How…?

Tags

how?, poem, poems, poetry, questions, video

Here’s a video version of a poem I wrote recently. It’s made entirely of questions, because I really don’t have any answers at the moment.

I hope you enjoy it.

And if you want to read it, here’s the link.

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/2020/04/14/napowrimo-day-12/

All the love x

NaPoWriMo: Day Thirteen

Tags

NaPoWriMo, poem, poems, poetry

I’m a bit behind – it’s ok, I’ll catch up. For now, this:

 

 

Pain

 

Instructions be be followed,

Or not,

At your own pace.

 

Close the gate, lock it, chain it do not

Answer the door, shut the windows,

Stuff the cracks in the walls, your skin, do not

Let it in because sometimes we have to begin

by resisting.

 

Some people may be able to skip this stage.

You do not have to be one of those people.

Once it gets in, which it will,

Take it on, carry it, find a way for it to be

Manageable if not comfortable while you

Move on together.

 

Some people may be able to make friends with it, forgive it, appreciate it.

You do not have to be one of those people.

 

Once you’ve carried it for a while, which you will

Time will come for you to put it down, temporarily

or for good, that’s up to you. Then again

 

If you don’t want to put it down, ever, that’s ok too.

One day you will anyway, through no effort of your own

You will not longer be alive to carry it.

NaPoWriMo: Day 11

Tags

NaPoWriMo, poem, poems, poetry

There, then

 

I wish I were there, then.

But I’m here, now, wondering how

to escape with paper and pen

back to that time when

 

I stood at the sink in the early morning admiring

the colour of the water dyed by the red cabbage

I’d just washed, then watched that beautiful blue

disappear down the plug hole.

If I were then again, there again, I would

bathe in the beauty of wonder instead of

letting it drain away. If I could please

just be there again, then again, when

 

we sat at your kitchen table drinking tea

while you sang to your baby granddaughter

and we laughed through the love gathering

in the air threatening another shower of devotion.

If I were then again, there again, I would

ignore the call of the parking meter and

linger over the Portuguese custard tart. If only

I were then again, there again, when

 

I pushed my shopping trolley ahead, leaning

forward until it pulled me gliding down the aisles

with my pizza, spinach and coffee, still shopping

regularly enough not to need that much

and I could enjoy a brief chat with the woman

behind in the line once I’d placed the divider on the belt

to be sure her things didn’t mix with mine. Simple times

worthy of a postcard right now I’d gladly pay

 

the cost of a flight to Dad in Bali just to push

my supermarket trolley through carefree aisles

again instead of hanging the present in a noose

of nostalgia.

NaPoWriMo: Day 9

Tags

NaPoWriMo, poem, poems, poetry

NaPoWriMo: Day 6

Tags

NaPoWriMo, poems, poetry

Fresh from my morning pages, and played with, but no title yet. Suggestions welcome. x

NaPoWriMo Day 2

Tags

NaPoWriMo, poem, poems, poet, poetry

So it’s the second day of NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) with the challenge being to write a poem a day for 30 days! Apples and Snakes are offering a daily prompt. Here’s my response to today’s, which was to write a poetic autobiography, in just six lines!

 

Did I start on that raft in an African lake where hippy trail

travelling cad, my dad, spotted mum’s younger version? Or

was I begun long before when my dutch great grandfather

met his Indonesian wife? Are these wandering roots the reason

I see the whole world as my home? I too wander, often alone,

imagining beginnings and what might come next, if I let it.

Talking on Tightropes

Tags

poem, poems, poetry

Here’s a poem I recorded on my phone the other day. Enjoy! You can also read it beneath.

 

 

Talking on tightropes

(inspired by Philippe Petit, and his high wire walk of the twin towers in 1974)

 

They arrested him

For walking a tight rope

Between the twin towers

With nothing attached

Nothing to catch him

Should his balance waver

But he’d practised

He didn’t attempt this feat

Without knowing the line was a fine one

 

Yet we barely dare talk

On such fine lines

Attaching ourselves to hashtags

That declare our side

But there are no straight lines in nature

Even the blackest and whitest of them

Blur when you get closer

Alive or dead?

I know I for one

Have spoken to someone

On the other side

In my mind, I’d never deny

Their body is gone

But something

Something lingers on

And if you’ve ever watched a dawn

Creep up on night

Bit by slight bright light

You’ll know you could never

Stop the clock and say

Before was night and Now

Is day

But we pretend it’s all so clear

Too lazy to listen

Or dare to respect

A view that’s not #metoo

There are too few of us

Stringing up wires between the sides

Where the risk itself

Is what keeps things alive

Of course nobody wants to fall –

But not moving at all?

 

For forty five minutes

He worked that wire

And now the twin towers

No longer exist

Because we’ve underlined lines

Instead of erasing them

Chiseled the edges

Instead of softening them

We don’t have to talk on tightropes

We can talk on shores

Where sand and sea endlessly meet

Changing the landscape beneath our feet which delight

In the differing degrees of wet and dry

And warm and cold

Because the moon and her tides know

Even what’s land and what’s sea

Isn’t as clear as the maps would have us believe

Creativity and Change

Tags

creative writing, creativity, nature, poems, poetry

 

 

Fears can rise at the thought of being creative, but in one of life’s paradoxes, it is my experience that creativity is also a powerful tool with which to address those fears – emerging wiser and stronger.

 

Change happens, whether we’re conscious of it or not, and whether or not it’s happening in the direction we would like it to. The act of creation is a highly adaptive process, embodied in the very cells through evolutionary biology, and it is something we can use to make change more graceful and fun.

 

It was New Year’s Day, and I took myself for a walk, by which I mean I insisted that my under exercised being and its fidgety disruptiveness leave the house because it was getting under my feet. I was alone, and the moment I was in the fresh air thoughts took off and began to run and play in enough space and with enough distance between them that I could watch and observe with a smile, without incurring the usual scratches and bruises. My feet were well enough practised in following this path to do so without much input from me, and I let them take me down towards the river, occasionally stepping onto the rough verges to allow vehicles to pass.

 

By the time I climbed the style just before the bridge, to take the trail to the river beach, my thoughts were much better behaved, and my shoulders were unburdened enough to allow my arms to swing by my side as every other step became a half skip. And then I was there.

 

The empty stony beach (by which I mean there were no other people present) and the noisy rushing river, riding the rapids before turning the corner and beginning to widen and slow down. But me, I wasn’t widened yet. I was rushing.

Looking around to admire the beauty of my surroundings, I still held a feather I’d picked up at some point along the way. It dragged almost imperceptibly through the air as my arms swung, until I and they were still. I don’t remember at what point exactly I closed my eyes and began to question the changes I’d recently set loose, like the waters of the wild river before me – unstoppable, beautiful – but why? Why was I leaving behind a community that I loved, a landscape that I revered and a life blessed in uncountable ways? The first answer was immediate and came in a single word – growth.

 

A raging hunger rose in me quite unexpectedly, and I began to cry. Comfort had become a cage, and my wings had had to be cruelly clipped. I needed to explore the edges of my potential, not grow fat and lazy on a diet of endless affirmation and appreciation from those who already admired what I did, without daring me, stretching me, demanding of me that I be more. By more, I do not mean in the pursuit of a bigger ego or greater worldly success, but rather in deep celebration and honouring of the otherworldly; that which still existed beyond the world I currently inhabited but that, with courage and practice I could bring into this world that others might experience and enjoy it.

 

That dance of the practical and the magical began to live in me and, inspired by the feather still held in my hand, began to form a poem. I had nothing with which to catch it, so I began spinning a web mid-air by speaking it aloud, the river as my witness, repeating lines to strengthen them, and the proceeding onward. Gradually, while I began to retrace my steps and make my way back up the hill, the poem grew, line by line, adjustments and refinements happening naturally until I walked back though my front door, and wrote it down.

 

Change is so much less frightening when we understand why it’s happening, and admit that we’ve set it in motion ourselves. Poetry helps me give that clarity and courage form, and its aliveness is much like change itself, for I find poems, as indeed most art, leaves enough space for me to visit time and again, and yet inhabit a different world each time. That’s not necessarily comfortable, but it is comforting.

 

A re-feathering

 

 

Whether faeries are real or not

I won’t risk killing one with

A disbelieving thought

For I have seen

Strewn at my feet

Feathers of my own wings

Shot from the sky

When doubt came hunting

 

But I am not a bird

And those wings

Were not of this world

Any more than a unicorn’s horn

Is hard and made of keratin

 

So it’s time for a re-feathering

Growing new shafts

From quill to tip

Fed with belief

’til once again

I fly

 

Three Minute Poems – How it all began…

Tags

poems, poetry, poetry takeaway

There is little in this life that brings me more alive, so I thought I’d share part of this story…of how it all began…because I’m planning to take this story forward, and hope to write a few more chapters soon… ❤️😀 Watch this space! xx

 

****************************************************************************

 

You know you’ve hit on something when the responses are so varied. “God, you’re so brave! I’d be terrified!” “What a brilliant idea, how lovely!” Experience has shown that it’s when I’m able to step back from my desire to impress and please everyone that something far more alive and authentic comes through. Trying to make a cup of tea with the intention of satisfying everyone would make for, at best, something exceedingly boring and mediocre; at worst, an entirely undrinkable cuppa.

 

It wasn’t a new idea. I’d read about the Poetry Takeaway in a magazine several years previously, and later tried it out to moving effect in a writing workshop I led. We were all stunned, when the poems we’d asked for were read aloud. “Where did that come from?” Where indeed. A few years later, I decided it was time to try this out in a different environment.

 

As I walked through the woods towards Dartington Shops, shouldering the tools of my trade, I buzzed with excitement. I had no idea how this would go, and no specific expectations of the outcome, but this was something I really wanted to do, loved to do, and I was so full of the intention of generosity and play. What could go wrong?

 

I set up at my designated table, propping up a sign and laying out pad, pens and a three minute wooden egg timer. Actually, the three minute thing was random. I’d intended to do five minutes, but I couldn’t find a five minute timer in time, so three minutes it was. Now all I had to do was wait.

 

I remember the first poem I wrote that day, for a woman shopping with her daughter for last minute Christmas presents. She wanted a poem for her eldest daughter, about struggling to get out of bed in the morning. “Make it funny” she said, and left. I turned my timer, and wrote. It wasn’t great. It could’ve been worse. I had something.

I wrote it out in neat with a red felt calligraphy pen, rolled it into a scroll and tied it with golden thread as a gift. I read it to the customer, who gave me no big response, but took it. Great! First one done. I was on my way.

 

The rest of the day included laughter, tears and spontaneous wows and hugs from a steady stream of strangers. People shared so honestly, and in return I opened myself to see, to listen, to feel what was being asked for, and let my pen respond with respect and boldness.

 

When I came away from that day the word that kept coming up was Fun; sheer, pure, lively, tingly Fun with a capital F. I’d written about everything from gardens in winter to Minecraft, and been commissioned to write a poem to be read at the requester’s own funeral! It was quite a trip I took while sitting at that bench all day.

 

There was something so freeing about doing something so very, well, me. However, as often with experiences that transcend the everyday, it was full of paradox. Because I was being so me, I was connecting easily with the me of everyone I encountered. As I wrote ego me stepped aside, allowing me to simply let the words through. I was not, in that moment, in the least concerned about me the poet proving her skill, or writing something objectively brilliant. It was me Harula; human being, wordsmith, in service to that soul before me who asked me to craft something for them. What mattered was that they were served by what I wrote. I couldn’t have cared less if anyone else liked the poem, as long as the asker felt seen, met and served by those words.

 

When I wrote three minute poems again more recently, in the Exeter Library Café, I was reminded of the basic goodness and generosity of the majority of people. That day I was writing for coffees; not for me, but for donations so that anyone could enjoy a warming cuppa, whether they had the money for it or not. Thirty minutes and three poems later I had £15 to donate to their suspended coffees scheme. The experience so thrilled me that I immediately shared it on my blog when I returned home. That post remains the most ‘liked’ post on my blog, in almost six years of blogging.

 

Service is a beautiful thing; it’s when there is no distinction between the server and the served. I feel so gifted by the trust and openness of each request. I believe the hunger, the eagerness to receive something so personal is a sign of our times, at least in the West. Everything has become so manufactured, so de-personalised, digitalized, fake-a-fied and screen distanced that to come close, even for just three minutes, to experiencing the sheer power and potential of tangible, spontaneous creativity; to witness and experience just how easily two human beings can connect and recognise one another; well, it’s magic.

 

 

 

 

For more information about The Poetry Takeaway, visit:

https://www.facebook.com/poetrytakeaway/

https://twitter.com/poetrytakeaway

 

 

For previous posts on this topic, from my blog, check out:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/2017/11/01/poetry-in-three-take-two/

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/2017/10/18/poetry-in-three/

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/2012/10/07/poetry-to-order-whatll-it-be/

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/2012/10/18/poetry-to-order-part-two/

 

 

 

He took off his tie

Tags

fathers day, ignite, lulu.com, poems, poetry, poetry collection

 

In honour of Father’s Day, and to continue yesterday’s theme of my love for the ocean, here’s a poem from my poetry collection, Ignite. Enjoy 😀Blessings on all the fathers, and all the stories, beginning, and ending, and beginning again…❤️

 

He took off his tie

 

 

The woman beckoned me to the bridge

and pointed.

The salmon were leaping.

 

Dad shared a memory with me recently.

It was a song that sparked it, played

by the guitarist doing covers

in the restaurant where we ate.

 

I saw Dad as a young man

taking off his tie to cast off

office life for adventure at sea.

I add this image to my own story, a preface

to well preserved childhood memories

of so many salt scented holidays.

 

The sea has always beckoned me, and

now I know a little more of why –

because Dad took off his tie.

 

How do the salmon know where to return

to after years spent maturing at sea?

 

Because I saw it myself, they do know,

that somewhere just upriver from that bridge

where I watched them fight the flow

is where their own story must return,

to begin again.

 

My collection, Ignite, is available from Lulu.com 

If you’d like a copy, please follow the link.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/harula-ladd/ignite/paperback/product-24091712.html