Non-committed Writing


It’s been such a long time since I’ve sat down to commit to writing. Short, uncomplicated poems have been bursting from my hand like bubbles in pop but to actually commit to a thought that trails longer than a breath (which is how poetry feels to me, an exhalation, the next idea comes as quickly as the last) has felt weighty and awkwardly unnatural.

And I’ve been running with the unnatural by doing nothing. Not even trying to write beyond the poem. Not even brainstorming or journaling or thinking beyond the pauses, no longer stringing one idea to another to create a bulk of something that may or could or would mould into a story or reflection. And then I wonder if any of this even matters. Is this is worth even writing about, the not writing stuff. And is the not writing a symptom of a bigger disillusion? And what am I feeling disillusioned about… what has changed?

Everything has changed. Everything always does change, day by day. And these changes can build into a complete overhaul of how we perceive ourselves and the world. And that make me feel a little disillusioned at times as it only reminds me that all we label ourselves to be are only fleeting beliefs, constructed by everything we’ve absorbed till that point.

What a wild world we live in. It’s scary as hell and more beautiful than imagined galaxies, more surreal than dreams, more intense than heightened cravings. And to think about what I want want to write about overwhelms me as there are a million feelings worth exploring and endless sinarios that paint a complex tapestry of chapters. 

So poetry soothes this chaos, its eases the wordy pulse that quickens during 3am wake up calls. It makes sense to not try and make sense of anything, I wonder if we’re never supposed to understand. I’ve spent the past few years trying to find myself in a flow that suits. I still feel a little bloated and bulky during various moments of the day. That’s just me and I’m ok with that now.

Was I always trying to be an idea of myself, as I beat myself up for not writing the novel I once hoped I’d be able talk about to inquisitive strangers? Who knows, I certainly don’t. 

So I guess poetry is my commitment, steering frantic energies that would only bury themselves in my bones if I didn’t pick up the pen. It’s medicine to write what feels right. Fuck what I think I’m supposed to be doing. 

I’m supposed to be doing me, right now, being the only woman I know how to be. For now, anyway.

Bestest 

So said the dog ‘oh human, I’d really like to know, where exactly is the spot that biscuits like to grow?’
‘You know the ones you give me, to settle me at night, I’d like to find them for myself and take a crunchy bite’

The human laughed ‘oh dog, they do not grow on trees, they’re made by hands of human kind and travel overseas. See the biscuits that you eat, aren’t natural like the grass, they’re made of stuff I cannot spell and stamped to show they pass. Passed as what, I’m not too sure, but still you like to chew, they seem to keep you able, to do as dogs can do’

The dog was not too sure of this, as what should he then eat, if missiles were to hit the earth and kill off all the meat? ‘If that should happen’ the human said ‘you’d die as well, I’m sure.’ So said the dog, ‘how sad is that’ and cried into his paw.

The human and the dog, they hugged until it hurt, but then the human had a thought she couldn’t wait to blurt. ‘You see, we could get blown so high we find another planet, where I could be a butterfly and you could be a rabbit. And then we’d eat whatever’s there, be yellow, red or blue. We’d nibble on fresh pastures green or make a rainbow stew. Let’s hope that if this world should end our souls will stay together. To roam around this universe, best pals we’ll be forever’

Remember

When I lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling

and think of you

I remember those times you said we were through

or was that me?

memories blurred

yesterday was I fighting, my warrior stirred?

or was I laughing at jokes you told me

late at night when we should have been sleeping

but we weren’t

not knowing if the others eyes were open

never the words we yearned were spoken

remember the promise of road trips

and playing cards for cash?

when you said you’d teach me to swim

but alas

chlorine brings me out in a rash

“hey, who cares” you said

and we didn’t care, hot days brought naked bodies

fantasies soaring

sweat pouring

and leaky taps in the bathroom that annoyed the hell outta me

remember you saying “let it be”

let it be

I did

and we never managed to see it through

not doing those things we said we’d do

i’ll remember you the way I choose

not crying (like i did) “why the fuck did I lose!”

because really I lost nothing

i had so much to bring

and we showed up, the best we could

doing everything we believed we should

I remember the rainbow

I told you about it when you were there and I was here

when on the phone, remember I said “the rain on my face felt like the tear

I cried over you”

just the one

I lied

but the rainbow came and you hung up

a name in my inbox I decide to delete

I hope you remember me better

better than it felt we’d remember back then

even if you give me a two

I remember you now as a ten out of ten

 

 

Something, always

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All this noise

Distracting me from birdsong

Did I once sit still for longer than an hour without ‘doing’

Even meditating can be a task, something to do as I attempt to do nothing

But doing nothing, for the sake of doing nothing

When I’m not watching or listening

But I am, always

Thoughts are cropped, shortened, thickened

‘Thinking’ I say out loud

Something, always something

The clouds are moving

The bees are working

The cat is snoring as she does nothing, dreaming whilst curled at the end of my bed

As long as breath fills me

And my eyelids open

I’m being

So I interpret as I wish

Take full responsibility for the tide I choose to ride

I’m something, always

Watching Her

Where I stand

Peering out from translucent panes

I see the tree, leaves turned golden at this time of year

Beyond the tree I see a house, their garden sharing our back fence

I’ve never known her name, the lady who lives there. Denting the grass with her bare feet early in the morning, hunched, not to be noticed.

And I see more houses next to hers, some with loft conversions and some with fancy glass conservatories

But further than that, I see nothing

So I wonder about life within four walls

Stains on the carpets and forgotten mugs hosting mould under the bed

Moth eaten silks and cheaply bought treasures held dear behind cupboard doors

Tidy sinks and bleach drenched bathtubs

Life thriving, shielded from judgements

Life dying, shielded from acknowledgment

Then I stop wondering and I’m called back to the tree. She is never timid

Sharing herself each day, no need to whisper secrets under the duvet

She stands naked with no apology

And I can see, never needing to apologise for noticing her beauty

Fallen

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I’ve been too afraid to breathe deeply

Sat, with my feet dangling over the edge, watching life catch their prey

What, do I imagine I will feel?

Afraid of the tears I’ve bottled and given away, with compliments

My sacred waters soothing another’s tired feet

Afraid of years I lost to the gambling sun, burning through the darkness with flames of inadequacy. It was not my place to cry, I am too dry for that pleasure.

Broken nails imbedded in my throat as I crawled my way up from the bottom

Always crawling to be seen. Visible is my head but my heart remained below the apple, too afraid to devour.

I remember the day I broke in the middle of the road, not able to catch a breath, too fast were thoughts of running far from sharp cartilage in my lungs.

How am I able to leave myself behind?

I’ve been too afraid to breathe deeply, as what rises may be the soil to root my soul back to my body, the mud to cleanse forgotten sores.

Craving

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I craved the wild roses, thorns combing my hair as I outran the river

I craved the beast outside my door, roaming for beetroot and rosemary

I craved the red rock, rough canvas smeared with silk like dust. Red clay dug from the belly to quench my skin and soften my thirst

I craved silver reflections, sea caught moons that dance below the surface at night

I craved violins at dawn, trumpets at tea and pianos to soundtrack sun-kissed skies before bedtime

I craved being led to the mountains, to breathe the air so close to purity as I can imagine

I craved wholeness, a fullness so ripe I could taste my own sweet juice

I craved standing in the storm, unafraid, watching the leaves surrender to grey horizons

I craved being fearless

I craved being fearless again and again

I craved because I remember. I remember being fearlessly built inside my mothers womb and the taste of letting go

I craved because I needed to remember

I remember

I remember the river that catches the rosemary and carries the beetroot and plays with the beasts and dances with the moonlight through red rock valleys, listening to sweet tunes played fearlessly by the lips that taste

I remember that all I have craved, all the delicious feelings of worth and discovery and abundant visions of life’s great loves have been closer to me than the end of my fingertips

I remember all the miracles that sculpted me, the love that built me from the inside out

I craved what I remembered to be holy and sacred and now that I remember, I am holy and sacred again.