Eclipse

I've said this before: I really don't regard myself as a poet. Honestly, I don't. And yet, since I began writing in earnest at the beginning of this year, poetry seems to be what comes more naturally than anything else, and poetry seems to be the thing towards which I'm being inexorably drawn, almost against my will!

This is a poem I wrote a while ago, which I have recently re-worked. It was inspired by a trip my husband and I were lucky enough to make to Turkey in 2006, to witness a solar eclipse. I'm convinced that I could spend a life-time trying to put the experience into words and failing. So this poem might be seen as something of a work in progress! I hope you enjoy it.

This is another of the pieces I recently recorded for listenupnorth. com, an exciting spoken word website run from here in Northumberland. All the work I recorded for the site should be available in the next few weeks.


Eclipse

Yes, I can describe what happened
as our tiny Moon, audacious,
crept across the scorching springtime Sun,
stealing the light from the Earth,
cooling the air and casting steel-sharp shadows.

Yes, I can tell you I saw planets –
Mercury and Venus tenderly suspended there –
strung across an eerie, sunset Turkish sky:
dusk at lunchtime,
on the Third Rock from the Sun.

You want to know about totality?
Let me tell you about a sparkling diamond ring,
too beautiful to comprehend -
cheers and applause from an appreciative audience -
and too-soon disappeared for good.

And let me tell you about the phantom Moon,
visible in its dark invisibility,
powerful and awesome, disc on disc,
void over blinding fire, setting a feathery corona free,
to reach out, exquisitely

as my yearning does, to turn the clock back,
and inhabit that rare moment, just once more.
You ask me how it felt? Then you ask me
how it feels to be human, to be humbled and bewitched,
looking upward, looking outward, looking in.

Light Dancing on Water

Over the past few weeks, I have been re-visiting and re-working some pieces of poetry I originally wrote a while ago. They never saw the light of day: my confidence deserted me, I stopped writing altogether, and the poems have been hibernating on my hard-drive ever since.

It seemed strange to come back to them. So much time exists between me and the words I once wrote, that they feel unfamiliar, as if I have never seen them before, as if it they're not actually my words at all. But that has been useful. I can look at them much more objectively now than I could then, and it has been much easier to edit them as a result.

Light Dancing on Water was inspired by the fountain and water trough in the glass house in the walled garden at Wallington in Northumberland. The light on the water reminded me of long, carefree summers, when, as a small child, I would delight in playing with a bucketful of water. And this made me consider how powerful and potent - how visceral - a memory from childhood can be.

I'm excited to say that I should soon be recording this poem, amongst others, for Listenupnorth.com, a beautiful, imaginative spoken word website, based in Northumberland. Do visit this lovely site - it's a real treasure-trove!

Light Dancing on Water

The marble lion's head spouts water
in a steady, sparkling stream,
smooth, green-scented,
amidst the verdant planting of the orangery...

A memory - a long hot summer:
Time passing by so slowly then.
A cold-water tap, in a small suburban kitchen,
a shiny metal bucket, brimming liquid fun.

A mother's gift, not yet discerned:
How To Delight In Simple Pleasures.

Out on the sun-bleached lawn, my versatile friend
galvanises me to innocent exaltation.
I plunge my hands through crystal magic,
laugh with it as its coolness tickles my fingertips -
mischievously splashes knees, bare feet -
thrill at the dazzling sparks that
flash across its surface and
scorch themselves in ecstasy onto memory's eye:

Light dancing on water...

... plunging home to the perfect proportions
of its deep, square, marble pool.
A mellow life-force, calming, tranquil,
cooling the lush-planted greenhouse,
where dappled light dances on water.

Ariel

I was delighted - no, let's say 'stunned' - this week to be awarded first place in Newcastle Theatre Royal's 2011 Creative Writing competition. The brief was to write about a favourite Shakespeare character, in prose, poetry or script form.

I decided to write about Ariel, after he has been released from servitude by his master, Prospero. I began with prose, but quickly found that I couldn't say what I wanted to say in that form. I found myself channelled towards poetry instead - against my will, I might add, because I don't regard myself as a poet at all, and feel very self-conscious about the whole process!

This was a bit of a lesson in the gritting-of-teeth-and-just-getting-on-with-it. With two days to go before the deadline, and feeling disheartened and lacking in confidence, my choice was clear: did I give up and let myself down, or did I just chip away at it until I'd got something I could submit? I chose the latter option. I hope you enjoy the result!

Ariel

‘My Ariel, chick,
That is thy charge. Then to the elements
Be free, and fare thou well.’

The Tempest, Act 5, Scene 1


You are roused by the sunrise, airy spirit,
curled up snug within a cowslip’s bell,
yawning and stretching, and breathing in
a freedom you have only ever dreamed of.

Blinking awake, you eagerly refresh yourself
from pure, new dewdrops, sweet and
sparkling in the rosy light of dawn,
reflecting back at you your blissful liberation.

Brushing away the pollen grains that
hang about your lustrous skin,
you take to the air on opalescent wings
alive as springtime, dazzling and unseen.

Creature of fire and magic and
mystical music, you flit invisible
through Prospero’s beloved library,
brushing his happy cheek as you pass by.

You swoop and soar with swallows on their journey
north, watching fields and trees surge back to life
beneath your flashing wings, leaving Milan,
Naples, far behind and heading for the sea,

and England, and the Thames, until
you find the special shape you’re searching for.
On whirring wings you spiral round that
legendary Wooden O, your destiny close by.

Backstage, a bearded man sleeps soundly
when he should be working. Quill in hand,
he’s slouched across a ripe, blank page,
waiting for inspiration. Words. A Play.

You have your servant now, quaint Ariel:
Will Shakespeare, here, to do your bidding.
So settle on that noble shoulder,
dainty sprite, and whisper to his dreams.

Tell him of incarceration, slavery, and honest,
faithful servitude, of raising a tempest,
setting aflame the topmast of a ship, and
leaving everyone unharmed, as you were tasked.

Tell him how wrongs were righted,
treacheries revealed and yearned-for freedoms
finally delivered. And watch him stirring in his slumber,
a gentle smile tickling that fine face.

And then, brave Ariel, ask him: ‘Was’t well done?’