Monthly Archives: June 2012

Some days

Some days 
it feels like
she is the open wound
of the earth,
red raw and bleeding,
washed over and over
by the salty sting
of falling rain.

Cut, grazed and bruised
by a universal pain
that takes a child 
from its mother
or a father from his sons
before they have barely
begun
to talk about this life.

Some days
she doesn’t know how 
to stop 
the bleeding, or
tend the wound
or how 
to pretend anymore
it doesn’t hurt.

Some days
it is all she can do
to butter the bread
put on a smile,
fall into bed,
and practice being
grateful
for it all.

Advertisements

Out in this world 

Multiple voices perform
          out of tune
Their noise is painful
      to her ears
       and heart
Skin, too thin
     to shield her
          from arrows

The space between 
    this self
and the one they perceive
         her to be, 
feels
    v a s t  a n d  w i d e

The space between
   this self 
and the one she hoped 
      to be, 
feels
    v a s t  a n d  w i d e

She seeks only retreat
    and trusts that
  wisdom, and compassion
      will arise
  in the emptiness 
       of this space.

Connective Tissue

This in-between has got under her skin,
it is the dermis, the layer beneath –

made of connective tissue and sensory nerves.
It has become like a light

and she is the moth, who cannot 
help but fly into it.

She knows too, she dwells in that space
with the writing of this, as the words 

fall like a sun shower, only to dry up
as quickly as they once poured.

Are there moments of being
there, or here? Of starting, or arriving

of beginning, or ending? Or is there only
birth and death, and everything

in between?  It has caught her, this space
like a fish in a net, struggling to move. 

A place of transition, this not-here
nor there, a borderland between yesterday 

and tomorrow, vast and open
for as far as the eye can see.

She thinks of transition, and recalls
that worst part of labour before birthing

her children, and recalls 
the rattly sound of his breath

the agitated flailing of his body
before death mistakenly took him.

And she wonders, is it important, does it matter,
so what? To be left in a lurch, or

sat in a slump, to be forever left 
in the waiting room (of Dr Suess).

Does it matter what’s there? Does anyone 
care to know the pain of a labour, or

the agony of those sounds and sights 
that pre-empt death? Or the stories 

of traversing the vast sandy desert, or 
climbing the steep mountain track?

And I think, these are the  processes 
that take us, shape us and make us,

the in-between of this way and that,
of this self and the other.

Does it matter where I am? In between
the old and the new, reaching for one

while holding the other, moving between,
unsure, not knowing, reaching backwards

and forwards, outwards and inwards,
sinking and rising.  

So I embark on this journey 
of migration, navigating through

the borderlands, working the hyphen
between this self and an other. 

I have one hand on before, 
one hand in the after,

as I move into 
the multiplicity of possibility,

my heart in my mouth
my feet on the ground

no flying above
no shortcuts below,

with only the breath of wondering 
to guide my way.