Maybe That’s It

Making sense

Brings its own questions

Like floating through space

How is that possible?

And the pink in the rock

And the blue and the green

How do they come about?

And a cats purr

Why do I remember the peace when I hear it?

And it is peaceful

Like a lake or a crisp sun in winter

I don’t want to make sense of the why

Maybe that’s it

As if I did, maybe magic wouldn’t exist anymore

Nerves

When excitement comes

I think it’s right for me

But my body vibrates

And I’m sensing as I would, if stress were rocking the boat

So, in these differences I can talk myself through

But my body

She knows how the feeling flows

From one side to the other

Reaching the same heights.

If There Is Such A Way

Surrounded by a million tones, not woven by me

And I cannot decipher one from another

But there is a symphony of perfection to be drank all at once

And I am drunk

Drunk on the shades of spring

Yet still I chatter a thousand woes, haunting the evening waves

Am I a lunatic?

For it feels the moon draws all that dwells involuntary

Would I choose this crazy distinction?

I’d rather root beneath the worms and grow without this trouble

Where all I would want is to slowly dance to where I rest most comfortably

Or to climb the walls, not afraid of position

Is this my prison, believing I am not such a way?

That fate is my own doing

I often pray my thoughts to be swiftly caught by an eagles claw, then released far from land

Filtered by the salt and dispersed upon the seabed, food for the fishes

Ideals I’ve collected, are they to sculpt me? Like hands without permission roaming my naked skin

I quiver

And may I throw that to the birds also

So how,

If there is such a way

Am I to be?

Before Me Now

I wonder who I was before me, now?

What if I’d been a tree before I was a human

Or a decomposing leaf

Or I was the tree, the leaf, the rabbit that rummaged amongst the fallen leaves and the soil on the rabbits paw

What if I was the field that the rabbit dreamed of

Every blade of grass and dandelion

Or the roots of a weed

Or the bacteria that lives on the root

Or the worm that travels underground

What if I was the bird that ate the worm and so food that feeds her babies, could have been me too

Or the dirt in her nest or the twigs she collects

What if I was the shell on the beach that breaks when stepped on or the blood that trickles into the sand

Or the sand itself or the seabed

Or the crab or the jellyfish

Or the seaweed that dances on the surface

Or the salt in the sea

What if I was the pepper ground to a powder

Or the potato cooked to perfection or the metal of the fork before it was moulded

What if I’d once lived in the intestine of a whale

Or a shark or even the creatures we now find in fossils

What if I’d once lived on a meteorite which plummeted to this planet

What id I’d been every colour of the galaxy

Or a spark in the big bang, present at the start of beginnings

And endings

Recycled over and over until I got to be here

What if I’m ancient and my soul is so old I’ll never remember exactly where I came from

Or know where I’m going

What if I grew out of nothing and thats where I’m headed

Or I’m the smallest of everything floating within the infinite of nothing

I wonder who I was before me, now?

 

I


Where did I place I, 

       the capital, the stamp?

The stem that propped success 

Where did I get lost? 

       as not looking so straight as before

And falling into stand,

       but cannot find the footprints 

            where heels were dug so deep.

Searching back to written as proper

But now

         we melt 

              or so it feels

As we 

    becoming

Once I was drawn in water,

           a line dividing fishes 

               now tides remember  

So I ask where is I?

           knowing already,

               but pray to forget. 

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.

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