Meeting her gaze –I want her to see
sisterhood — I want to say
“Look, I’m scared, too, I’m prey —
the shrapnel spinning slow-motion
in my chest — unravelling me”
but she sees the stone tipped spear
the bronze headed arrow, the
cross-bow bolt.
— Some slight
movement of mine, some twitch
sway breath — an explosion
— of movement
— she is gone
For Brendan at earthweal, where we are meeing nature’s gaze.
The god kings gather their grave goods
a spearhead
a bronze arm ring
seven arrow heads
as if they can build a wall
a jade figurine
a clay jar containing herbs
a gold disc
between themselves and death
a pot of spelt
a terracotta figure of a horse
a silver leaf
as if they need to feed
a sheaf of flax
a woven blanket
a twisted torc
as if they need to serve
a leather purse
a bunch of keys
a jewelled pin
their souls on that long journey
a jet brooch
a bundle of poems
a lock of hair
but we look at their bones
a MacBook
a mountain bike
a paddle board
a Starbucks cup
an inflatable mattress
a Samsung Galaxy
a pair of trainers
a Big Mac and fries
and know that their souls starved.
For Brendan at earthweal.
Death is my sister
beside me, slipping
silent through
the jungle. She
sharpens my teeth,
polishes my claws,
and I lead her
to the red scent
of life, and
together we eat.
But now, I feel
her cold hands
measuring the
space between
my ribs, and soon
I will turn to her
and offer her
my throat.
For earthweal, where Sherry asks us to think about the world of big cats.
I don’t ask if you remember
those footprints in that cave –
mother and child, walking.
I wonder if she took a moment
to look back at where they’d walked,
or if she kept on moving,
eyes fixed ahead.
Our footprints will be gone
by lunchtime – washed away,
meltwater merging into mud,
and looking back, it’s hard to know
which of us is mother, which
is child. You’ve grown.
Sneaked up on me, like time.
This is for Brendan’s earthweal challenge on Deep Time. There’s a bit of synchronicity here – I had a poem called “Pech Merl” published in Black Bough’s Deep Time II collection last year. Walking in the snow at the weekend with my son reminded me of the parent and child footprints we saw in the caves there, several years ago. I had that in my head trying to be a poem, and then Brendan’s prompt came along. If you’re interested, there is a Deep Time soundtrack with lots of great poetry readings here: https://soundcloud.com/stuartrawlinson/sets/black-bough-poetry-deep-time
atoms share electrons
forming lattices:
strength in community
and we are mostly
empty space
and energy
sharing time
as if it mattered
sharing words
and moments
emotion
emerges
out of motion
and we are planets
orbiting
a central sun
caught in its pull
but free to flow
For Merril at dVerse, who asks us to write about connections.
Weirdly, Brendan at earthweal is thinking about connections and entanglements, too.
I think there may be more to come on this.
hard to think about gifts
and then the starlings come
scattered like letters
on a page, moving like words
forming phrases
the rustle of pages
hard to think about gifts
and then your words
like birds coming
carrying weather
on their wings,
the change of seasons
the slow roll from winter
into spring
the migration of birds
is an act of hope
A poem for earthweal where Brendan is hosting and asks us to think about gifts. This poem is dedicated to Sherry, because her comments are always so joyful and so appreciative. She always makes me feel like I’m a better poet than I think I am. I guess I’m using her to represent my online wolfpack – I feel connected to people I’ve never met, just shared words with. The international news has a different flavour now that I have links in Florida, in Australia, in New Jersey, in Pakistan, so many places…you’ve all become important to me.
One for sorrow. You know me. I’m the bone-
marked, evil bird. You bow to me
if you should see me when I’m all alone,
to turn away misfortune, pay the fee.
Don’t forget, though, two for joy –
you never call me lucky. Three
for a girl, four for a boy –
nest-plunderer, fledgling killer – yes, that’s me
and five for silver, all those sparkly things,
you say I steal them. Six for gold,
you hoard it up in necklaces and rings.
Seven. The song is done, the secret’s told –
Thief. Killer. Evil. That’s how you accuse me,
but all these crimes are yours, humanity.
Sherry is hosting at earthweal this week, and asks us to take the voice of an animal. I decided I would take the voice of the first animal I saw. A magpie swooped up out of the hedge, so I went with that. I rather like magpies – I am a corvid fan – but they have a very bad reputations. Corvids in general seem to attract strange stories and to be seen as evil. We are very quick to pin personalities and motivations on birds and animals, when they are just minding their own business. There’s a belief that magpies have damaged songbird numbers, but in fact it’s the anthropocene effects of intensive farming, insecticide use and loss of habitat that have really damaged the songbird population.
My other project for 2021 is to work more with forms. I have a real block about sonnets, so I’m tackling the sonnet first, to try and beat it into submission. This is my first one of 2012. Bear with.
I’m also posting this on dVerse OLN, hosted by Sanaa this week.
I just feel that we should be planting something,
pressing our fingers deep into the dark earth.
What, though? I can’t think of it –
I just feel that we should be planting something –
hopes – dreams – fairy lights?
I don’t know. Memories of sunshine?
I just feel that we should be planting something,
pressing our fingers deep into the dark earth.
I’m planning to spend December playing with triolets. This is for earthweal – a triolet of hoping and waiting.
The beavers are beavering, dammit.
They are doing their thing: gnawing,
logging, building, damming. That’s
what they do. The beavers are beavering,
changing the landscape, creating pools
and slowing flows. Suddenly there
are dragonflies and clean water,
and the sharpened pencil stumps
of trees, because the beavers
are beavering, dammit, doing
their beaver thing. Beavering.
Beavers are a native British species, absent for 400 years, but now making a comeback. Down our way, they are (ironically) living on the River Otter. I know. They’ve been their since 2008, they are breeding, and they are making a difference both on the ecology of the river, and on local flood risk. All good. You can read more about it here, if you’re interested.
This is for Sherry at earthweal, who asks us to think about how eco-systems fit together.
Yeah, well, clothes shopping is my only vice –
you’re crazy not to buy it at that price –
you see these shoes? I have to wear them twice,
they’ll have paid for themselves, at that low price.
That red top? Yes, I’ve worn it, what, 3 times?
I got this new one – why not, at that price?
Those trousers? Well, they never fitted right –
I bought some others. Can’t believe the price.
The blue one? Washed it. Doesn’t look so nice.
I’ve just replaced it. You won’t guess the price.
This stuff is throwaway – it’s just designed
to be worn once, and tossed. Look at the price.
It’s crazy not to. You won’t pay the price –
I tell you, shopping is my only vice.
Jim Feeney is hosting at earthweal this week. He asks us to invent a fictional voice, the voice of someone who doesn’t care about climate change. There was a news article on the BBC a few months ago, showing mountains of discarded UK clothing that had been dumped in Ghana. It sickened me. I might have gone on longer, but I ran out of rhymes…
