Eventful Poetry

What is it,

This relentless

Remorseless

Search for the

Blue light of

Truth

At the heart of the fire?

Why not just once,

Just this once,

Let yourself be

Warmed by its heat

Heartened by its glow

In awe of the dance and the flicker of the flame.

Just let yourself

Be

Yourself

Just let

Your

Self

~~~

Wouldn’t that

Be transformation

Enough?

~~~~~~

This is a contribution to the poetry challenge being run by the Abbey of the Arts: Entering the Desert’s Fire.  In the invitation to share a poem Christine writes:

I invite you this week to write a poem about your own invitation to enter the refiner’s fire – in alchemy lead is transformed into gold through heat and this becomes a metaphor for the human soul.  What is the lead within you ready to be transformed into something treasured?

From photopoetry to audio slideshow… I know   Whatever next?

Truth is, I’ve been exploring this format as part of some work I want to do helping people tell their stories, and I needed some material to start practicing and experimenting on.

This week’s wonderment poem, The Eyes of the Horse, seemed like a good bet, not least as the photos are from a site just down the road and I could easily pop back to get some extra shots.

In the interests of experimentation and learning I’m sharing as well as creating… hope you enjoy it.

Here’s the video (1 min, 12 seconds)

The Eyes of the Horse: A Photo Poem from Joanna Young on Vimeo.

And the poem:

The Eyes of the Horse

The eyes of the horse follow me.
It is Bruce that the statue’s of,
King of Scotland,
Master of this battle site,
But it’s the horse who watches me,
Calls to me, speaks to me,
Demands of me
To remember
Not to forget.

To remember:
The blood of the battle
The thunder of armies
The shriek of the horses
The fear in the nostrils
The blood, sweat and tears of the
Battle once fought here.

Walking back through
Playing fields and modern streets
Past children playing, traffic roaring
Old yins shopping, youths roaming
Lives, passing
The eyes of the horse
Follow me.

His words haunt me:
Remember not to forget

And I wonder
As we leave the fields of old battles:

What hope is there if we don’t?
What hope is there if we don’t?

On a cold grey day
I was walking by the river
Looking for a story or a sign of life
In the greyness of January
With my hat down and gloves on
With my head up with my eyes wide open
Safe in the knowledge that I’d find you there.

But still
When I did
When I found you by the river
When I looked once and looked twice
When I bent down to look more closely
When I cleared away the rubbish and the brownness of old leaves
When I looked down and found you there

Soft, strong
Tiny, vast
Green, white
Sign of spring and gift of winter

I couldn’t help but cry

~~~
First published on Flickr: a photopoem for the season

I’m sharing some of my poems in Flickr, the photo sharing site.  I like the combination of image and words.  Sometimes a particular photo will spark a poem.  Sometimes I took the photograph to remind me of a moment that was already starting to form into a fragment of a poem.

I’m currently writing one a week, in no small part inspired by the call to share some wonderment.  (Here’s an introduction to wonderment from wonderwebby)

If I can keep it up it should create a gorgeous record of 52 weeks of the year.

Here’s this week’s contribution: first snowdrops

First Snowdrops

On a cold grey day
I was walking by the river
Looking for a story or a sign of life
In the greyness of January
With my hat down and gloves on
With my head up with my eyes wide open
Safe in the knowledge that I’d find you there.

But still
When I did
When I found you by the river
When I looked once and looked twice
When I bent down to look more closely
When I cleared away the rubbish and the brownness of old leaves
When I looked down and found you there

Soft, strong
Tiny, vast
Green, white
Sign of spring and gift of winter

I couldn’t help but cry

A series of poems inspired by a visit to St Margaret’s and St Anthony’s Wells in Holyrood Park, Edinburgh.  Organised by Lapidus Scotland, facilitated by Valerie Gillies

Photos from the visit here:

Tip of My Tongue (at St Anthony’s Well)

Push my tongue once more
Against the cold, metallic plug
Breathe, push, strain, spit.
Nothing.
Stuck. Stopped. Dry.
Bunged.
Right up.

Underground
The water rises
Running, flowing
Straight from the source
Laughing, running, gurgling
A burble, a rush, a drip

I hear the water running
Cross the mountainside
Ringing, flowing, singing
An unstoppable force.

I push my tongue again
Metallic, cold, hard
The bit between my teeth
Keeps me tethered:
Barren, empty, silent.
I push and strain.

Then something moves inside.

An old fault line maybe
No more than a breath

In, out

Of the mountainside

Stones creak
Rocks groan

And underground
Something elemental rises

My mouth waters.

Words form on the tip of my tongue
Pushing, rushing, rising
An unstoppable force.

Then they’re

Flowing, falling
Filling the bowl
Kissing the stone
Smoothing the granite

The rough, gritty hew
Smoothed and soft
With the flow of my words
Rushing, flowing, streaming,
Tumbling down the mountainside
Singing St Anthony’s song.

Tasting the Water

My tongue goes looking for the taste of the water:
Brown, brackish, damp.
It’s all of these words and none of them
So my tongue keeps on looking:
Peaty, dripping, feucht.

The word is lost on the tip of my tongue:
Tantalising.

An experience I can’t remember or maybe have never yet had
My mouth waters
Thirsting for the
Half-remembered long anticipated
Dull, metalic taste of the water, blend of liquid of earth.

It’s a taste I can savour but can’t find the word for
It’s the feel of the water, the smell of the mountain,
The kiss of the grasses, the taste of the source

And still: my mouth waters

The Taste of the Water: A prose poem

It’s the taste of green, luscious temptation. The call to lie down in the damp, peaty earth, to breathe in the damp, peat tasting browness. To taste the brown, peaty brackish dampness of the water. It’s a word I can taste on my tongue but can’t find the word for. It’s brown, damp, earthy, brown. It’s rich. Rich, like the soil, like the damp earthy peat, it’s layered with stories, with heartbreak and sorrow, with lovers who lay down and kissed the earth, it’s rich with history, it’s layered with the stories of our past, it’s resourceful, full of resources, full of the source, the beginning and the end, where we came from and where we’ll return to. It’s rich, like the damp, peat-burning fire, calling us homewards, reeking our clothes, telling us stories, keeping us warm, and breaking our hearts.

The return of the light.

No, not the single, solitary flicker of a candle,

No, I am talking about the return of the light,

Shrieking through the sky

Ripping the darkness asunder

Do you tweet?

I do.

Tweeeting can be *so* poetic at times.

Compressed lines compressing words, thoughts, emotions into the things that really need to be said.

Follow along @eventfulpoet and don’t forget to say hi!

Enough

‘Enough’, she said

‘That’s quite enough.

I’ve had enough.
I’ll say this one last time.

Advent

I was supposed to look ahead.

Anticipate.

Make plans and resolutions.

Tidy up
Look back
De-clutter

Look back and look forward
Like a good Janus child

But I am tired of being good
I am tired of waiting
I am tired of reflecting