heat on the brink of intolerability
radiator under the seat
my lips burst in dry heat
even the fake leather is hot
my head against the cold window
scratched milky pane
the city moves past distorted
my backpack on the seat beside me
a men-spreading prevention system
I take a deep breath and quickly exhale
smell of old diesel motor
exhaust gritty in my mouth
and yet
despite heat encroaching
despite fumes
despite stranger’s crotches
I am relieved
For I don’t have to carry time
time clamps my chest
weighs down my shoulders
yet here in movement
I don’t have to carry time
frustrating forced flow forward
is paused
I want to meander
I want to press hold on a moment
I want to go back
I want to jump ahead
I want to rest extended in space
until I am ready to continue again
and right now
right here
I am free
the bus splutters along the road
carrying time and movement for me
my thoughts wander along the rhizomes of life
resting at nodes of have and could have beens
Tag: Poetry
My first Chapbook
Or poetry pamphlet in BE
So I figured it might be time to try something different and put this out there.
https://amzn.eu/d/eOJ1Xbs (image below is the cover page)
Asthma Attack
I can barely lift my feet.
Lungs held in a vice of worry.
Frozen uproar hits my face
straight on.
I am a fish drowning on land.
Breath does not translate.
All energy is draining
out of me.
Snowstorm, inner storm.
Anxiety rising way beyond.
The taillight flickering
in and out.
Everyone is up ahead.
And yet the hill keeps rising.
I wish I were just tired
or a bit puffed.
That’s likely what they think.
That I am a drama queen.
Who just can’t handle
some discomfort.
I’m wading through treacle.
Longing for medication
that translates breath
into life.
Winter Mountain Training
Be bothered
Check each other
Layers off
Layers on
Gloves yes
Gloves no
Kick crampons
into icy snow
Be bothered
Be bothered just so
Stay warm
But not hot
Hydrate
Find a spot
Take a photo
Go wee
Be bothered
Poles out
Poles in
Ice axe out
Helmet on
–Always
Sturdy gloves
Feet sideways
Be bothered
Be bothered just so
Waterproofs
Wooly socks
Self-Belay
Avoid the rocks
Play in snow
And be bothered
Be bothered just so
Shifter
Balancing sanity on the volatile precipice of art—
A thwarted strategy I realise especially at night
When verity and spectres are tortuous to tell apart,
And yet they banish loneliness in the Eremite,
Smooth wood gently gripped as I set to task
In the dark cold winter’s night I dream of sunny shores,
Yet when a blue cold morning dawns I’m going to don my mask
Don humanhood till moonrise when I’m going hunt the moors—
So I am caught forever in-between the spectres’ cast,
Despondency heavy in my breast,
lest hope may swell,
Into ember, warmth, unrest,
A low growl and deep breath,
I shall remain forever in-between maybe even after death.
In a writing course on Future Learn we were challenged to write a Terminal based on “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art” by JOHN KEATS
This is not Foraging
The wicker basket hangs vacant off my back.
The leather straps move loosely across my shoulders.
I am slumped over the hollow pit in my stomach,
As if to protect the rising ball of fury.
Gentle fingers stroke the broken limbs,
Torn stumps of frayed wood-fibre.
Sap bleeds with silent screams from a dozen wounds.
A sob violently ripples through my body.
Hot tears fall onto cold wilting leaves.
“Leave no trace.” Opa* taught me.
“Your foraging should go unnoticed.”
I bent down and pick up a broken digit.
Before I survey the clump of damaged Rowans.
Not even green berries are left here,
Leaves and limbs carelessly discarded.
The disregard a visceral vice around my skin.
Eventually the ball of fury escapes as hot curses:
“May this pain return to you seven fold!”
This is not foraging.
Hands on rough bark, salt mixes with sap.
*Opa = Granddad in German
The Chilli Plot
I drop the lid back on the pot.
A satisfying clang cut off the steam.
I pause to listen for gran’s trot.
Afraid of her discovering my scheme.
I turn around a smug smiled face
And freeze in place as does my sass.
You lean against the door with grace,
And notice the traitorous chilli glass.
Understanding dawns in steel blue eyes
Mischief and panic in fast succession.
“How often have you used the spice?”
You sheepishly ask a vital question.
I stare at my feet and can’t remember.
“About five times.” —I am sincere.
Your shoulders slump in mute surrender.
“Me, too.” Your eyes meet mine with fear.
Gran’s face bright red; she wipes off sweat,
And raises her brows at you and me.
We share the stare of maternal threat.
I’m shrugging at you, and you grin at me.
Luck has it that this threat was never fatal.
And ever since, chilli is a table-stable.
Footfalls
Your footfalls echo through the dark.
Somewhere the owl hoots
swift wings gliding.
She lays awake waiting,
night after night, moon after moon.
Lest she misses your ghostly attendance.
Bringing both,
solace and pain
to tortured grief.
The foxes’ sinister bark breaks through the night.
You pause in one another’s presence,
Two restless spirits,
one spectre, one flesh.
Unstructured Thoughts
I have been thinking about you all day.
The day after.
It began the moment I passed the robin.
An almost spring morning.
Life assuring song on top of his lungs.
Witch hazel blooming.
The first day after death.
When you are faced with the facts that:
- the barista keeps working,
- the milk is delivered,
- the sun has risen,
- the world is still spinning.
And you, you are left behind.
Not quite at the same pace with everyone else.
Not quite in the same space with everyone else.
Still with the one who left.
Yet utterly bereft.
Hot air created foam in rich milk.
You can’t taste the pain au chocolate.
All noise is behind a thick glass wall.
One foot in front of the other going no where.
Ice cold wind slashed your face unbeknownst.
The last roar of winter passes you by.
And you, you are left behind.
Where the Garden Begins
I had another go at the “Where the sidewalk ends” interpretation …
There is a place where the sidewalk ends,
the meadow spreads, and garden begins.
And there the dunnock bops her head,
And there the rhubarb bursts his bed,
And there the fox sniffs around the shed,
to hunt a mouse or two.
Let us leave this place where the cars honk loudly,
And the sea of people shove us stoutly.
Let’s rest where the birch stands proudly,
Where we dance and sing and snooze,
Walk slow, run fast, jump high without shoes,
In that place where the sidewalk ends.
We will snooze in the sun with Mr Fox,
And cuddle neighbour’s cat who wears white socks.
And read a book, and give you a hug,
And be as happy as a bug in a rug.
Poetry by Nathalie 