Thursday, 13 March 2014

the sometimes language of morning

we sleep between the layers of each day and awake to the birth of it's unfolding colours. with my pillow imprinted with a night time's worth of dreams i perform these early morning rituals like a duvet stealing star taking up more space than is fair, although you make no attempt to make me smaller... one of the reasons i love you. with sleepy eyes you slowly turn yourself into the idea whilst i quietly overflow. feed me your grace and guts and suspend your disbelief from my halo. together we are draped in memories worn like amulets. as for truths i can only be sure of mine with their constant fluid edges. quietly i will you to wrap your fingers around my wish bone and pull. with both hands take what you asked for and fear not the quaking earth. stand your ground and hold yourself up to the sun. show it how to burn. set sail in your boat of bones and gently roll me over. warm me with the flames cupped in the palm of your hands and then kiss me like you mean it...

"where you are tender, you speak your plural." ~ from 'a lover's discourse: fragments' by roland barthes

Monday, 7 October 2013

meanderings on self. or "i will not be what you expect"

i am what? i am who? i am a house, a temple, a wolf, a lamb. i value my skin for the living map that it is. each scar a mumified story and memory. i question whether this skin, this body really is mine. or whether i am other. it prompts recollections of train journeys and walks through patchwork fields where, in a time long ago, someone once drew an invisible line and built walls to divide the green into what's mine and what's yours. symbolic of our territorial nature when in fact it's all one and the distinctions we make are of our own creation. i want to write this in a spiral, eventually arriving at the point which is everything, but for now it's only circles. i wonder, does my mouth spill my boreal beginnings, or did i burst into being elsewhere? even before my mother was growing inside of her mother? regardless, i am in no doubt that the collision of worlds was involved. i am my parent's inheritance. i am a fragment of the whole. and growing. i am fire and stone. apparently composed of three quarters water and able to think thoughts. i am the female embodiment of the skin bone blood able to be explained away scientifically, shot through with a root of light. each vertebrae a rung on Jacob's ladder. my voice is quiet, my mind is not. the planets circle my waist. i pluck arrows from my chest and run my lips over the shape of each name carved there. memorising. savouring. do not take for granted the soft edges, they harbour lightning... 

Monday, 2 September 2013

the prolonged absence because we moved

the white walls wait expectantly. pale blank walls invite the addition of interest. a tarnished bevelled mirror and wooden frames. twenty three copper leaves. but we're taking our time. the birds and the bells call me to the windows. windows full of sky. sky changeable in it's temperament and colours. I love watching the weather move in, which is out towards the sea. the way the light and clouds sharpen and soften the edges of the buildings on the skyline like a painting.  the way colour disperses. the grey sky thunders and holds it's water for now. there are pieces of our lives still in boxes stacked in little rows. walls within walls that hold the ghosts of the way things used to be. my dad and his amateur architectural investigations and reading of walls, he'll tell you. then the beginning of new rituals at the kitchen table. the vocalisation of a day's thanks. seventy five stone steps to a front door the colour of wine that folds in two. a ramshackle palace of cracks and draughts and space and charm. a place for the creation of new memories. a new home. reminds me of nanci and this...

Wednesday, 17 July 2013

a wish for feet to grow moss. where the voices are overpowered by the trees whose tune is a green song. skin deep. knee deep in the river the sun begins to bleed. i am the colour of the sky...

Wednesday, 3 July 2013


submissive to the elements/where night barely comes/draw memories/cerebral souvenirs/fill the hollow spaces/and what it all amounts to/is you/wearing crowns of mayflowers/fellow kinsmen/ of earth to the edge of the sea/spirit of the feminine/such well crafted standards/cares not for spilled milk/a thousand years ago and to come/line up the thorns upon which you prick your fingers/give them names/but that was after the story/of black cats and crystals in pockets/spirited gentle shapes/love changes shape and stays the same/like something concerning miracles/observe this/feet of clay/soothsayer/i keep the things you give/growing tired of repeating myself/we become ourselves/hearts desirous of their own reflection/the birds circle/live for the kind of music that makes the blood move/despite dimly lit rooms upon whose walls hang skins/only as big as you let them be/threshold/and i leave you cold/dismantle/and the good that comes out of it/is not how you choose to define me/in your eyes darkly/quietly awkward/creep over your skin/through the dark cloud light will shine/sleepers/cries and whispers/always felt so fake to me/uncommon/of questionable sanity/what knots/create the crest of a life.

from wordless connections

initially drawn to your lower arms with skin so pale they were almost translucent, barely hiding a map of you in a tangle of blue veins carrying blood red directly to your cheeks and then the surprise in the beauty of your delicate wrists that I now hold against my lips.

Thursday, 20 June 2013

evolution in nine parts

oh, and while I remember...I refound this beauty by Sierra DeMulder.
feel this one ladies...

Evolution in Nine Parts

My earliest memories of my mother
are sunburned. Pink cheeks.
Braids. Dirt under fingernails.


Before me, she was already self-conscious
about her stomach. Then I was made and I was too stubborn
to turn upside down inside her and they had to
cut her open and pull me out.


I learned how to put on lipstick
by watching her get ready for work
in the morning.

I learned how to criticize myself
by watching her cluck at the mirror,
swatting her hair down like a bad dog.


I am sorry for the white worm
I left across your middle.


She believes my sisters and I chose her
to be our mother. Handpicked her
from a basket of others.

This one. This one will teach us the most.


Learn to cherish this vessel,
the tired music of the body.

Let the skin be witness.
To grow. To grow.


I am standing in front of a mirror.
I am insulting myself out of habit
and suddenly my mother stops me,
“don’t say that, Sierra. If you think you are ugly,
you are creating that ugliness inside you.”


I am thankful for the bed in your belly.
I was a weary traveler.


My mother has a birthmark
the size of a grapefruit on her hip.
It is red and exploding.

I can only imagine
when she undressed for my father
the first time, it was like
watching the sun come up.