Wolf and Word

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Category: Poetry (page 1 of 2)

What Autumn Told Me

Autumn

Let go.

Let go of the branch,

you’re going to fall anyway,

you might as well choose when.

 

Until you let go you will not know what it is

to dance on the wind.

Until you let go you will not know what it is

to fly.

 

Let go.

Let go and dance until you know it’s over.

You will know it’s over when the breeze you danced on ceases.

Then it is time to

let yourself float

slowly

down.

 

When you reach the ground you will find yourself

supported by the earth.

 

It’s OK to be still now.

 

There is no stopping Winter.

 

A Quote for Sunday – Always be a Poet

madewithOver

Certainty

pretty sky

My Grandfather enjoyed a flutter on the horses.

“Nothing is a certainty, mate.” he said.

 

That’s not right, I thought.

One plus one equals two.

That’s a certainty isn’t it?

The sky is blue. The grass is green.

 

I used to collect facts like badges of honour and I prided myself on having the answers.

I was always first to put my hand up:

pick me pick me pick me

let me show you how clever I am.

 

But sometimes, the grass is brown.

The sky is red and orange and pink and purple

and quite often grey.

Sometimes, things don’t add up.

 

All in all

I know nothing.

 

So my Grandfather was right of course.

Nothing is a certainty.

 This post is my response to
Day 1 of #Reverb14 hosted by Kat McNally. Click through to find out more about this reflective writing challenge and to read more responses.

 

Made

heartl

made

 

So I made a few mistakes

I made a few bad decisions

I made myself very small

and as the saying goes,

if you make yourself small, people will stand on your head.

 

So I made myself a promise

I made myself bigger, stronger

I made myself happy with myself

 

And that’s when I met you.

 

I made eyes.

You made a move.

We made out.

 

You made my heart beat faster.

You made me feel like I was magic.

You made the whole world beautiful.

 

You asked for my number

and I gave it to you.

 

So we made conversation.

We made plans.

We made a commitment.

 

We made a home.

We made a family.

We made two tiny people.

 

They made things louder

They made our hair turn a little bit grey.

They made the whole world beautiful.

 

We’ve made it work

for almost eleven years now

and I don’t know what lies ahead.

 

But I do know this;

 

You asked for my number

and I gave it to you.

 

The best decision I have ever

made.

 

I’m participating in the #ShakeCreative challenge for September. I haven’t decided yet whether each day’s response will be written or if I’ll mix it up, but this kind of came tumbling out of my brain! You should join in the challenge too.

10 Years Ago

heart sparkle

Ten years ago

You had the wrong set of flats

but you made it and

I let you in.

 

We walked together and

Somewhere between the video store and my place

I fell in love

 

I can still remember the exact moment it happened

the way the footpath looked in the moonlight

the way the air lapped at my skin in waves

I was drowning and flying at the same time.

 

Later

Between terrible chips and salty kisses

We watched the movie we had rented and

you echoed the lead

Will you go with me?

But baby, I was already gone, gone, gone.

Hanging out with some wonderful folk at the dVerse poets pub for open link night.

 —

Joining in with Shells in the Bush for Blogtoberfest : a blog post a day for the month of October. 

Blogtoberfest 13 – Day 9

 

Poetry Lover

Today I’m reposting this one from two years ago on Happylan. It’s one of my least-read favourites and it’s a nice little insight into my poetry-love seeing as my Writer Crush for this month is one Thomas Stearns Eliot.

greenhearts

I love poetry. Yes I am that kind of weirdo. English was my favourite subject at school, I would look forward to finding out which Shakespearean play we would be studying, which novels, which poets.

I would spend ages thumbing through an old poetry anthology my sister had found in a second hand store and had given to me when she realised I would read it every time I visited her. I loved discovering poems and poets for the first time, bookmarking my favourites – with an actual real bookmark, or piece of paper – writing down quotes, taking down names of poets I wished to delve into further.

I was overjoyed to find a second-hand copy of Selected Poems of T.S Eliot at a market stall on the Gold Coast, it may seem an odd holiday souvenir to some but to me it was perfect.

And back in the day before you could just jump online to source a book you wanted, my mum went to the trouble of ordering Sylvia Plath’s Ariel from a local bookstore as a Christmas present for me.

I loved the feeling of discovering a new poem, or rather a poem new to me. I also love the thought that these same words had touched many others before me, people like me, people completely different to me.

I love that poems are open to interpretation, that like with anything in life we bring our experiences, our pain, our emotions, our hearts to the page, and that depending on where we are, these words, these deliciously well-woven words can sometimes reach us.

Sometimes with a nudge, or a nodding of your head and your heart. Sometimes with a sucker-punch that knock the wind out of you.

I share with you one of my (many, many) favourites, this discovery coming to me not in a book for once. The first time I heard it was in the film “Hannah and her Sisters”. I don’t really remember anything much about the movie itself, except this poem.

somewhere i have never travelled - e.e.cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, misteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Do you have any favourite poems or poets?
If you do please share them with me, I’m always waiting to discover my next favourite.
 

Joining in with Shells in the Bush for Blogtoberfest : a blog post a day for the month of October. 

 Blogtoberfest 13 – Day 5  

 

Wolf & Word Writing Prompt : Lullaby

My mum would sing to me

with her own lyrics

sweetly singing to her sixth child,

her worst sleeper yet

she’d repeat to me how much she loved me

to the tune of Brahms Lullaby.

 

My dad would sing me Johnny Cash

Don’t Take your Guns to Town

And I always held out hope that maybe

this time

Billlie Joe would leave his guns at home, son

but he never did.

 

My daughter isn’t one much for lullabies

Despite her namesake being a song

She’d much prefer nursery rhymes

to any of our old favourites.

She is after all

my little twinkling star;

Crazy and beautiful and shining so bright

I wonder at her daily.

 

My son, however, had many songs

repeated over and over

as he fought sleep like it was his nemesis,

an eclectic soundtrack including

Crowded House, Radiohead and John Lennon.

The battle was waged for years

he would even sing along in protest

“Bwing down the guvva mint”

But one song would outlast the rest

and claim the victory of being his.

 

He still requests “Shadows” when he can’t sleep

His code for Evermore’s Never Let You Go

I’ve been singing the same song for six years now

and sometimes when I sing it my voice catches

Because parenting is letting go

Over and over

Pieces of your heart breaking off and leaving

And one day completely walking out the door.

 

The other day he found it on the Ipod

And as he pressed play and those early days came flooding back,

He looked at me with such love

The boy who made me a mother

And my heart almost exploded in that moment.

Yes, he will grow, and he will leave

But we will always be connected.


This is my response for the prompt Lullaby for Wolf & Word’s Monthly writing prompt

Take the prompt and run with it – any style, any genre – and come back and link it up here

 

Joining in with Shells in the Bush for Blogtoberfest : a blog post a day for the month of October. 

 

 

Blogtoberfest 13 – Day 3 

 

Often October

one more candle

 

Often October

breaks the promises

she made to me on a mid-month morning.

I dream of days of daisies, of sunshine,

shining eyes and starlit nights.

She delivers rain and hostile breezes,

Clouds covering the moon I wish to sing to.

 

There is one promise though

that is always kept

among the previews of Summer hidden in the long grass;

 

another year to add to my growing collection,

another glowing flame to light the way ahead.

 

October is my birthday month!

What does October mean to you?

Hanging out with some wonderful folk at the dVerse poets pub for open link night.

 

Joining in with Shells in the Bush for Blogtoberfest : a blog post a day for the month of October. 

Blogtoberfest 13 – Day 2 

 

P.S. Tomorrow is the day to link up here at Wolf & Word if you’re interested in my monthly writing prompt.   You can answer in any style you want. A post, a poem, a story, a list, an article, a picture, a blog – whatever takes your fancy.  So get creative and join in!

Next link up -> October 3rd

Prompt -> Lullaby

At Home

home

 

At Home

 

The window is half open

The glass is dirty

There is a crack which

lets in the cold even when the window is closed

and I know there’s no avoiding this now.

 

I travelled and though I did not got far

I saw things

Things that made me realise

things that made me.

 

I saw

a different world

a different future

all through the pane of a different window

 

it was not cracked

it was clear

it was clean

 

but it was not home.

 

This poem has previously appeared on my old blog (Happylan). There are a couple of poems over there that I wanted to share over here. I hope you don’t mind!

Hanging out at the dVerse poets pub for open link night.

 

What speaks of home to you?

 

Play it again

uke

 

I tried to tell you but

you would not have a bar of it.

 

You had already had quite enough bars, you said,

no point humming along when you’ve run out of music.

Things are no good if they go on too long.

And who wants it if it’s no good?

 

But I did,

I wanted it,

out of tune and overplayed and yes perhaps it was a little lengthy

but oh there was that part right in the middle

that made me feel as though I was

i n d e s t r u c t i b l e

 

and if there was even the slighted chance I could hear that part again,

Then I could have lived through stanzas of notes that were much too thin

I could have hummed along for years

 

But you wouldn’t have a bar of it and

we’d never play again.

 

Linking up for the first time ever at dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.

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