every day creativity 2

a ruby stone

2011-01-05T15:23:00.002Z

rustling red leaves
glint like rubies
along the wire fence

Morning

2010-12-12T22:49:00.001Z

Orange

2010-12-12T22:48:00.000Z

Tis the season

2010-12-12T22:47:00.001Z

These past few days

2010-12-12T22:45:00.001Z

Catching Up Again

2010-12-12T22:43:00.001Z

Catching Up

2010-12-12T21:51:00.002Z

The London Years

2010-12-03T22:03:00.000Z

This Weather

2010-12-02T21:49:00.002Z

Into the Last Month

2010-12-01T23:29:00.002Z

Haunted

2010-11-30T22:14:00.002Z

Haunted by the beauty of her words,
I walk around looking for meaning.
Such pain she sang
with such joy. The smile
that plays across her lips,
the light from her eyes.
Haunted by the beauty of her words,
I let them lie and step
around them, never to look back.
But she will come again,one
night, while I am in New York
and I won't be able to walk away,
haunted by the beauty of her words.

Next Steps

2010-11-29T21:26:00.002Z

Complete the washing.
Clean the kitchen floor.
Email the TV man.
Draft proof the back door.
Send out the Christmas cards.
Order the turkey.
Send in the application.
Settle baby for sleep.
Buy the drinks and nibbles.
Bake the rock buns and scones.
Research those abstract artists.
Buy the hubbie's new shirt.
Finish reading that chapter.
Finish redrafting that poem.
Finish preparing for that reading.
Go in the bath and then to bed.

The Wanted

2010-11-28T21:55:00.003Z

Sometimes I can almost see, around our home,
like moths around a porch light at night,
the people who could have come between us,
the jagged outline of them.

Sometimes I sense them waiting, hanging
back in the shade - eager bed-fellows
watching for the cracks to enlarge.

Sometimes I see them lying like rose petals
scattered across a four-poster bed, inviting.

And sometimes, like tonight, by the gale
force wind, I can hear just one of them,
calling out from the edge of the sea,
in the dark, calling out
desperately for me.

Blame the Night

2010-11-28T00:46:00.003Z

He kisses me as he returns. While I,
still half-asleep, moan and curl into

the smooth surface of his side
thinking of the beach I knew as a child,

the soft sand through my hands and my toes,
curving in to meet his body here.

I never hear him enter.I think he eases
the bedroom door, I think, as though unsure

pull off his shoes and socks, and crawls
beneath the sheets, his arm heat against my back,

our heart rates slow to rest. Perhaps
all good-nights should whisper like a summer breeze

and then the falling into a deep sleep, together
with the full bodied smell of love.

On the Run

2010-11-28T00:42:00.002Z

Thoughts on the run.
Morale decline.
Mental disorder.
Portraits of the internal world,
away from the charts and reports.
No more words just images.
A langauge there to understand
the illness.
Recovery and return to society.

A Mother's Care

2010-11-28T00:38:00.002Z

The core of the group.
The primary hunter of the pride.
The cubs are safe.

Missed a few days

2010-11-28T00:34:00.002Z

Autumn Rose

The last summer rose
surrounded by autumn leaves,
coming of the snow.

Shadorma

2010-11-23T22:02:00.002Z

She dances with
the ghosts of her past,
with heels
and flared skirt.
Clicking the beat, swaying hips,
merging worlds once more.

A Journey

2010-11-23T21:33:00.002Z

A journey of contrasts
along the cobbled streets.
Green, black and red
children play in a multi-
cultural sea of homes.

Rundown and basic, lacking
space, under the metallic
banging of the clock.
Life is just a ghostly
reminder.

When The Night Has Come

2010-11-21T23:02:00.002Z

When she can't sleep, she wanders the house.
She notes the colours on the walls;

this one pale blue, that pewter,
one navy to make the purple move,
and one darker than that.

This night only the wind has
its say, whispering and close.

When morning comes
she chooses a white dress

and presses the lining down.
She takes breakfast standing up.

She stands by the window longer than one should,
looking down the road for dust.

I know she believes in love
even if it's the kind you can't see.

He says he will come back from
the big city after he's followed his dreams.

She talks of her plans,
with a silk rose in her hair.

When I the night comes again
she's caught beneath a streetlamp

turning her palms over, open
to the moon, like a offering a gift.

The night comes down around her
she turns in the dark.

She smiles, blue flower in her hair,
blue dress clinging fast, blue dust in the sky.

The Way We Were

2010-11-20T23:14:00.003Z

Whether it's right or wrong,
I'm going to do it.
I'm going to sit right here,
in the rocking chair
in the semi-dark of the nursery,
the only light a yellowy glow
from the street light outside the window.

Whether it's right or wrong.
I'm going to listen
to the pattering rain on the roof,
feel the cold breeze
coming under the door,
blowing about my toes,
with no slippers on.

Whether it;s right or wrong,
I'm going to gently rock
to and fro, cradling
my slumbering daughter
in my arms, and hum,
hum the only tune I can
thiink of; the way we were.

Alice

2010-11-20T23:12:00.002Z

Alice fell down a hole.
It was a hole in the ground.
It lead to another secret world.
Here she could be large or small.
Some days I feel like Alice.

The Crossing

2010-11-18T20:38:00.002Z

Should I be mother?
I used to caress their lips between words.
A row of raised dots run along my arc
like tribal markings.
Part of a the tea set used only for best
I fell from his hand as he missed the saucer.
I am a fragment of rose-tinted china,
jagged at the edges.
I came with Ruby over the ocean.

Tell me why, Sugar?

2010-11-17T20:31:00.002Z

I'm listening, take your time, Sugar.
Tell me why, you took the cookies
from the cookie jar, Sugar?
You know your father and I,
never let you want for anything.
If you want the birds from the trees
you know they'll be at the bottom
of your bed, come dawn.

So tell me why, Sugar, why
you had to take without asking,
like you not brought up proper?
Do we not feed you enough?
Do we not love you enough?
You know you have a special
place in our hearts, where you
just have to smile and you tug
it tight.

Tell me why, Sugar, why
you had your hand in that jar,
acting all sneaky and strange,
like you not part of this home,
like some thief in the night
setting up to steal everything
in sight? I'm listening. What?
Someone steal your tongue
or your mouth too full
of cookies to talk?

Sugar, I know I did not
pull you up to be so mean,
to be so disrespectful.
I've got a good mind to tan
your behind so its as black and blue
as blueberry pie. Come what do you
have to say for yourself.
What? You say your brother
put you up to it. Then Sugar,
come here, let me squeeze you tight,
and tell me why, Sugar, why?

What do you want to do?

2010-11-17T20:26:00.003Z

What do you want to do?
It won't work
We're too different.
We want differnt things.
What do you want to do?
You say you'll change
But nothing ever does.
You say you're sorry.
What do you want to do?
You say you want to move forward
Be the person you want to be
for yourself and me.
What do you want to do?
Stay or leave.
You decide but do it
for the right reasons.
What do you want to do?

If I lost the words ...

2010-11-15T23:22:00.003Z

The day I lose the words to speak to you
is the day I would say goodbye if I could.
If the words up and leave
without warning, I will be lost.
My mouth will open and nothing
will come out. I will be frustrated
I will be sad. Sad because we had
such beauty in the past. Now rubbed
out and forgotten. I can not
speak those words. Like the notes
never placed in the scale, I will
keep my mouth closed.

At the Crossroads

2010-11-14T23:09:00.003Z

They are a pair of dusty tracks.
Red clouds hovers over them.
As they cross, the path is worn.
I stand,my weight bearing down.
I hop from foot to foot.
Eyes wander down the right track.
Neck stretches down the other.
They both look alike in terms
of the unknown. I rest.
Stay put and then retrace my steps,
wondering how I got here.

Why didn't I post something sooner?

2010-11-14T00:02:00.002Z

Is it because it's the weekend
and the family comes first?

Or could it be because I had marking
to do, ahead of my pleasures?

Or was it the hours I spent in front
of the TV, attempting to deaden my brain?

Or is it because when I finally get to the computer
all inspiration has gone?

Or maybe, in all honesty, I think that I can cheat
time and squeeze more than 24 hours out of a day.

Winter Fruit

2010-11-12T19:56:00.002Z

After Strange Fruit

Winter trees bear little fruit.
Bare from leaves and tough at the root
Boney bodies swinging in the winter breeze
Little fruit hanging from the sycamore trees

Country scene of the bitter North
The huddled ewes and the neglected cows
Scent of frost, hard and harsh
Then the sudden smell of burning wood

Here is fruit for the gulls to pluck
For the rain to rot, for the wind to scatter
For the chill to freeze, for the trees to drop
Here is a cold and bitter winter.

No One Wants To Listen

2010-11-12T19:46:00.001Z

It's going to be difficult to complete.
There's a time issue here.
A case of logistics.
I know you're not listening
but I've still got to say it.

Lover

2010-11-10T19:45:00.003Z

He sends me a text
he's coming home.
The bus rounds the last
bend onto our street.

I put the heating on,
get the casserole out,
pop the kettle,
and find his slippers.

The wind blows the waves,
the sound crashes into
our windows, I see him
I smiles inside and out.

Slow Down

2010-11-09T22:38:00.000Z

going too fast
slow down

The Shaded Way

2010-11-08T21:52:00.003Z

I can remember when we used to walk along this path
and I would follow your shadow
agreeing not to stand in it.

And now I stumble into your presence,
as I try to avoid our silences
of years as our lives continued to flow.

At the end of our absences we will sit
in the shaded grove and talk,
chew the fat of our times together and apart.

I'm too tired now to keep the distance.
My heart in time will stop and I fear
it will not move again because of love.

Pro-Rest

2010-11-07T23:12:00.002Z

I'm all for a bit rest.
Morning , noon and night
If you can get it, take it.
I envy those lot who can
pcik and choose from a vastg
array of rest time.
It's not until your rest
is in jeopardy that you
come to value it.
Go rest, go!

Looking for Billie

2010-11-06T22:52:00.002Z

Each time I put your record on,
I surrender to your voice,
to the feelings you evoke.
I've never felt so lonely
as when I'm with you.

Your melancholy tone runs
through my blood to the bone.
Shades of blue I caress when
I'm with you. The change
that comes upon me, as I look
for the sun and see none.

As you voice continues to spin,
the threads of my life twist and bind
until I can't believe I've
lived it for so long, alone.
I try to leave you behind.
But my heart is torn.

My record continues to spin.

Theme in Orange

2010-11-05T22:48:00.002Z

On the last of October,
when dusk comes quickly,
I can make out the trees
with orange hands in autumn.
I skirt along the country lanes,
ruby and pumpkin gold clusters
are bittersweet.In the stubbled
field, children in masks, join
in a circle around me, singing,
taunting, raising dust and sin.
The harvest moon's open face
shines off their jagged teeth.
I crouch within the hollows,
shielding my eyes from burnt orange
hoping they are only fooling.

Rooms

2010-11-05T22:29:00.002Z

In my student days I took rooms.
Rooms within a house shared with others.
I kept to my room, kept to myself.
I was shy, reluctant to share my time
with strangers. Reluctant to give
a piece of myself away in passing.
These people were only shadows
in the long scheme of things.

I would enter the lounge at odd hours;
dead times, empty space.
I'd breathe in the life that was left,
filling up on company that way
rather than face to face.
Then I would hang around the kitchen
checking filled pots on the stove,
taking a spoonful here and there.

I used these bits of life to weave
stories, stories about these strangers.
They became the players in my writings,
the fillers of the pages.
Their voices I imagined and heightened
creating drama where there was silence.
This filled my days, my conversations.
I didn't think I would need anything more.

Hands

2010-11-03T22:39:00.004Z

Today, while rushing from one job to the next,
I catch a glimpse of my hands -
work worn hands, dry, creased
like an elephant's hide.
This is when it hits me how much they remind
me of my mum's hands. With this realisation
the other bits of the jigsaw fell into place.
My life mirrors her life.
My admiration of my mum soars.

Image: Doris Ulmann - Laborers hands

I'm Not Ready Yet

2010-11-02T21:18:00.003Z

Even though I am faded, worn and frazzled at the edges,
I'm not ready yet to be unused.

Even though I used to be spread over tables for family and friends,
I'm not ready yet to forget those times of joy.

Even though I can no longer hold hot or cold
I'm not ready yet to be put away.

Even though my threads are separating, letting in the light,
I'm not ready yet to give up.

Even though I am stained and beyond repair,
I'm not ready to leave my chores behind.

Give me one final wish: take the best part of me,
cut me into a small square and join me to something new.

Let me be there for a child in need of warmth
or a woman in need of something to lean on.

Even though you look upon me with vacant eyes,
I'm not ready yet to be laid to rest.

The End of Love

2010-11-01T16:21:00.003Z

The end of love should be a big event.
It shouldn't be dismissed by saying,
I'll get over it.
It's the end of a lifetime together.
It should be acknowledged, highlighted, dwelt upon.

I understand why people give advice
- move on and forget,start again, it's for the best.
But the end of love is a big event
that should be played out with a symphony
and applause at the Albert Hall.

The time I've spent cultivating, nurturing,
caressing, just plain holding love,
is time not to be brushed aside,
denied and forgotten.But these memories
should be relived, cherished, relished.

The end of love should be a big event
so I can go out in a blaze of glory
with friends and family standing as witness
as I kick up my heels, can-can
and sing at the top of my voice.

The end of love is a big event.
I'll invite the ex, just for spite.
It's a new chapter in my life,
one when I'm the one calling the shots
and ready for finding love again.

An Age ..

2010-10-30T23:26:00.002+01:00

It seems such an age since I've been here.
I was thinking about coming and then other things got in the way. But I recently purchased a book by Michael Atavar, How to be an Artist. And it is kind of inspiring me to get back into this making art everyday trip. So I'm going to renew by vow for the last few months of 2010 and see how I got.
I know there is a write a poem a day challenge starting in November, so it could be just another kick start I need.

Autumn

2010-10-22T23:47:00.002+01:00

Disappointed

2010-10-16T23:40:00.002+01:00

It's been a busy year. A year of achievements. And I know it isn't over yet. But I can't help but feel disappointed when I look at my posts here and see that there have been a lot missing over the months. There are holes in the whole. I could pull out the stops and try and double my postings to reach the correct number for the year but what would be the post. I don't think I would be true to my inner integrity with that action.
So I'll go on with how I have been going, posting when I can and try not to rate my year productivity by the number if posts on this blog. There will come a day near the end of this year when I will look back over my year's achievements and glow with pride at the long , very long list of things.

Intervals

2010-10-10T22:46:00.000+01:00

Out Walking

2010-10-07T22:36:00.000+01:00

Country Affairs

2010-10-05T21:22:00.002+01:00

A boy leads his dog through the long grass,
through rusting bed frames, water
licking at his ankles. Dandelion
clocks sink in the murky water,
sycamore planes with shiny lumps
float. At the bedroom window,
behind chintz curtains, the old
woman's watery eyes follow.
She tries to call.
Shreds of discoloured newspaper
rush upon the wintry breeze, but the boy
does not turn back.
The home help is on holiday, no one hears.
A forehead appears pressed against the pane.
She's moved in close to hear the tiny
murmurs, the garbled story, the lies.

Dear Friend

2010-10-04T22:01:00.000+01:00

Thursday 14 October, at the Lit and Phil from 7.30, I will be reading from Night’s Skin, a chapbook inspired by the recent birth of my daughter Ella Rose.
I would be most honoured if you could be part of the evening of celebration as it will also be a celebration of my 39th birthday ( Oct 13).
I would so like to share the evening with you.
Please let me know if you can make the evening.
Looking forward to hearing from you.

Facade

2010-10-03T22:01:00.000+01:00

The Fog

2010-10-02T21:51:00.001+01:00

She's got the whole world in her hand - part 2

2010-10-01T10:55:00.001+01:00

She's got the whole world in her hand

2010-09-30T18:43:00.003+01:00

Bliss

2010-09-29T22:00:00.001+01:00

Sanctuary

2010-09-27T19:15:00.000+01:00

Ruin

2010-09-26T21:19:00.000+01:00

First Walk to College

2010-09-24T14:55:00.002+01:00

Recipe for Abolition

2010-09-22T21:04:00.000+01:00

Begin with a bag full of guilt.
This will make the mixture bind.
Add a teaspoon of utmost spirits.
And an ounce of common sense.
Mix with thousands of kidnapped and captured people,
torn from their families.
For added miseries,
next stir in The Middle Passage,
or the auction block
in order to really whip the poor wretches.
Bake for centuries and generations of suffering.
Instead of warped blinded interests
serve with the realisation that slavery is wrong.

Portrait in a Series of Moments (5)

2010-09-16T21:12:00.002+01:00

She leaves, only once, with the water
running. She knows it will cause a scene.
But it feels good to get some release.
She'd be a fool to stay now that she knows.
She was always too good for him.

Portrait in a Series of Moments (4)

2010-09-15T22:18:00.002+01:00

Out shopping, she looks for orange
because the grey day is pressing.
Coats, bags, skirts and shirts in orange
will spread her smile and others
as she worries about the grey faces around.

Portrait in a Series of Moments (3)

2010-09-14T21:51:00.003+01:00

Applying hair removal cream to her top lip,
she uses wide smearing strokes.
She doesn't mind if she leaves it on
too long, or starts to feel the burn.
ANy redness she ca always cover it with makeup later.

Portrait in a Series of Moments (2)

2010-09-13T21:56:00.002+01:00

She's at the canvas, thinking about space.
She puts her brush into red and then in blue.
She mixes and keeps mixing way past purple
into the deopths of black.
Here she will stay as the canvas remains blank.

Lido

2010-09-09T21:23:00.001+01:00

Portrait in a Series of Moments (1)

2010-09-08T18:46:00.002+01:00

She eats a cherry or two. She savours their
sweet juice. The ruby-ness of their flesh
stains her lips, but that always happens.
She waits until she finds a mirror before
rubbing a clean tissue along her fleshy lips.

Nothing Between You and Me

2010-09-07T17:12:00.000+01:00

Earth decks herself with beauty everywhere;
a rolling mountain, grandly green,
I have seen and felt its glory; here,
black elegant crows, large, splendid
things, cling to electric lines.
And lines, water lines, raising
and falling over pebbles and stones.

Among these expansive lines, I have seen,
the sea of ancestors gone, pushing
and pulling black waves onto the empty
shore. Seeing you for the first time,
my bare feet in shallow waves, I know you.
With nothing between us, but the rocks;
come sun, some showers, come storms,
your power still is found.

After a lifetime of trying to sit still,
you soft black bowl of tides;
you and me are one, going home
again and again and again.

Priory

2010-09-06T19:36:00.000+01:00

Object

2010-09-04T17:19:00.002+01:00

My real name is slave.
Yesterday my name was free.
Today my name will be downtrodden.
Secretly, I know name is revenge.

September

2010-09-03T18:38:00.002+01:00

The Wave Off Kanagana

2010-08-30T22:15:00.002+01:00

After Katsushika Hokusai

In the car park outside Morrisons
while a cherry blossom mist rises
above the petrol station
wave after galloping horse wave
wash over mountains of carrier bags.
How the waves bend to belong
spraying polka dots as
the boot is slowly closed.

Things have gone to pot ...

2010-08-29T22:29:00.001+01:00

Difficult

2010-08-23T23:12:00.003+01:00

It's difficult being creative when you have a baby. I realise that now. Things are unpredictable. Things are basically out of my control. Once I accept this I will be happier and seize each moment for what it is. LIFE.

Marble

2010-08-20T00:25:00.000+01:00

On The Rocks

2010-08-16T21:18:00.001+01:00

Mind the Gap

2010-08-12T21:23:00.000+01:00

Seaside

2010-08-11T19:39:00.002+01:00

Paisley Abbey

2010-08-10T19:44:00.000+01:00

Holidays

2010-07-29T16:45:00.001+01:00

I'm getting ready to give myself a holiday.
Hopefully, I'll come back ready to complete this blog with gusto, as I have let things slide. And really don't have any enthusiasm for being here, hence the gaps in my postings.

Circle

2010-07-23T11:35:00.001+01:00

In the priory ruins,
the air, tight with heat.
Tourists wander around the graves.

Their children’s screams
disturb my solace,
circle my sheet of paper.

The breeze smears their hair.
The boy’s t-shirt clings to his back.
The girl’s hat tumbles over the grass.

This morning, a tiny ripple
in the scheme of things.
A seagull’s squawk, trap-toned

in a clean blue sky.
Our anniversary soon
and you said not to bother.

What is effort,
heartfelt or not heartfelt,
if not a question?

I push around clichés,
hope, together, forever
and go back to the beginning.

The boy rolls down the slope.
The girl bounces a ball over the edge.
Parents seize their freedom.

The space you have claimed,
smelling of cinnamon and winter,
is just around the bay.

You, in a creamy room,
your small hands –
washing, clicking, soothing, still.

Or you taking hushed comfort
in our large Dutch bed
before another stripped layer of skin.

Angel

2010-07-21T22:20:00.000+01:00

Russian Dolls

2010-07-19T22:43:00.000+01:00

Head Shot

2010-07-19T00:35:00.002+01:00

Here Comes The Sun

2010-07-10T13:44:00.001+01:00

Sunset

2010-07-08T21:19:00.002+01:00

Shame on Me

2010-07-07T22:50:00.003+01:00

I haven't been here since June. What have I been doing if not just living day to day.
It's difficult to see where the time goes when you have a newborn. I'm trying to keep sane, and keep a part of me , me. But it is difficult.
So many things are in the pipeline, just bubbling below the surface. I just need a little time to get my head around them. Or my hands onto them. It's a frustrating time in some sense and not in others.

Getting there ...

2010-06-20T15:05:00.002+01:00

Continuing Steps ...

2010-06-19T19:36:00.002+01:00

Wallpaper

2010-06-14T21:51:00.003+01:00

Steps of the project

2010-06-14T21:44:00.002+01:00

I keep forgetting ...

2010-06-14T21:43:00.001+01:00

I wasn't here all weekend and I have no excuse.
I was tired. I was busy and I did forget. I think not having to post in May has got me out of the habit of doing it everyday. Shame on me.
I will try a little note to self to be here every day. I'll try.

It has begun ...

2010-06-11T22:22:00.001+01:00

Missing Days

2010-06-10T23:37:00.003+01:00

Apologies to who ever reads these pages. I've been missing in action as I finalise my final project for my art course. The week has been a week from hell and it isn't over yet. Hopefully, I'll get the time over the weekend to tell you all about it.
Here's hoping.

Her True-True Name

2010-06-07T23:12:00.000+01:00

"Everybody knew what she was called, but nobody anywhere
knew her name. Disremembered and unaccounted for,
she cannot be lost because no one is looking for her,
and even if they were, how can they call her if they don't
know her name? Although she has claim, she is not claimed."

- Toni Morrison, Beloved, Ch. 28

Artist Statement

2010-06-07T00:29:00.001+01:00

Artist Statement

I do the work I do as a means of presenting how I see the world to others.

My goal is to get to know myself better, deeper, at the same time as communicating this, my world, to others. I have to feel passionate about the work I do in order to complete it to the best of my ability. Issues that influence my work are questions of identity, history and belonging on an individual level as well as on a collective level.

‘Try to Remember’ is a project that explores the essence of home.

Through public and private memories, the central focus of this installation is the representation of my childhood living room. Growing up 1970s Bradford with a Trinidadian father and a British born mother of African-Caribbean descent, special attention was given to the choices made in furnishing our living room. Certain objects carried particular significance and resonance for us in terms of personal, group and societal identities. For example, the crushed black velvet scroll depicting the islands of Trinidad and Tobago silently signified the land of my father’s birth, therefore did not need to be talked about. Yet far too much of this cultural heritage was left unsaid. This heritage as well as family photographs mingled with public images haunted my childhood of hopes and fears, dreams and nightmares.

I could explore the same themes over and over again within different art forms and mediums.

My current work stems from the research for my dissertation. The three African-American women artists I examined, each utilised text and images within their practise to explore immigration, settlement, race, identities, gender, hidden histories and family. Ultimately, their work questioned the underlying assumptions of the white established art world, claiming the power of the gaze to exhibit the black body in new and original ways and means.

This knowledge has added to my thinking and practise in terms of how to attempt to represent the black female body in a British context.

This project is extended through embracing the potential of New Media.

The actual, physical installation, ‘Try to Remember’, is accompanied by the online exhibition ‘Collected Memories’. Evoking that sense of time, place and togetherness through memories, even when miles apart, new and established writers were invited to respond to images with text. Creative participation around familiar content stimulated community formation and interactive user feedback, in turn, constructing new pieces of art and communication with each interaction.

I strive to make sure what I present is recognised as art.

I want my work to have artistic merit, to change the way people see the world rather than just presenting reality as it is.

The Blue Series Continues

2010-06-05T18:18:00.002+01:00

The Blue Series

2010-06-03T21:45:00.002+01:00

Night's Skin

2010-06-02T17:16:00.002+01:00

Night's Skin I think will be the collection title. A collection that has been in the making since I got pregnant really and then has really taken off in the last two months or so.
Here's a poem that might be included in the final 20 or so or not. So many to choose from!

Registration

Life, in these, the darkest days,
is precious. I think us back
to a time when our first born
now a grown figure, became a separate current.

Think if I could lead you away to under
the cherry blossom trees
around the war memorial,
I’d stay with you and keep this time.

One touch in the hook of an arm
as we caress railings, rubbed worn
ruined stone, smooth like bone,
by those hands who came before us.

Birth, death, marriages.
The yoke heavy on our shoulders
today, we go together
to make enter our child into the system.

Back Again

2010-06-02T17:14:00.001+01:00

I've enjoyed my month off so much that I forgot to come here yesterday.
It was a good month, where I managed to continue with my poem a day thing. Got a good chapbook collection now going surrounding pregnancy and birth. Maybe October is the month it will come all together.

My May Project

2010-05-01T08:54:00.002+01:00

I decided in April to make sure that I continued to post here within this blog once baby had popped out. Due date was 6th May, so I thought I'd have the time to get everything out of the way before the much awaited arrival. Even the best laid plans of mice and men do not go to plan.

But the show must go on. So here for May, there will feature a month long project, posted today, around my interest in lighthouses and the sea.

A Blue Line

2010-05-01T08:50:00.002+01:00

The children were delighted to see the blue sea shining like a thin bright line in the distance.

The Sea of Adventure, Enid Blyton

Sighting

2010-05-01T08:43:00.004+01:00

Wave after wave shedding again and again smoothly a film of mother-of-pearl.

To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf

Watch

2010-05-01T08:42:00.001+01:00

Points of Light

2010-05-01T08:37:00.003+01:00

The engine of the boat purred smoothly, and they sped fast over the water. It was a wonderful day, almost as hot as summer. The May sun shone down out of a sky flecked with tiny curly clouds, and little points of light danced on the waves.

The Sea of Adventure, Enid Blyton