In poem on 8 March, 2014 at 15:02
For a good friend
The thoughts are grand that tie me down.
There must be better way of dealing with a
child crying its perfection every 15 minutes.
Yesterday you and I spent two straight hours together.
I have held your hand
but you refuse to hold mine
or do so grudgingly.
You are witholding your respect
until I can prove myself.
I wish I could pierce these primal laws
that dictate your jealousy of my freedom,
my desire to support
and the utter hopelessness of the task.
I can barely hold myself.
I will walk, but the road I choose is my own.
If you want to be supported, let me choose the road
and method of transportation.
I am tired of pressure.
A walnut cracks between mountains,
and I am barely a seed.
I need your hand, that is all.
Here is a comfortable place to sit
Here is a basket for clothes
A hamper for food
And our child, well wrapped, for you to hold close.
Sit down there, feet tight into the footwell.
Pack yourself in amongst the cases.
In the morning the wind is coming
and we’ll need to make some headway
whilst it is still night.
In Uncategorized on 5 October, 2013 at 18:56
The spirit of this land speaks to me as we drive through Crewkerne, crow after crow wheels in the afternoon sun, above hedgerows giving way to fields. Family in two cars returning from the Jurassic Coast – a walk along the pebble beach collecting stones followed by huge plates of fish in a restaurant with a lazy balcony that gives way directly to the sea.. Conversation relents and weaves like the crows’ wings and the sea, eachothers’ tendencies lovingly picked up on: mumbled speech, over-laboured stories. Food admired and swiftly digested. Relaxed recognition and jostling for attention, we know all the moved that will work.
In Uncategorized on 4 October, 2013 at 21:35
I suppose that is what responsibility is, living up to what you have acquired or experienced. As a storyteller I’ve become burdened at times with having known and observed things relentlessly. It becomes an all-absorbing passion seeing structure, noting performances. There becomes a permanent book-keeper noting and charting, seeing how form becomes, how things are created, how structure can imprison and empower. How freedom comes with letting all of that go, a sublime unconsciousness which is somehow all-knowing. It takes over and the story becomes part of everyone.