Edge Of Evening

I find myself kneeling

at the edge of evening

watching the light sink deeper

into night time’s heavy weight parchment.

A blot of sun’s fading

song remains here and there

pushing through unexpectedly

at decreasing intervals until eventually

they are all subsumed

by indigo’s depth and only

a smattering trail of silver stars

remain upon the sky. I dip my brush carefully

into the gold and red,

paint Jupiter and Saturn

colliding underneath a sliver

of old moon. She is chasing the sun

but will never catch him.

If you listen carefully

you can hear her plaintive call -

the voice of the perpetually heartbroken.

#vsspoem

Image by Wild0ne at Pixabay 

Snow

It doesn’t snow here very often
but when it does it’s bitterly cold
the kind of cold that blows up your jumper
and won’t leave no matter how many layers you pile on,
the kind of cold that whistles deep into your ear drums
and lays a fearsome frost on all your extremities.
 
A cold that constantly whips around your exposed forehead
chattering noisily though you can never make out
a cognizant sound never mind a word. So much chatter
but nothing to go on, nothing to ease the chilling pains.
A distant cold that will never explain itself clearly
but will insist on mustering on dolefully
 
muttering between incoherent grumps and groans
making you feel as though you were to blame
for all this damn coldness freezing your fingertips
scorching your tongue on the too hot hot chocolate he gave you.
The kind of cold that watches your tears roll
and has nothing to say to them..

The kind of cold that leaves without due courtesy
leaving you wondering if you truly exist
or are just a fragment of the cold’s imagination,
or your own - and who are you anyway, with or without the cold?
It starts of as just a few falling flecks
that you could easily dismiss as rain -
 
unpleasant but to be expected, then, before you know it
the ground is covered in slippery gloom and white fear settles
on the roof of your heart, your mind’s pavements
turn invisible underneath the grey slush,
and in the sorry light of a streetlamp
a torrent of frosty flakes tumbles senselessly
 
around the corners of this wretched afternoon.
You turn indoors, turn away, tear your mind from ice
to less overwhelming matter, wipe away
remaining tears, find a tissue to mop up the snuffles,
blow out the whole day, inhale a breath of silence
and feel grateful that it doesn’t snow here very often.

Twilight Robbery

I feel wine’s mellow madness on my tongue

already too soon on my tongue as I swallow the passing day

stale cheese biscuit crumbs attempt to cover the floor

sustenance dried out, cracked down to the core

I feel the moonlight soft on my face already

too soon on my face as I measure the fading day

spoonfuls of lost time spill from clumsy lips

a lifetime of regret sits heavy on the hips

I took the medicine and drank the green juice

attempted to follow the guidance of shams

I sit in the last light and count all my thumbs

pick out the cherries from amongst today’s crumbs

I took tea with a druid, his cookies were fresh

I lay in the red tent, held by spirit, flew free

entranced in the moment, did not hear time’s call

at the end of the day I’d give a fig for some more

Blue is receding, kidnapped by Evening

she doesn’t want to leave but is too tired to fight

and here comes Night with her wine and deep sighs

I’ll gather them up, look her straight in the eyes

say I know you are bound by the moon and the sun

but can’t you be late, hold off, just for once?

she laughs in my face, throws open her cloak

coats my sky in a darkness too strong to revoke

so I’ll open the wine, pour a glass of regret

drown all my yearnings for the day to return

let Night have her way for just a few hours

till Morning releases my Blue from her powers

Song Of The Moon by Helen Laycock

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I read this lovely little book by Helen Laycock over a wild, windy and damp caravanning trip and was readily transported away from the persistent rain to the world of Izzy and her mysterious neighbour. When Mrs Moonsong disappears, it's up to Izzy and her cousin Joe to find her.
As well as having a delightfully entrancing cover, Song Of The Moon is an engaging tale with instantly relatable characters, beautifully painted scenes, believable situations and an exciting story-line that keeps the pages turning. I'm looking forward to reading it again with my 6 year old.

View all my reviews

Anyone But Me

Joy Crookes presents Anyone But Me.. - Episode #2 With Kate Nash | Part 1 

This conversation is very pertinent, highly intelligent, super real and oh, so moving. As well as discussing the potential dangers of our technological addictions and how global lockdown has affected creativity, Joy + Kate articulate beautifully what it is to be female in 21^st century ‘Western civilisation’ and how in a male-run world it can be so incredibly difficult to be true to ourselves, to express ourselves without being derided or damaged in some way, or to even come to the realisation that the self we are forced to project is not who we really are.

Despite huge obstacles both women have courageously risen to the challenge and here they share their experiences of overcoming trauma, getting back to themselves and the things in life that really matter as well as finding ways to live in a way that feels more genuine and meaningful.

An intelligent, inspiring and highly recommended listen for young women, older women, men who have daughters, men who have mothers / aunts / nieces / female friends in their lives – yes, that’s everyone.. 

Part 2 coming soon x

Prepare to roar, weep and feel the love in Part 2 here.

I Do Not Accept Drinks From Disapproving Men (A Hymn)

You got me when I was not looking, charged along the track without a warning

With unintended force you crashed into my calm

Pushed me to the very edge, I know you meant no harm

And I trust your well-meaning, your kindness-filled desire

To oil the machinations of us, to lift us ever higher

To clarify and reinstate our stations, yet I fell at every word you mentioned.

His words hit like a bowling ball - a strike for him, nothing for me at all

Knocked down with a clean fast sweep, tangled mess, feelings in a heap.

Winded, empty, helpless, confused, his meagre message left me bruised

Faux kindness ripped my soul to shreds, insides exposed, aching, raw and red

And no-one wants to see that - who wants to see that?

The entrails of despair and pain, pieces of gut chewed over and again

Till only sad acrid bile remains, semi-liquid, half-baked frame

Unfulfilled body collapses in again, spark kicked out; fuse blown again.

The force of each blow radiates through brittle bone

Teased, torn and tingled, every sinew, muscle, tendon

Tender parts provoked to rage, tissue flutters in wild daze

With saddened shudder veins vibrate, each artery impaled with desperate ache

Sorrowful shivers sent to every atom, naked cells quake suspiciously

This deadly sense of poisoned void trips me, tips me, closer to insanity. 

You disapprove because you feel that I have taken your love for granted

But this is not true, I value you and the trust we both have planted.

He disapproves because, well, I don’t know, but the disapproval itself is clear

Amidst these howling winds it’s bitter taste is all I hear.

Your words made me feel I was a failure; his words make me feel I’m a fool

Either way I am undone and on this unworthy cold spring night

I know that loneliness has won.

All signs of renewal have been suppressed like the hyacinth, forget-me-nots and starflower

She picked from the garden to comfort me with stems cut too short for water

Slow sacrifice to the drowning maid, instead, with attentive care we laid

White here, yellow, blue and purple there, petals pressed firm on to the page

Faces peer up as pages come down - crushed the life out of their colourful ways

Pushed and pressed to preserve past beauty, to keep them safe, these sorry souvenirs

Of what once was. Forget me not, but I know you will. And he will too I fear

(and would it have been worth it after all?)

Beneath love’s dark waves I am slipping, slipping, falling, drowning gasp of ocean air

Fills tired lungs, ache from crying, soothed by grave waters, suffocating

With death’s silent scream narrating.

All this love and no hope of salvation; all this love and no air to breathe

Not in these slow murky whirling depths, slowly strangled by malicious weeds.

All this love and no arms to cling to; all this love and no lips to kiss

No fingers to caress each moment, soothe with undulating bliss.

No heart to accept love and reciprocate feelings, to embrace and hold and welcome it home

Drowning with all these other lovers in all this love, yet I am here, alone.

We’re all alone with our unique obsessions, each lonely soul in its private passion

All this love and not a drop to drink; all this love our poor hearts to sink.

I want to scream ‘fuck off!’ at you, to push you away, away, away

Because the distance I already feel is more than I can bear today.

I want you gone because I need you here and I cannot have it my way

To have you here, it is forbidden, and what would our neighbours say?

I need to delete your omnipresence, unsubscribe from your daily views

Unfollow your voice on my video feed, block every last trace of you

Because you can do nothing for me now.. (it’s just me and the pain, again)..

His voice shakes. Is he laughing or crying? I can no longer tell, perhaps I never could

Perhaps all I knew were guesses at best - mere approximations of hopefulness

My heart harboured for him, from him, to you, to him, of you, of him

For you, from you and him, and you..

Can I only live this life if I erase him? How can I possibly live without you?

There is air on the surface, that much I know.

But for now, on this loneliest of nights

I will sink to the bottom and forget how to breathe.

The Room, Part 1

I felt haunted by the maddening fever of Charlotte Gilman’s Yellow Wallpaper from the moment I was handed the paperback book in sixth form English class. I can still remember the dusky faded lemon cover that seemed to emit dust and sorrow from every papery pore. The smell of sadness, hopeless entrapment, filled my school-girl nostrils and nothing ever felt or smelt quite the same after that moment. Perhaps, not so deep down, a part of me knew that one day I’d find myself in a room of my own – not expansive and freeing like the space advocated for so earnestly by Virginia Woolf, but restrictive and binding, as slowly suffocating as Gilman’s lonesome character’s room.

I am not trapped here by any supercilious, arrogant, self-righteous, ignorant or fearful man, or indeed by a patriarchal society that wishes me to remain silent and insignificant as all good women should do. Patriarchal suppression may be highly analogous of my situation, but it is not that, at least not directly that, which keeps me here.

On the screen-that-is-often-nearby, I watch Ben Whishaw play Ben Coulter, the unfortunate boy incarcerated for a crime he did not commit, or at least, we and he are fairly certain he did not do the murderous deed, but perhaps he simply cannot or will not remember what actually took place.

I find myself in similar situ, imprisoned for some deed or thought that I do not recall, and am most probably quite innocent of, and would remain so if it were not for the infernal, distinctly chiding voice that crows louder with each new dawn.

‘It’s all your fault

You are to blame

So, suck up your punishment

Accept your shame’

If there is always a cause for each effect as the tech-heads in Alex Garland’s DEVS proclaim, then perhaps somewhere along the pitiful line of my younger life something I did or failed to do, something I said or did not say, even perhaps a thought that entered my mind may have led to this particular set of circumstances. Perhaps a series of actions and inaction, or conversations had and silences kept, or thought processes that did or didn’t take place, allowed a portal between two (or more) multiverses to open up and one feed into another enabling this sorry state to begin to manifest itself, slowly but surely, painfully creating this extraordinary mess I find myself in.

Perhaps it was always meant to be this way, was decreed by the gods, ordained by the stars that I would one day find myself here. Perhaps it was always going to be thus, regardless of anything I said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do. Perhaps my wilful, desperate, pleading, bleeding thoughts had nothing to do with it – with this chaos. Perhaps I have no control whatsoever over this reality. 

The idea of a kind of fate or destiny offers a morsel of relief and acceptance at times of depletion. Mostly, however, I find it difficult to accept this as a valid, pre-ordained fate – a particular set of circumstances chosen by the universe or multiverse or by a divine being or even by my own pre-human-self to live through. And endure. If it didn’t kill me first.

I’ve always loathed the story of Job – his endless suffering on top of suffering seems so futile and wasteful. What is or was the point of all that pain? The physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual breaking of a human life? To what end? And for what purpose?

I feel the weight of sorrows – not all my own, lying heavily upon these bony shoulders. A weight far heavier than one human, one woman ought to bear. But we do, don’t we? Women have bourne the world’s weight on our shoulders, heads, and broken backs for time immemorial just as surely as we have born the next generation and the next and the next within our cruelly despised, scorned, and suppressed bodies.

Is it any wonder I found myself on the 5 mile trudge to school at the tumultuous and torturous age of 15 or 16, crawling along the pavement, dragging grazed knees after each all consuming push forward of an elbow, first one, then the other and hope that the legs will follow along behind..

I recall reading with shock and fascination about Clara from the Heidi stories who cried so much her tears eventually dried up. Or was it Helen Keller? I’m not sure now. But I do remember the tears. The flooded years of almost constant crying. Wretched, unbidden flows. Sorrow's salty sting covering my face, falling into my lap, saturating sleeves, exercise books, pillows and endless nights. The acres and acres of heart-breaking grief. The pull and pull of gut-wrenching emotions – confused, liberally churned out, more liberally stuffed and packed deeply inside – layer upon layer of sadnesses forming an unpalatable sky-high dessert of melancholy or an impossibly tall pile of mattresses all trying unsuccessfully to protect me from the pain of that one solitary, bright-green pea. The lentil sprouting in the darkness, taking root and multiplying itself like bacterium, sending spores out through the sleeping strata. As quickly as I discovered or imagined a new layer of duplicitousness to protect me from my self, the pea spores would pick their way through each make-believe layer, each over-thought barrier designed to cushion the blow but failing badly every time, consequently trapping me with their wily wicked ways. I was stuck, like Sandra Bullock, in the web. A matrix of numbers, indecipherable digits and figures closing in on my wild nature, suppressing any semblance of free-will, tearing down any illusions of freedom and choice.

Was it always this way? Have I always been nothing more than a single digit in an endless equation? A piece of code that I will never be able to fathom? I cannot believe that, not wholeheartedly anyway. And yet, here I am. A single being, maybe only a half-being, flashing away in analogue mode, thinking that I must be making a difference, effecting some form of positive change, when all the while, the truth is that I mean nothing more than a single grain of desert sand, one miniscule drop in an ocean more vast than I could ever imagine…

Dark Moon Rising

Dark Moon Rising - Part I

The time has come
The end is nigh
Come sweet magic
Fly away, fly..

All the eggs are leaving their basket
Carry me away in a wicker casket
Float me gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, this is no dream

The death of fertility comes with a sigh
No more twinkles in their fathers' eyes
And I who once was so forgiving
Bid adieu to the Queendom of Living

My grandmother's eggs and her mothers' too
Carried my patterns in prints of deep blue
She was no sucker, would take no nonsense
And yet, and yet .. the stories she told us...

In the womb the children come and go
We searched for them high and sought them low
Knew all the while that the schedule was restricted
Only those in the know, knew how to read it.
We looked to the stars and prayed for a reason
Cried for the moon, her bindings to loosen.
We hoped for a miracle, paid cash for a glimmer
Should we turn up the heat or just let it simmer?

In the womb the children come and go
We seek them high, we feel so low
My children's voices, our children's songs
Reverberate and echo through constellations.
Fiery lights that once burned bright
Can no longer hope to draw the night
And yet, I still hear their distant voice
Our cosmic ties leave me with no choice.

Now Luna turns her face from me
And I'm falling, dragged down to my knees
Pleading for another chance, just one
Before this bloody moon is gone.
An ache ripples dread around my heart
Pulls at the strings, rips soul apart
Is there any way I can have just a little more time?
Can the dream of three ever truly be mine?

My body pushes away from the spine
Pulls at the tendons and bindings divine
Tears flesh as tears fall in silent refrain
How will I ever feel whole again?
Red heat abounds, makes a deafening roar
Knows that the future can be no more
What we imagined and hoped it to be
Three and four magpies have flown from the tree.

A Harmless Lullaby

I can’t get out of bed she says,
I’m scared of Mannequin.

Mannequin sighs from ‘neath red wool hat
which Daddy placed on top
to hide the two neck bolts
that sometimes look like eyes.

At night-time whilst she sleeps soft
Mannequin comes to life
her fixed form glows
under moon enchanted,
bends and dips,
her one leg glides
‘cross bedroom floor,
bags sway like arms
in time to starry chorus
a constellation of notes work fire on dark skies
as Mannequin’s song sings soft -


‘Sleep soundly little one
There is no need to fear me
When this night is done dear one
Those night dreams will prove only
Flights of pure fancy little one
An imaginative journey
And when the moon is gone dear one
You’ll think nothing of me
A tall, silent mannequin
Single leg and no real arms
But I will watch over you little one
And keep you safe from harm.’

#VSS365 #VSSPoem 7thFeb2020

The Memory Of Ice

Inspired by Robert Macfarlane’s Word Of The Day tweets – Thrift (9Sep2019) + Roches Moutonnée (12Sep2019)

The roches moutonnée of her body
carry the scars and wounds
love etched across her curves
year after year
a living tattoo endlessly redrawn -
ink stained skin
blood soiled flesh
pain chiseled bone
charcoal burnt heart
belly drawn in fear
dead air sub-scribed into lung’s expanse..

Love, pushes and pulls continuously -
frail sediment forced to callous rock
stretching emotion toward eternity
patience pounded into pebbles
stray pieces to trip and falter.

Stoss remembers climbing
feet slipping over loose fragments
eyes searching desperately
for a summit in the ever-changing horizon.

Lee recalls treacherous falls from high places
the tumbling and stumbling of wingless flight
as love threw her blind
into the downpour of electric lust
desire scrambling for air
as the ground slipped away beneath..

A woodland of steady shadows
provides some shelter -
a darkness she can cling to
something to lean on momentarily.
Cool oasis where the charmed wagtail
flutters, whistling an enchanted tune -
beguiling guide. She follows his trail
faithfully into the open meadow
where, exposed to sun’s harsh glare,
her will melts into fragility.
Sleep sirens sing haunting lullabies
tender temptations to tarry awhile
but she must push on and on and on
down a nasal cliff
up to a sting of lashes.

Rock face holds the secrets
of deep embodied senses
places of insight second to none
of famished taste buds, bittersweet
nostalgia’s aroma on feedback loop
the memory of ice
and silence
falling
clumsily
amidst the buzz and hum
drifting across thrift
sinking into salt-water
those tangy edges
where luna rules all
and the body yields
undone.

In these places
her heart calls out
through calciferous layers
multitudinous epochs,
aches for kind containment
sings aloud a song of sorrow
for what was once and now no more can be.
She remembers rivers that once flowed freely -
a course of cool passion through gushing veins,
streams that fed her unquenchable thirst
quelling each florid flame, just enough,
joyful waterfalls cascading eminence
luminous drops of contented desire
endless ripples proclaiming an innocence
skimming the surface in unfettered delight.

But these are dreams that can no longer be
for love will not let her rest casually.

A Farewell To Arms

Spinning around the liminal spaces
pushed towards an edge
she finds herself outside herself

watching
listening intently
as her lips - her own lips transferred onto this other -
open
in slow
distorted
motion -

See
you
soon

The words tumble out precariously
as the world holds collective breath ..

And it feels as though these words
might never before have been uttered 
never before in this world ..

A silver-spangled brand-new phrase -
this collection of letters and sounds
flown in by cosmic forces
at this precise moment
to be extracted for the very first time
from human lung and throat
uttered for the very first time
by human mouth
this delicate triptych, for the very first time 
is heard by human ear
laid gently, insistently, for the very first time
upon human mind and heart

The tone sounds familiar and nostalgic
recollections spin like dancing plates
hurled at break-neck speed
down the staircase, across the hall

But each word is a novel occurrence
tied together with silver string
gilded with stardust
as though they alighted here from some distant galaxy
sending soothing signals
out into the great unknown

An utterance of such simultaneous profundity
sits alongside an air of nonchalance
perfectly juxtaposed for higher definition audio

Three words

They fall upon us both
shroud my mouth
cloak your ears
in hopeful, strange delight
sprinkled with a smatter of tense anticipation

You drink in the surprising nectar
swill each syllable inside your heart
before cautiously allowing the echo
reverberating inside your chest
to spin upwards to your throat
as your mouth on autopilot
repeats
the same
three
words

See
you
soon

A slow
drawn out
poignant yet forgettable disengagement
of bodies first
then arms, wrists,
hands, until finally
just two fingers remain intact
clutching tightly

ramparts guarding resolutely against the passing of time

But time will not be stopped

Let go Let go

Just for now
until we meet again..

Edge Of The World

I sit at the edge of the world

waiting for the end

will it come fast or slow?

if she's here, will she know

what to do if I drop

and won't wake up?

I sit at the edge

wait for the end (of the world)

this bed provides comfort

but it's not my friend.

outside grows greyer

I screen it away

blindness protects

from the harshness of day..

I sit at the edge of the world

wait for the end

will I choke on the blood

or the vomit or bile?

will it be instantaneous

or go on for a while?

will it hurt or feel dreamy?

will my last cries be heard?

I sit at the edge

wait for the end of the word

I had it here somewhere

the perfect reprise

a shimmering spirit

who giddies the skies..

I sit at the end

and wait for the courage (to take me..)

I suppose I ought to add a little something about this pieces's provenance just in case anyone is concerned: 

Dealing with chronic pain and more than one defined ongoing illness can often, for me at least, bring up a sense of something that could be insensitively described as a vivid dose of hypochondria or, more sympathetically, as an acute awareness of death's ever reaching fingers drawing close - making it's presence felt through an increased intensity of usual symptoms with additional new strains of discomfort - a seemingly random pulsing vein here, an occasional eye twitch there and/or some unusual stomach spasms for example. Perhaps at night there is also a feverish heat emanating from the neck rising to the lower skull..

All these happenings can easily conspire to make one think about the inevitability of leaving this life and act as a reminder that the departure board can change it's details of time, destination, even mode of transport, any time it pleases. There are no guarantees and (as was made abundantly clear in the small print) any deposits made are unlikely to be refunded.

Whilst it is seldom enjoyable to ponder these things for any extended period of time, I feel sure that acknowledging the existence and inevitability of death is a healthier way to live than denial and pretence.. Perhaps.. 

Maybe this is all subjective. Besides, my intention was to explain that Edge Of The World is a poem that comes from this kind of pondering rather than any desire to deliberately accelerate the process or indeed charter one's own private train to Elsewhere. I hear cancellations and delays are forecast anyway..

Until next time, may your days be filled with love & kindnesses :) xx

And To Make An End...

...For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning...
T.S. Eliot

For those of us who tend to over-think almost everything, have an inbuilt obsession with attaining an unattainable perfection, and seem hell-bent on criticising every aspect of our tortured selves on a regular basis, the end of a year can feel like an impossibly difficult time. 

The expectation that everything will and should change for the better, is difficult to avoid. The predilection for ruminating on the past year's 'failures' and less than successful projects and relationships is rife and often overwhelming. As Charlotte Carpenter so succinctly puts it in her beautiful song Another Year - "...this trip around the sun, it ain't easy..."



I watch myself going through all these fears, disappointments and anxieties year after year and only seem to add to the chaotic mix of chemical imbalances by attempting to stop feeling the feelings that cause such pain but ultimately cannot be undone by undoing.

Having, by no small miracle, begun to put into practice the probably life-long lesson of allowing feelings - whether they feel helpful or less so - to flow through unhindered throughout this past year, I imagined that this year end would be less painful than the previous. Yet despite putting mental, emotional and situational safety barriers in place, I've found the crossover from 2019 to 2020 just as exhausting and full of disappointment with myself, one or two unfortunate others and with life itself.

Putting the past behind us as Eliot suggests in the wonderful quote above (and elsewhere in his Four Quartets piece), is no easy task and takes huge amounts of courage and trust in the eternal process of change. 

The idea of calling an end to one way of being and thereby allowing a new way to come forth, however, is very appealing and resonates loudly in my soul. Thus, I have allowed myself the miserable luxury of spending the day (and much of the previous night) immersed in all the sadness that came skulking out of the new year woodwork, ruminating over unhelpful thoughts and disappointments whilst simultaneously attempting to employ the art of observing feelings without too much judgement. 

It's been a long day but I feel ready to make an end and let the beginning roll in. I hope you do too.. x


P.S. The following extract from Burnt Norton, Part 1 of Eliot's Four Quartets (perhaps not intentionally) sums up the feelings of fear and anxiety that, perhaps necessarily, hang over this time of year poignantly. I also like how it (definitely unintentionally) evokes the Twittersphere quite beautifully.

...Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world...