That’s it. I think. No knight on an exhausted steed rushing to the rescue. No benefactor pulling notes of worthless tender from fat pockets. No, nothing like that. No meaningless gestures. No empty materialism. Your touch, every time you pass me by. You alternate your path just for that. Silly dancing half naked on a sunny Saturday morning Cajoling loudly to song. Cuddled underneath thick blankets the dome of fairy lights Painted above us by Night. Autumn: hot chocolate in the garden Before the last hours of work that day. Storm battled adventures under canvas. Bringing you coffee first thing every morning. Cooking me birthday breakfast on the beach. Swigging champagne from the bottle in a mountain hut. A thick pair of gloves you knew I would need them. Unexpected snowstorm we waited out with hot tea and chocolate. Arms wrapping around each other tightly. Holding hands while sleeping. And so in Love We safe one another every day.
If you do not know the Poetry Cove yet go have a nosy and join! I participated in the chap book writing month so have a lot of poems to share here but then the semester began, and I managed to slip a disc and things went a bit haywire for a while. Catching up and will schedule some more poems soon. This one was a discussion we had after a love poem prompt that we found challenging. Here is my response to the inspiration by one of the participants.
I don’t like colouring inside the lines. I don’t like forcing my voice into a tight number of syllables and verses into enjambment and pentameter. I rather write as it flows, the rhythm of life isn’t tidy either.
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
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.
Just writing random thoughts Are you all still hung over from 2020?
Just writing now Because I can feel the words cueing up They want out A heated debate Who goes first The conjunctions are calling dips And I can’t resist
But now what?
Too much noise for form A verbacious whiplash Without verbs
The count of nouns Futile attempt at clarity Chaos stronghold
So what if?
What if I just keep writing Eventually form follows Follows what? Action? Form follows function! That’s it.
Writing is the function Writing an act of clarity Writing an act of clarification Writing an act of creating form
So writing is both function And in the end form
Does any of this make sense? Did you notice my cleverly deployed grammar? How is 2021 treating you? Or are you still dissociating from 2020 holding breath until you can open the door of the storm shelter?
The words are still stuck In the tumbling chaos Of mind Eventually they will all come out One way or another
Poetry by Nathalie 