Poetry

Freedom on a page

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Writing is a friend. It sustains. It slowly pushes open the rusted, jammed doors of many hearts and allows for the gaping wounds in there to heal. Over the last few weeks it’s clear that it is not just possible but fun, to attend and host meetings remotely. Despite challenges, it can be enriching. A wise man/woman has identified 3 things one needs, to get through a day :

  1. Someone to love.
  2. Something to do.
  3. Something to look forward to.

No wonder people are gardening, baking, embroidering and doing various things, spending time or connecting in creative ways with people they love. We have been setting one episode of ‘The Crown’ as our carrot, to look forward to at the end of a long ‘working from home’ day. I have been writing some poetry and dreaming of putting a book together and getting it published some day. There goes my Ego …. again!

This seems like a good time to do something new. I would like to invite you to write with me. To connect with your hearts and bring a blank page to life. To find your own expression and share other people’s worlds through their words and prose. We would call ourselves “Freedom on a page”. In this time of partial captivity, this title seemed appropriate. If you have other suggestions, please bring them to the group. We would meet every Tuesday morning for an hour and a half – between 9 and 10.30 am on Zoom. We would write as much as we like during the week but have 200-300 words to read out to the group. If you would much rather only listen, that’s fine too. Join in. Don’t think so hard that you talk yourself out of it. You have done that before. Haven’t you? 😉

If you would like to join, please

(1) e-mail me at kidsaregifts20@gmail.com by Saturday, the 23rd of May. If you’d like more time to decide, take that time and send me the e-mail when you are ready.

(2) familiarise yourself with Zoom (https://zoom.us/) and download it on your computer/phone. It is free and easy. You can switch the video off if you don’t want to be seen. You can participate by writing on the ‘chat’ if you don’t want to speak.

I will send you an invite by e-mail on Monday, the 25th. I will start the meeting 15 minutes before 9 am, UK time (GMT+1) on Tuesday, the 26th of May and wait for you. Then we’ll see what happens. I have never done this before so I am a little bit nervous too. Shall we write about what ‘Freedom’ means to you? Feel free to pick any other subject. I look forward to this adventure. Depending on how you feel, we can continue to ‘meet-up’ every Tuesday.

Try it. Magic happens when the naked tip of a pen meets a nude blank page. The fingers holding that pen are deeply connected to the real you. So are the fingers typing on your keyboard.

Freedom on a page

Feathers fall from heavens like rain

A splash of sun-rays on the pavement lifts dust

Fills my senses with petrichor

The romance of which dances

In every gap, crack and crevice

I float up with the fragrance

And glide along the tops of trees

Breathe in bliss, touching green

Everything IS, as it IS

Watching its own ISNESS

Wrapped in a melodious silence.

This must be it

One moment of being fully alive.

— — — —

What do people need?

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Thanks for this N.

It finally got me. This wretched forced and voluntary isolation. No wonder solitary confinement is a well known punishment. Mon, Tues, Wed were very deep blue. A friend’s dad’s funeral, a very unwell teenager … but underneath it all, missing my people. The screen did not suffice any longer. It only frustrated me. The phone was a sordid excuse for ‘contact’. I wanted to be with real people in a real way. Feel the fabric of a friend’s scarf between my palms, share a pot of tea and a big slice of carrot cake at a local cafe and laugh till I cry and such simple pleasures.

For now, gotta hold my horses and know you are there and soon we’ll meet again. Thank you for being there for me, my people. I am here for you too.

“People need people,
To walk to
To talk to
To cry and rely on,
People will always need people.
To love and to miss
To hug and to kiss,
It’s useful to have other people.
To whom to moan
If you’re all alone,
It’s so hard to share
When no one is there.
There’s not much to do
When there’s no one but you.
People will always need people.

To please
To tease
To put you at ease,
People will always need people.
To make life appealing
And give life some meaning,
It’s useful to have other people.
It you need a change
To whom will you turn.
If you need a lesson
From whom will you learn.
If you need to play
You’ll know why I say
People will always need people.

As girlfriends
As boyfriends
From Bombay
To Ostend,
People will always need people-
To have friendly fights with
And share tasty bites with,
It’s useful to have other people.
People live in families
Gangs, posses and packs,
Its seems we need company
Before we relax,
So stop making enemies
And let’s face the facts,
People will always need people,
Yes
People will always need people.”

–Benjamin Zephaniah

Twenty six

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The Broth of Grief bubbles on the back burner. Today it exploded.

Splattered all over the walls, floor and ceiling. It flooded the kitchen. It was everywhere.

Sticking in my eyes. Digging into my chest. Wrapping my wrists.

Five tornados running through me. Becoming me.

Softening me.

The broth is sticky-sweet as love, the source of everything.

The beginning, middle and the end of everything.

The air in my lungs, the lashes on my eyelids.

The wings of a butterfly in Japan, the moon that’s nearly full today. Sitting outside my window.

You and me and everything between us, my love.

“No coming. No going.

No after. No before.

I hold you close to me.

I release you to be free.

Because I am in you and

You are in me.”

– Thich Nhat Hanh

Storyless

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The spring knows not.

I need my story.

Who am I without it?

It’s a habitual place.

A refuge.

Something I can lean on and hide behind.

This is my story. This is me.

Is it? Really?

Am I not more than the way I have been taught to respond and speak and act?

More than the stories they told me and I tell myself?

Am I not a mysterious, wondrous creation of the galaxies?

Am I not more than a feelings-crunching machine?

An events-processing factory?

Like all other life forms, am I not designed to evolve through challenges.

Adapt. Learn. Grow?

Processing kills it. My creativity.

Thinking locks me up. In familiar prison cells.

Who I am

flies, flows, dances, melds and reaches out with all its arms.

It knows not what it is.  

Like the ocean knows not how deep it dives.

Like the sky does not care how far above the planets it stretches.

Like the day knows not the secrets that will unfold as it extends into time.

Like the stars twinkle on, oblivious of how many eons pass them by,

Which telescope catches them, which doesn’t.

Like the spring knows not where its flowers will grow.

Like the river sings along, not knowing who will drink from it or

The apple tree that offers all to friends and strangers and

Stands. Story-less.

Who am I?

I am. I am. I am.

Thank you, Rumi.

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Welcome, unexpected visitor.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

  • by Jalaluddin Rumi.