poetry, word doodles and other writing stuff
Paths meander between realities
Today I walk along
Amongst the trees
Woodpecker greeting me with her staccato efforts
Tomorrow you are not there
You that path branching off at this tree
Tomorrow I will pass the tree and you won’t be waiting
Just to re-appear another time
And so I walk in between the here and now
Along the tree lined ribbon
Guided by the drum of a beak
Knee deep snow beyond the paths
Mountain pine branches bent by white weight
Stillness of a windless day
Monks’ chanting
In the Buddhist temple at the apogee
The only noise besides the crunch of snow underfoot
The chants an eerie iterance
In a silent world
Carrying us up the mountain
Breath visible in frozen air
I am in this world and other world
Walking the liminal space
Floating in a white suspense
Prayers as metronome
On a snow-muted day
I am here, and now
And always and everywhere
In this moment
Your rough-hewn hands
Move over my anxious skin.
Head, neck, shoulders, arms, hands.
Head, neck, shoulders, arms, hands.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
A little twirl,
more emphasise as you move over my hands,
and out and away.
I ought to sleep.
Alas I can’t.
My skin burns from carrying the day:
smells, sounds, colours have seeped into my epidermis,
setting the organ alight.
My stomach churns with thoughts and questions.
My brain spin tales and stories.
It won’t stop.
So you begin to sing.
Let the sound carry all away.
Let the sound quiet the stories
soothe the stomach.
All the while your hands move in their duty
of gathering an anxious child back into her body.
Joyful chimes
Dance through the winter’s eve.
We are wrapped tightly,
In thick scarves and coats like down blankets.
Woolie socked feet, in big boots,
Crunch their way along the dark road,
Carefully determined,
Towards the sound of the bells.
Waiting are candle light, warm hugs from friends, carols to be sung, and nativity play.
Our noses numb with cold,
Mother, sister, me.
Stars decorating the dome above
Like the candles on our tree.
Snow is sparkling tinsel along the wayside.
We celebrate the light born.
Sun rising again and the days growing.
Stories blending into rituals,
Ancient tales in new dress.
The path, a road now,
Once carried mammoths,
And neolithic tribes.
And still we strive to the building on top of the highest elevation.
Coaxed by the sound of the bells,
To celebrate light reborn.
As we have done and will continue to do,
As long as the sun rises the next morning.
So I signed up for BBC Maestro–yay Black Friday Deals! And begun with the poetry class by Carol Ann Duffy. I had to share my homework for one of the metaphors she introduced: word hoard.
I so loved the idea of a word hoard and of course there must be dragons if there is a hoard!
The course has inspired me to write a whole host of poems. And I picked twelve to put in a kaleidoscope of memories. They wanted to be called the Raunacht Collection. It is scheduled to go live on the 24th.
If you don’t know the term, Google Bard was much better explaining this than I:
This is the time when the wild hunt rides and the spirits run wild.
The Raunächte, also known as the Twelve Nights, Rauhnächte, or Holy Nights, are a period of twelve nights and days between Christmas and Epiphany (December 25th to January 6th). It’s a time steeped in folklore, tradition, and a touch of the mystical, observed primarily in Central and Eastern Europe, particularly in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and parts of Scandinavia.
-Google Bard
Origins and Traditions:
The origins of the Raunächte can be traced back to pre-Christian times, possibly linked to pagan winter solstice celebrations and veneration of nature spirits. With the spread of Christianity, the period became interwoven with the Nativity story and themes of spiritual renewal.
Traditionally, the Raunächte were seen as a liminal space, a threshold between the old year and the new, when the veil between the worlds was thin. This belief led to various customs and rituals, often centered around warding off evil spirits, divining the future, and ensuring good fortune for the coming year.
The etymology of the word “Raunacht” is uncertain. There are two main interpretations:
They stand guard, tall presence, evanescent permanence. Centuries, and decades, carried them through storms and heat, snow, and hail. A haphazardly thrown together wood pigeon nest visible now that the canape of leaves is thinning. I can feel their hum, soundtrack of a silent silver-lighted evening. Maple, birch, beech, elm, ash, rowan. Scots pine with her gnarly branches towers over hawthorns’ crooked and knotted bodies, arms reaching to shape elder futhark runes. Othala holds all. Twisted limps, adorned by thorns and blood red pearls. Unlike the elder striving up and out as straight as can be, the last of their night-sky velvet booty beckons the tentative forager. Elfen ears such bright spots of orange early in the year, are floppy dachshund shaped and coloured now—just not as fluffy.
I breathe-in autumn and the ever present pulse, breathing out tension and arrhythmia. Step by step by step. Breath, by breath, by breath. Pause. Exhale more. And more, until the last of this breath is gone. I gulp, swallow, drink the humid terpene laden air, the smell of petrichor heavy on my tongue, my lungs expand deeper, wider. Don’t pant against the tightness, just exhale—even further—until nought is left. And then trust, trust your body as the reflex demands expansion, of lungs, chest, diaphragm. Trust the breath of life, trust the guardians—producing oxygen on exhale—trust in your feed moving forward. Step, by step, by step. Breath, by breath, by breath.
*Elfen ears are mushrooms not sure what their actual name is this is the name I know them by
** There is indeed a hawthorn whose branches are shaped like the rune Othala along the path
(someone who creates, like a playwright)
what about a
rhyme-wright
line-wright
verse-wright
word-smith
worth-smith
world-smith
ink-slinger
tone-deaf singer
word-monger
time-squanderer
dimension-wanderer
follow me
follow
down the rabbit hole
we go
follow me
follow
along the edges of the plane
infinity returns
let words guide you
along the verge
of sanity
let the words ensnare you
temptress of worlds
yet to be created
world-wright
worth-wright
word-wright
follow me
follow
along the stanza
never ending
He is complaining loudly–the second smallest bird with his proud straight tail feathers, pointing upward in righteous indignation. I know not what has him agitated like this. Maybe neighbour’s cat is on the prowl? The wee black one is an exceptional huntress, bringing down mice the size of her head.
The other birds were fed up with the kerfuffle and have long abandoned their favourite shelter. The starlings settled somewhere in the neighbourhood. The magpies chatter away two gardens over. Robin popped by quickly to announce he is not giving up his territory. Na-ha no way! The blue tits and goldfinches have huddled in for the night, silent sighs form breathy clouds in the cold air.
Although, they settled in the hedge, not the tree, who has given up his vibrant dress. The gold and amber cloth shed for winter’s rest. Barren branches still attract, provide shelter, food, and roost, but are not safe to harbour our winged friends during the dark November nights–when the moon and stars light areal pathways for a silent killer.
Her hoots reverberate within my body, joy rising before consciousness even processes the soundwaves. As much as she brings us joy, as much she bodes danger for our temperamental little friend, who still prattles on. Hush, hush and hurry my tiny agitator, it is time to shelter for the night.
I pulled the edge of freezing
And found more freezing
More quiet
Thicker blankets to hide underneath
Normally my MO is fight
Not flight, freeze, fawn
But this time
Not sure how to be frozen
Or how to unfreeze
This is new
The clusterfuck changed nothing
But letting one run wild with global somatic activation
Not protecting them
Not protecting me
Now let’s all move on
With a festering wound open
My voice ignored
My flashbacks
You did not even react
Nothing
I do not count
You do not want to hear my voice
Because if you would listen
You would have to look into the mirror
It is all about the dramatic espousing of self-righteousness
Masterful manipulation
Nothing to pin down
To explicitly bring forward
That’s all I learned
On Monday
About you both
You dramatically raised you hands
Shouting you made mistakes
I am curious
What mistakes you think you made
I never thought you did
All I thought was that your wounded child responded
In survival mode
What I find most bizarre is that you cannot see me at all
Instead you act upon some strange imagination a figment of who I am
A warped chimera only real inside your head
But you are scared of me
Because I do see You
My wings aren’t—actually—small and maimed
In fact they are strong
Huge
Not white, not fluffy, no soft down
Razor sharp edges
I am no angel of softness
I am avenger
Deep down I am fire and brimstone
I am righteous by nature
Fallen
Risen
Back with vengeance
Tethering on the edge of self-righteousness
A dangerous edge
Always hoisting myself back
Someone had to point it out though
The flaws
I mean it was so clear
Remember Cain and Abel
It’s always the messenger
Always
The voice that gets bumped
But someone had to point out the flaw
One sacrifice as the other
No preference
I sigh deeply
All the pomp
I stop my thoughts there
Whatever
Not all equal in his eyes
I still haven’t found my sword
It fell too
Got lost
And now
I need to point out
Again
The flaw
Again
The preferential treatment
Again
Small acts
Big impact
My wings shiver with tension
Always the same damn story
Poetry by Nathalie 