imagery

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idhren glîr odo: the balloon

I haven’t done a lot of writing lately.  Not because I haven’t had time, but because I’ve been distracted by other things.  I’d like to start writing poetry again, it’s been a long time… Anyway, here’s another old one from creative writing class that I realized I never shared.  The assignment was an object poem, using an object as a metaphor for a human experience or emotion.

The Balloon

it’s red of course, though the ribbon’s white
round, yes
but not a sphere
slightly resistant to the sliding touch
pliable yes
but not too much
tight with too-close, stuffy air
lungs waiting to burst
full, too full
like a breath in with no exhale

but then

bang! flat and empty again
empty like new, but not new
broken

torn

when he calls I tell him of my day
before he can speak but when he does
his voice catches in a mess of water and air
she’s gone he says

she’s gone

a gasp becomes a sigh
a sigh becomes nothing
a choking, a pain,
a tear
as together
in the quiet
we deflate

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poetry in movement VIII

Part 8 of the free-form poetry inspired by my experiences practicing Skinner Release Technique in the final term of my final year at York University.  This is probably the most literal of all of these reflections, so it’s not my favourite–but it’s free writing, so it is what it is!

March 15, 2016

I am a coiled spring, my hips wound tight, held
immobile with rust, and creaking.

But today is about opening, waking up
it’s not as simple as unwinding, relaxing
it’s a deep focus, a reaching thought to
eyes opening on the inside.

Change the shape:
first imagine, then build, then feel
as the rusted coil melts and lets go
the muscles breathe and float
and hips shift and jump and dance of their own accord.

Free.

That inner eye remains open, building more shapes
opening new spaces
the windows in the spine, to see outside and connect
to the cavern in the base of the skull
and the curving wind-tunnels between the ribs
and the valley spaces in the hips, unwound, open
clean, breathing, and free
free to pick up the feet, to jump and twirl
all holding forgotten
all tension lost
in abandon.

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poetry in movement VI

I missed posting one of these last weekend because I was busy moving home from university!  Maybe I’ll post another one tomorrow to make up for it.  Anyway, here’s Part 6 of the free-form poetry inspired by my experiences practicing Skinner Release Technique in the final term of my final year at York University.

February 23, 2016

(we gather)
we choose a place, a point, arbitrarily, independently
but still we gather in strips of sunlight
like moths to a flame

scatter and gather, scatter and gather
we are loose, we are free, we are surrounded by each other
and ourselves
so much space, within and without

little gatherings
in a bigger whole
a spacious whole, gathered in the sunlight
like so much shining, dew-spun web
flutter and scatter and float and gather
together: brushing past, leaning, lifting, learning
follow and lead, lead and follow

find the little spaces in between
where hands touch
where eyes see
where light and air and breath peek through
bending around and lighting up the points we choose
independently, arbitrarily, individually
(we gather)

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poetry in movement III

Part 3 of the free-form poetry inspired by my experiences practicing Skinner Release Technique in the final term of my final year at York University.

January 26, 2016

I am dew-covered moss
I am a forest
(lying below, the roots encircle
entwine, embrace)
I am roots creeping, a green shoot unfurling, quick-slow

stepping out, stepping up, turning, twisting
(I am become)
like a nymph, a dryad, one
darting between
out of sight
like a breath of wind
but then urgent
(monstrous, dark,  and lost)
(uncertain, falter, shift)

what, is this natural? natural?
sounds in the base, in the root, in the gut
(monstrous, natural)
quiet, quieter, quietly step
wake up, awake, breathe, sigh
float
suspend, between

…

I am a dew-covered spider’s web
drifting in the wind
untethered

spiderweb

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idhren glîr toloth: friend

To go with this post.  This poem was written on March 19th, but it was in a note on my phone because when the words came to me, I was en route.  I forgot about it, and just now found it again.

me

Friend

Discombobulation: noun, singular.
A high wind, in the mind
A hurricane.
A silence too loud for words; an echo, of
something that was.

Inside, a tearing emptiness, a vast, dark forest,
snowflakes frozen in mid air.
Caught in the act of falling.
Like a dream, but half awake.

An earthquake grumbles, indefinitely.
Beneath your feet it grumbles, and the walls around you crumble,
even as you rebuild them, brick by red brick,
even as you stand up tall and say “I’m okay” so well
it sounds like the truth.

It’s the small things, though. You meet your brother,
and his arms are open, and he doesn’t speak, but it doesn’t matter,
because you have nothing to say.

Smile at the words of a child, beckoning.

Walk across an empty parking lot, staring up into the depths of the dusk-blue sky.

Pain: a moment of clarity.
It’s a dust-cloud suffocating and you push it away. Fear
is a bandage covering your mouth. The sharp
numbness in your body can harm no one but yourself,
so when the world questions you, you lie.

Until–

Someone is there. Climbing your crumbling walls,
breathing in the dust of the chaos of your thoughts,
someone is there.
And when they take your hand, you find you’ve
spent your last lie. You’re standing,
broken and exposed,
as your feet sink through the crust of snow, and they see you.

You say “I’m not okay.”

You say “I’m sorry.”

Then–

“I love you,” they say. And the roaring wind settles,
and the snowflakes drift to the forest floor,
and the ground stops shaking,
and the silence lets go, and you hear them.

“I love you,” they say, and again, “I love you.”
And you remember.

Discombobulation: noun, singular.
An echo, of a hurricane. But in this chaos of the mind,
in this rawness of the heart, in this strangeness of grief,
it’s okay to remember.

You are not alone.