus rumbling
past, your body will
never forget. And you wonder,
you wonder,

is this what it means
to grow up
and out and in and
through, to be pierced
by loss and life so that
your body is marked
by the world,
holds and becomes the world
and it is all the same,
the world and you,
maybe there was never meant to be any
forgetting,
maybe that
is the whole point?

Post-script

I want to be blunter, sharper,
hotter. To provoke,
to burn, to sear your
insides with words.

I want to stop
bargaining, with
God, the archangels,
and the universe (I want
to know where
to put my faith
and rest there, as if
I were already
in heaven).

I want to stop
offering to be better,
kinder, and more loving
to my body, in return
for a benign
biopsy result, as if
rewards only come
to those who live
the worthiest of lives.

I want to stop
trying to trace a line
from A to B,
mark out a trail and
follow the breadcrumbs
as if finding an X
will lead to the gold-
en cure or somehow,
at least,
give reason to the
reasonless, the random and
the inexplicable.

Like, maybe, I haven’t
eaten enough green and diverse
fruits and vegetables, or done
enough cardio exercise that
really got my heart rate up,
or maybe I spent too many years
smoking menthol cigarettes
and losing my mind
in alcohol infused binges,
or is it because
I stressed too much,
worked too hard,
and drank in pain
like I was swallowing
water. Or maybe I just
waited too long to
have my babies,
and spent too long
holding anger, instead,
so finally it found a spot
to set up permanent home,
in my breast. Or maybe,
I kept too many ‘bad’ secrets
that weren’t mine
to keep, or maybe
I just never
loved myself enough.

Or maybe, it’s like
my nine year old son,
the oldest, and sweetest,
poet I know,
just said,
‘why do people
have to die, it’s so unfair
and so easy, you could
get hit by a car
or a bus, or a
missile.’

(Post-script: it was benign)

Lost and Found

The light turns,
I gently press my
foot to the metal
and pull away on
automatic pilot.
Moments pass as if
I’m in one
of those movies where
time has paused, and
I am the only one
continuing on
against a silent backdrop
of animated stillness.
I am abruptly returned
to the intersection
of my body’s
beating heart,
to time and space
colliding in the rush hour
of my mind. Relief
ensues, I slip into
the forward flow, where
my mind can return
to dissociating
from my body,
to making mess
and making mud
and making room
for endless mazes
with no way out
for zig-zag crossings
that miss the point,
for winding roads in
the dead of night,
where getting lost
and being found
face each other on
silent grass verges,
vying to become
the next
place of rest.

Revolution

Girls can do anything,
they said,
on A4 posters slung
around old
’80s classrooms
seducing our eager bodies
into believing
we were invincible.

You can have it all
they said
with their ’80s shoulder pads
broadening their
edges,
slimming their bottom
lines, making out
like those who
ruled the world.

Can you come
to camp, they said,
on this school trip, what’s
for dinner, did you sign
my form, make my lunch,
find my shoes, love
me unconditionally?

Did you answer
those emails, pay
those bills, mark
those assignments, work
your 40 plus hours, but don’t
switch off your email,
ever,
they said.

How come, they say,
you’re so busy
out of breath
tired
grumpy
exhausted
unhappy
crying in the bathtub
beyond
the edge of reason?

Why don’t you just
get more sleep
take a day off
start a fitness regime
drink green smoothies
do more yoga
work less, do less, stress less,
they say,

as if they somehow knew,
but didn’t really
know at all, that the
not so secret answer
to breaking
that grim and gritty grasp
of capitalism,
lay in and around
the collective
curves and contours,
of that fierce and aching
body
of all the world’s
women.

#diveintopoetry  with jenaschwartz.com

’til the cows come home

It has been some time (2 years!) since I have posted on this blog and I thought it might be fun to begin again, as I’m sure many lapsed bloggers do at this time of year.  Hello again to anyone who might still be out there, at the other end of this post. I hope this finds you well and still enjoying poetry 🙂  This piece was inspired during a 2 week online writing group with the supreme writing promptress and beautiful poet, Jena Schwartz.

image from theberry.com

 

Writing Mantra

This body expects to know
what it wants to know
before it delivers its first blow
to the blank, expectant page.

This body holds fear
it will not know
what it wants, or needs, to say.
Fear, it will be wordless, stilted, confused,
unintelligent.

This body expects much.
It does not tolerate
poor quality, low quantity.
It worships perfection
on first attempts.

But, for now,
my body exudes
the impatient anticipation
of an anthropologist
excavating ancient tombs
for the first time.

But, for now,
my body bring compassion
to its well-worn fear. Kindness,
to its lofty expectations.
Openness, to its teachings.

But, for now,
my body radiates desire
for imperfection
and messy first drafts.
Listening and waiting,
for words to imprint
in spaces void of judgement.

Truth telling

Places and spaces
call forth
the art of truth telling,
once resisted
in favour of silence keeping,
in favour of
falling down
and curling up
under a hard shell
of resentment,
in favour of keeping
stum and keeping
quiet
and keeping a lid
firmly closed
on all that glitters.
No cracks to let the light in.

Places and spaces
offer up openings,
beckoning one at a time
with arms outstretched,
they make
no promises of survival,
say it, say it, say it
they chant
no care for outcomes,
only that you live
in truth with yourself,
only that you risk
that which is worth risking,
your heart, your soul, your words.

Places and spaces,
where words demand,
that you allow them
to rise up and
spill over
the edge,
into that
wide open abyss
where you can’t yet see
how they will be caught,
and you can’t yet hear
the soft thump
of their landing,
and you can’t yet know
the poems they will make
or the tears that will fall
or the love you will feel,
beyond the thunder
of your beating, bleeding heart,
as slowly, purposefully, painfully,
syllable by syllable
word by word,
you follow the geese,
the tortoise, the godwits
and all of those who have
gone before,
and begin the long,
and necessary,
journey
towards home.